I I i I -3 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022161917 Cornell University Library PS 2150.J87R5 1904 Richard Baxter :a story of New England I 3 1924 022 161 917 RICHARD BAXTER A STORY OF NEW ENG LAND LIFE OF 1830 TO 1840 By EDWARD F. JONES EX-tlEUT. GOVlEBKrOB STATE OF nITW TORK Author of "Uncle Jerry," "The Origin of the Flag, " and the phrase "He Pays the Freight" Illustrated PUBLISHED BY JONES OF BINGHAMTON BINGHAMTON, N. Y. THE JONES SCALE WORKS PRESS 1904 eft Copyright 1903 BY THE GRAFTON PRESS First Impression Notemees, igoj To An Adopted Daughter Whose constant encouragement, unceasing patience and untiring industry have made its preparation possible, this book is affectionately dedicated by its blind author. <^tuTa/rc/L ^ PUBLISHER'S INTRODUCTION With the publication of this volume a unique figure is added to the ranks of American novel-writers, and a quaintly interesting example of American versatility claims the attention of the reading-public. That a man should command a regiment at a crisis in our country's history, that he should organize and successfully de- velop a great commercial industry, that he should serve for a period of years as lieutenant-governor of his state, winning for himself the popular devotion of his fellow- citizens, — this would seem enough of labor and achieve- ment for one life time; but at the age of seventy-five, in the decline of years and almost blind, to surmount all this with such a contribution to our present-day liter- ature as "Eichard Baxter," is indeed a remarkable per- formance. Edward F. Jones was born in Utica, New York, June 3d, 1828. His early years were spent on a Massa- chusetts farm, where he acquired that intimacy with "life close to the soil" which has made him the constant friend and patron of fairs and farmers' gatherings, and has given him the insight into rural life revealed in the pages of "Richard Baxter." It is not, perhaps, too much to say that these early experiences, together with "every-day manners," — ^their natural accompaniment, — have made for General Jones more personal friends Til viii PUBLISHER'S INTRODUCTION than any other public or private citizen of his adopted state can boast. At the outbreak of the Civil War General Jones was in command of the famous Sixth Massachusetts regi- ment which was attacked during its memorable march through Baltimore. The timely arrival of his command at Washington on the evening of the nineteenth of AprUj 1861, was a telling blow at a crucial moment in the be- ginning of a great conflict. "Thank God you are here !" exclaimed President Lincoln on this occasion, "for had you not arrived to-night we should have been in the hands of the rebels before morning." At the close of the war, in October, 1865, General Jones removed to Binghamton, New York, for the pur- pose of establishing a scale works. This enterprise, begun in a modest fashion, has grown under skilful man- agement and advertising until it is now known through- out the world. Few persons are not familiar with the phrase, "Jones, he pays the freight," which was adopted as a slogan for the business twenty years ago. For a period of six years, beginning in 1885, General Jones served as lieutenant governor of the State of New York. In public office he was guided by the same care- ful methods that had previously distinguished him for integrity and ability, and which so inspired the confi- dence of political opponents that he was chosen as the head of the Capitol Commission, controlling the expen- diture of more than a million dollars. For thirty-eight years General Jones has been a large employer of labor in Binghamton, and his business more than any other agency has made that city well known. PUBLISHER'S INTRODUCTION ix The farmers as a dass are especially under obligations to him for bringing the price of scales within their reach. Today, at the age of seventy-five, although blind and in the decline of life, the spirit and energy of this man remain unflagged. Turning to authorship, he imder- took the writing of a tale of rural life in New Hamp- shire, which embodies many actual experiences of his own early days. The present volume is the fruit of his labors. "Richard Baxter" in many respects is like its author — simple, strong, sincere, and filled with a love of honest living and honest men. INTRODUCTION BY THE REV. EDWARD FREDERICK TREFZ, D.D. First Conghegational Chuech. BiNGHAMTON, N. Y., October 21, 1903. My Dear General Jones: In your portrayal of Richard Baxter, you have made an analysis of the skepticism of modern days that seems to me to be just and true. As a psycho- logical exhibition, it has the strength of George Eliot or Hawthorne. You have avoided the mere super- ficial aspect of the case, by taking the man as the ground of conflict between the traditions of birth and environment and the reasoning of his conscious self toward the thing that, in itself, was true. Your skillful and inevitable conclusion — ^bringing him to a knowledge of truth through the overt act of prayer, I regard as the most reasonable argument against continued skepticism that could possibly be made. I hope that your book will have a wide circulation, and I hope that the regeneration or evolution of Richard Baxter will become the topic of many ser- mons. It is, in a large sense, a tremendous sermon, and. If I were to select a text for it, I would choose the words of the Master, when He said: "He that doeth my will shall know of the doctrine." Very truly yours, Edwakd Fkederick Trefz. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Portrait of General Jones^ vii "Caesar, come up here an' be an angel" .... 46 Sam and His Mother Dispossessed 110 Aunt Nancy's Cottage 128 "Tell me, O Rock of Ages, Granite God" . . . 1S4 "He turned in here. Bill" 182 Clippings from The Boston Courier .... 188-189 The Signers of the Declaration of Independence . 200 Page of Account Book 218 Parson Snodgrass Races 232 Music of "Uncle Ned" 234 New England Primer 270-274 CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. The Old Meeting-house 1 II. Sordid Thoughts 3 III. Cupid Tries for a Hearing .... 8 IV. The Honest Lawyer 19 V. The Hypocrite 25 VI. The Proposal 30 VII. A True Woman 33 VIII. "Now or Never" 38 IX. Mary Miles 40 X. A Briefless Lawyer 42 XI. "Good-bye, Sally" 53 XII. The Knitter 56 XIII. Courting 64 XIV. An Angry Father 77 XV. The Auction 84 XVI. Love Asserts Itself 98 XVII. Death by the Roadside 101 XVIII. "Richard, My Richard!" .... 106 XIX. "Over the Hills to the Poorhouse" . 109 XX. The Love Wail 115 XXI. The Poorhouse 118 XXII. School Fellows 125 XXIII. Aunt Nancy's Home 127 XXIV. The Philosopher 130 XXV. "Thar's Only One Dern Fool in Sight" 132 XXVI. "Hosses Is Very Much Like Wimmin" 142 XXVII. The Satisfaction Found 149 XXVIII. Three Appeals to God 152 XXIX. Did He Love Her? 158 XXX. "I'll Clip the Wattles of That Turkey Cock" 161 Zlll XIV CONTENTS CHAPTER PAOB XXXI. Triumph of Wrong l67 XXXII. Town Meeting 172 XXXIII. A Diamond in the Rough .... 178 XXXIV. "Go Slow, Old Pal." ...... 190 XXXV. Poorhouse Religion 195 XXXVI. "The Prisoner, Your Honor, Is Dead" 198 XXXVII. "He Doeth All Things Well" ... 204, XXXVIII. The Red Life-Blood Spurted Out . 206 XXXIX. An Appeal for Justice 209 XL. The Cachet 212 XLI. Eben Drisco's Ghost 221 XLII. Only Six Friends 227 XLIII. Parson Snodgrass Races 230 XLIV. "God Help You! God Bless You" . 2.^4 XLV. The New Trial 238 XL VI. Cassar Augustus Testifies .... 245 XL VII. "Nebber Heah Dat 'Bout Dis Niggah" 250 XLVIII. Triumph of Right 255 XLIX. "The Devil's to Pay" 258 L. Scepticism 262 LI. "The Lord Is My Shepherd" . . . 264i LII. Childhood Memories 268 LIII. The Secret Revealed 277 LIV. "I'll Never Be Laid Out in Them Sheets" 283 LV. Retribution 292 LVI. The Death of Aunt Nancy .... 294. LVIL "Who Kissed Henrietta?" . . . . SOO LVIII. A Self-Made Man 311 LIX. Diary Extracts 313 LX. "Pray, Richard, Pray" 317 LXI. Parson Snodgrass Turned Out . . . 320 LXII. The Goose 328 RICHARD BAXTER RICHARD BAXTER CHAPTER I The Old Meeting House THE meeting house at Manning's Comers was an ancient, weather-beaten structure, erected, according to figures over the door, in A. D. 1780. The spire or steeple was a modest aiFair, tapering toward the sky, the accepted location of Heaven. Surmounting the steeple as a finial and in contrast with the never changing Heavenly guide which supported it, was a weather-cock, that whiffled about with the slightest change of air. The spire, ungainly and lacking in symmetry, never changed in its perpendicularity, but held steadily and faithfully, a true exponent of the unchanging doctrines preached in the little meeting house beneath. The weather- cock not only swung from north to south and east to west, but in its shiftings took in all of the inter- mediate points of the compass, representing, as one might say, the many changing religious beliefs. At the base of the steeple was a square belfry, in which hung a cone of metal, commonly called a bell. 1 2 RICHARD BAXTER There was no harmony or melody in the sounds which the clapper beat out of it. Some base alloy had been melted into its casting and there was no more melody in its clanging than came from the bell on the neck of the old cow that led the herd which was feeding in the pasture below. The building was roofed with heavy split shingles and the sides covered with clapboards, also split from the pitch pine log whose resinous fibres made them as near "last forever" as was possible for any material. The auditorium of the meeting-house was divided into square pews, with seats on four sides, which placed some of the occupants back and others side- ways to the preacher; but all were in full view of the head of the family. In the rear stood the pulpit, about six feet above the pews, and over it, suspended from the ceiling, a circular sounding board, six feet in diameter, which was intended to give emphasis to the truth uttered by the preacher; At the front, over the vestibule, was the choir loft, usually occupied during service by some half-dozen men and women, who sang, accompanied by a violoncello, a bass viol, and sometimes, though always under protest from the puritanical, that "devil's delight," the fiddle. In this quaint old meeting-house, on a pleasant spring Sunday afternoon, are several of the people with whom our readers will become acquainted if they follow the fortunes of Richard Baxter. CHAPTER II SOEDID ThOUGBUTS THE farm at Manning's Comers had passed from father to son for several generations. The late owner, Deacon Daniel Manning, was a typical New England farmer. As a boy he had had such advantage of education as could be ob- tained in the district school each winter. A strong boy's service on a farm was of too much value to permit of attendance at summer schools, which were rare at that period, except in the villages. His father had been a deacon before him and had brought Daniel up not only to walk in the paths of righteousness, but to believe in all the professions of the orthodox church. Being of a sober turn of mind he took naturally to religious habits, and trained his son John to follow his footsteps, which he faithfully did, so far as professions and forms demanded; but there was no religion in his heart. Deacon Manning had inherited the finest farm in the county, and was, as the world goes, a successful man. Every year he had added acres and dollars to his possessions, all of which, at his death, he be- queathed to John without other condition than that he must take good care of his mother, which trust the son faithfully performed until her death, which just occurred at the opening of our story. If ever a man a.ppreciated a mother in a pecuniary 4i RICHARD BAXTER sense it was John Manning, and her death was in that respect indeed a loss, leaving a void that could not be filled. Beyond that, there was no sentiment. Mrs. Manning was a weak woman, always subservient to her husband. From the death of his father several years previous, John had been master and she had never known any will but his since she had become a widow. John was in many respects wonderfully like his father. He was a fine specimen of physical manhood, tall, broad-shouldered, full-chested, and well developed. Powerful muscles, large bones, well-covered with sound flesh, but not an ounce of adipose tissue. Physically speaking, were there to have been a selection of the survival of the fittest he would have been among the first chosen. He was good-looking, and might have been called handsome had it not been for his square jaw, that gave a hard and almost cruel look to his face. His hair was brown and his eyes of that merci- less steel blue, forbidding a second appeal. It was his misfortune to be an only child, and his natural selfishness was greatly increased by never having had to share with anyone. Viewed as an animal, he was a fine specimen and would have taken the blue ribbon at a man-show. John Manning lacked in his composition one of the most beneficent elements of humanity, consideration for others. He was cold in his nature as frost, never having even blushed; for the fluid that circulated through his veins had never the warmth of a blush. SORDID THOUGHTS & Shrewd, calculating and "near, very near," so close that he came almost to dishonesty was John Manning. No one ever got the better of him in any trade or swap, yet all his business transactions were strictly within the law. He would not rob anyone nor permit anyone to rob him. If there was a doubt, however, in the claim, he always took the benefit of the doubt. An honest man so far as the world knew, rendering unto Caesar that which was Caesar's, but the stamp on the penny must not be so worn as to be doubtful. He was a member of the orthodox church in the best of standing, faithful in his religious duties, even to the habit of daily prayer and formal appeals to God at meals ; thus following strictly the teachings of the old deacon, his father. It could not be truthfully said that he was a hard- hearted man, for alas! he had no heart. A friend who knew him well used to say that when John Man- ning was made, just as they were closing up the work, they found his heart lying on the table. It was too much of a job to take him to pieces and put the heart in the proper place, so they threw in a few more brains and closed up the work. Such was our young farmer when he started in quest of a woman to be his wife. He did not take the usual course of a man seeking a love-mate for life, but went about his purpose as if looking for a horse to put into the team with one that he had, one that would puU strong and even, and not balk or be fractious. He had but little knowledge of the young women of his neighborhood, not having been attracted toward 6 RICHARD BAXTER them by any of the inspirations or passions that, since the world began, have drawn the sexes together. There never had glowed in his breast that indescribable thrill inspired by the opposite sex, that should be natural for every man to feel. Woman to him was only a part of the divine scheme for the continuance of the human race. At the age of thirty he had never given a moment's thought to the subject of marriage; but when his mother died, the necessity of having a woman in the house became fully apparent, and he began to look about among his female acquaintances for a suit- able one to marry. As he sat in meeting that Sunday afternoon, certain qualifications ran through his mind. She must be young, strong and healthy, else she could not do the work. He knew it was hard, for he had always seen his mother drudging at it. From his earliest, recol- lections she was up and busy at break of day. She toiled all day, and, for aught he knew, all night. It must have been this kind of a woman that a writer had in mind when he said : Man's work is from sun to sun. Woman's work is never done. The woman he should marry must be familiar with every detail of the housework of a farm: able to milk, make butter and cheese, salt the beef and pork, cure hams, make sausages, cook the food for the fam- ily, wash and iron, clean and scrub, make soft soap; in fact, she must know how and be willing to turn her hand to everything that demanded attention in the SORDID THOUGHTS 7 farmer's home. As for her looks, it was a matter of secondary consideration. He wished her to be young- er than himself, or she might not take kindly to his authority. It was on the Sunday following the burial of his mother. His mind wandered from the sermon and followed his eyes from pew to pew, scanning each de- mure girl face, and wondering whether the owner pos- sessed the requirements that he mentally demanded. The bright blue ej'es and pink cheeks of Josie May were not contrasted in his calculations with the black eyes and plump face of Jennie Brown, and beauty was not a factor in the problem; for he was thinking he had heard that Farmer Gibson realized two cents a pound more for the butter made by his daughter Sally than anyone else in town. Oblivious of the sermon, he solved a mathematical problem, the elements of which were: so many cows, so much butter to a cow, two cents a pound premium, would amount in a year to a certain round sum. This settled the matter in his mind, for the moment, and he determined to take Sally Gibson seriously into consideration. He was awakened out of his dream by the preacher exclaim- ing, "Lay not up thy treasures where moth and rust will corrupt." After meeting, he lingered for a moment on the steps, shook hands in a mechanical sort of way with Farmer Gibson, passed around to the meeting-house shed, backed out his horse and wagon and drove away. CHAPTER III Cupid Teies for a Hearing TWO young farmers of the neighborhood, Sam Drisco and Bill Johnson, were walking toward home together. "I say, Sam, when did you hear from Dick Baxter?" "Had a letter last week." "When is he comin' home?" "College gets through about the middle of June, but he hasn't any home, and I don't know what he's going to do." "Why don't he go an' live with Aunt Nancy?" "Well, it isn't any place for him, though I s'pose she'd be glad to have him. She always took to him as if he'd been her own boy." "Dick's a queer specimen, ain't he?" "What is there queer about him?" "Well, he's so awful pious. I s'pose he's goin' to be a parson, ain't he.'*" "No, he's been studying law and expects to prac- tice." "Anybody's as pious as he is ought not to waste their piety " "You speak. Bill, just as if you didn't think Dick was as good as he pretends to be." "No, I b'lieve it's all straight goods with him. Did ye notice John Mannin' a gawpin' 'round the meetin'- CUPID TRIES FOR A HEARING 9 house this mornin', as ef he was a-lookin' fer some- body? I'll bet a dollar to a doughnut thet he was kinder s'archin' fer someone to run his shebang, now thet the ole woman's dead." "Can't bet with me," said Sam, "for when I bet, I bet to win, and you can't win anything if two fellows bet the same way." "Thet's so, thet's so," replied Bill. "I seen him more'n once a-lookin' over the back of ole Sol Gibson's head, 's if he was a-tryin' to count the few hairs thet the ole man hed left. But he wan't thinkin' of ole Gib's gray hairs ; he was kinder cal'latin' in his mind how Sally would fill the bill; not 'cause she has nice golden-brown hair an' a plump figger an' a putty face, but 'cause she's a smart gal an' her father has money." It was well known in the neighborhood that Sam Drisco looked with longing eyes toward Sally, and more than likely Bill was trying to stir him up a little, by connecting her in this indirect sort of way with John Manning. It had its effect on Sam, who sharply rejoined: "Do you suppose that Sarah Gibson would take up with such a fellow as John Manning, the meanest, nighest, most close-fisted, hardest-hearted, narrowest- minded man in this town, a man who has no more blood in his heart than there is in a turnip.'"' BiU replied: "He may not have any blood in his old turnip, but he's got the best farm in this township. Five hundred acres of woodland down in Pennsylvany, an' they say thet thar's coal er iron on it, I dunno 10 RICHARD BAXTER which. An' he's got money in the bank, too ; lots of it. Why, his grandfather left him three thousan' dollars, an' then he wan't but three year ole, an' it's more'n thribled sence. An' ye know they said when the ole deacon died thet thar was more'n a hat full of bank stocks an' bonds, an' nobody knows how many mortgages, 'cept the poor folks thet he pinched fer in- terest. An' talk 'bout Sally Gibson not takin' him if she has a chance, I tell ye thar ain't a gal in this 'ere county thet wouldn't- jump at his gold hook 's quick's he throws it into the brook. Now, mind what I tell ye, if ye count on Sal Gibson's refusin' him, ye'U be everlastin'ly disapp'inted. An' 'sides all thet, thar ain't a man in this 'ere town 's got any better idee of the value of filthy lucre than has ole Sol Gibson. An' whether Sally was willin' er not, ole Sol's fetched his fam'ly up to do as he says, an' he'll make Sal marry John Mannin' if he looks thet way fer a wife." After this outbreak of Bill's, Sam stopped short. "I guess I'll go home cross lots," he said, and started toward the fence on the north side of the road. "Hum cross lots!" said Bill. "Ye'U hev to go round the world afore ye reach hum in thet d'rection. Oho, oho," he said, laughing heartily, "go ahead, Sam, I wish ye good luck." Sam had just remembered that old Gibson and his wife drove away from the meeting-house by the North road and that Sally and her little brother Johnnie had turned into what was known as the Wood road, through the Clay tract. This was not a highway, but CUPID TRIES FOR A HEARING 11 a road that had been opened and used to get wood and lumber out of the forest into the main road. It was too rough for carriage use, or any except heavy teaming; but was quite passable for pedestrians, who could pick their way. The shade in the forest on this warm Sunday after- noon was delightfully pleasant. The odors of spring filled the air. This April day was unusual for the season and challenged a day in June. There was a spring freshness to everything that blended well with the nature of Sally Gibson. Every form of life har- monized with her joyous nature that day. Surely it was spring-time with her. She lingered, inhaling the sweet perfumes, and feasting her eyes on the colors of the prisms painted by God on the wild-wood flow- ers. The special object of her quest she did not find. She searched in vain for the trailing arbutus. Sam knew that by striking directly across the woods he would be likely to intercept Sally before she reached the highway, and he could have a little walk in the woods with her, beside the river, remembering aU at once the words of the old song: "There's a path by the river O'ershadowed with trees. Where two people can walk. And may talk if they please." They had sung this, and many another song, psalm and hymn at singing-school, meeting and otherwheres, each with a hand holding the same book, the little 12 RICHARD BAXTER fingers hooked together like two twigs of wood, with as little feeling as if they were bent twigs, the clasp being as passionless as it was innocent. Ah, but that was when they were girl and boy. He thought as he hurried through the woods that if he could find some trailing arbutus it would afford an excuse for following Sally. Although she had always treated him kindly, there had not been sufficient encouragement to warrant him in talking love. They had been children together for many years, as their families were quite close neigh- bors, until Farmer Gibson had sold his farm and moved over on the North road. They had been through childhood, Sal and Sam to each other, but when she reached the dignity of discarding pantalettes and lengthening her dresses to womanly proportions, he called her Sally. The remarks of his comrade, Bill Johnson, had stirred his heart to its depths, and he determined to find out if Sally really cared for him. As he started over the fence he was quite sure that it was the simplest thing in the world to make his declar- ation to Sally, and had high hopes in her reply ; but as he stooped to gather some trailing arbutus, his cour- age began to fail, and even the sweet scent of the flow- ers gave him no inspiration. He stopped for a mo- ment and then exclaimed:. "Sam Drisco, are you so much of a coward as to be afraid of Sally Gibson, whom you have known since you were babies together ?" He braced up and hurried on, perceived her a short distance in front of him, and was glad to see that her CUPID TRIES FOR A HEARING 13 little brother was quite a way ahead, busily engaged in chasing a wild hare that was humping itself with all its might to escape, having a natural instinct of what might happen if he fell into the hands of a boy. The noise of Sam's step crackling the underbrush attracted Sally's attention. She turned, and her eyes twinkled with merriment as he saluted her with "Good after- noon. Miss Gibson." "Miss Gibson, indeed!" she responded. "What's the matter with you, Sam?" She laughed, and he joined therein, without know- ing why, as he saw nothing funny and felt very far from a laughing mood. At last he recovered his cour- age, and said quite in his old boyish way : "Sally, see what I've brought you. These May flowers are the first of the season. Some of them I took from under the snow. I thought you'd like them." "I do," she said, as she took them, and putting the little bunch to her nostrils, "How sweet they are." "Do you remember, Sally, how many times we have been out together in the wood beyond the old South road and picked May flowers.?" "Yes, Sam, I shall never forget. We were very happy when you and I were boy and girl." He continued: "Have you forgotten, Sally, the day we went to the woods and played that we were lost ; lay down on the turf at the foot of a large oak and covered our- selves all over with leaves, playing we were babes in the- woods ; and how frightened you were at a big 14. RICHARD BAXTER snake that came crawling across below our feet? You ran and screamed and I ran after you, calling you my little wife, saying that I was your big husband and wouldn't let any snakes hurt you." Just at that moment they reached the bars, on the highway, and she called : "Johnnie, Johnnie, come,, my dear. Here is father, and we had better ride home." Sam let down the upper bars and she quickly jumped over the other two, as if anxious to end the interview. "Thank you very much for the flowers," she said, as Farmer Gibson drove up. Sally and Johnnie climbed quickly into the wagon. The cut of old Gib- son's whip was not felt half as much on the old mare's back as was Sally's cut on Sam's heart. It took but a moment to replace the bars, and he sat down at the foot of a tree, to think. It was quite clear to him that he had lost a golden opportunity. Would he ever have another? As the wagon started Sally said, "Good-bye, Mr. Drisco," Johnnie sang out, "Good-bye, Sam," and the old woman, in an undertone, repeated, "Good-bye, Mr. Drisco, indeed! What's up now, SaUy?" But seeing the flush on Sally's face she did not press an answer. Sally had intended to walk home and had so told her father when she left him at the meeting-house, as he drove down the road to see Jim Budson, whom he wanted to work for him on the morrow. Why did she change her intention just at the moment when one not CUPID TRIES FOR A HEARING 15 skilled in the mysteries of a woman's heart might have supposed she would invent some excuse tor continuing her walk, rather than one to cut it short? When she would have given the world to stay, why did she go? Ah, why? She herself could not have told. What is the control that so often makes the young woman say no when she would gladly say yes? It is not perversity; it is not coquettishness, except in the case of the bom flirt. We are speaking of women with hearts, not of syrens who wantonly lead men on to disappointment. Is there a dividing line between maidenhood and womanhood that, once crossed, can never be re-crossed? Does the avowal of an honest love constitute the crossing of that line? Johnnie spied the little bunch of trailing arbutus and cried out : "Here, Sal, give me them posies." Sally stretched her arm beyond his reach and John- nie said to his mother : "Ma, make Sal give me them posies." Generally the little tyrant had his way with his mother, but a memory passed through her conscious- ness, and for a moment she was a girl again. Was it, perhaps, a hidden romance that brought that blush? A dormant sentiment that had lain many years deep under the practicalities of life? Was it possible in the case of this plain-featured, unromantic-looking old woman that there was still smoldering under the ashes of the fire that Cupid had kindled so many years ago, a little of youth's young dreams ? Who knows ? It is not for us to search the mysteries of her life. We must go forward, not backward. Still, a few 16 RICHARD BAXTER words relating to the marriage of Mrs. Gibson will give a better understanding of conditions. Martha Angier was a lovely girl, who had the mis- fortune to lose her parents when she was but six years old. She had been brought up as an unwelcome in- truder in the family of an uncle, where there was no room for her either in heart or home, there being al- ready six children, who naturally took precedence. She had grown to womanhood without ever having known the joys of filial love. When in due course of events the lover appeared on the scene, the promises of a future heaven had no attraction for her ; additional happiness was not possible. But alas ! the end came suddenly. Her lover was accidentally killed by the premature discharge of his gun, while hunting. She had asked him to get for her some gray squirrel-skins with which to make a muff. The pen that was unable to describe the height of her happiness lacks the power to portray the depth of her misery. Martha's uncle and aunt, neither of whom had ever loved, only toler- ated her, looked upon the death of the lover as a per- sonal affront to them, for which she was to blame ; and in her agony she often called herself a murderess. Another year of misery followed, her life became in- tolerable, and the idea of relief by suicide often came to her mind. She received a proposal of marriage from Solomon Gibson. She told him of her lover, but as he was dead, this aroused no jealousy. He offered a home. The hell in which she lived was not a home. Her uncle and aunt said that if she did not marry Sol Gibson she would have to shift for herself. She CUPID TRIES FOR A HEARING 17 did marry Solomon Gibson and secured a home, but never happiness, for Gibson was a hard man, made harder by the refusal of Susan Drisco to become his wife. Quickly recovering, Mrs. Gibson told Johnnie to keep still, he could not have the flowers. All was quiet, only interrupted by old Gibson's "g'lang," but the episode had set him to thinking, and if he had spoken his thoughts his utterance would have been: "Oho, Sam Drisco, is it ! That's the way the wind blows. Wall, he can't hev SaUy. He ain't got noth- in' only a mighty poor farm thet's mortgaged fer more'n it's wuth an' a good 'eal more'n 't'll sell fer, an' a bed-ridden ole mother thet's nuthin' but a care to 'im. I hate 'em both." He, in his mind, ran back to the time when this bed-ridden old mother was the prettiest girl in the township, and he and other young fellows had made love to her, all of whom she rejected, taking Eben Drisco, Sam's father. As the old man thought of all of these things a bitterness came over him, and he uttered a vigorous "g'lang," suddenly striking the old mare, who gave a jump, nearly throw- ing Sally and her mother over the back seat. The old woman, catching hold to save herself, cried out : "Why, Solomon, what is the matter.'"' "Nothin'j" he muttered as he stopped the old horse and got down from the wagon to fix the trace which had been broken by the sudden jerk. Mr. Gibson re- sruned his place, and the ride home was without fur- ther event or speech, except the habitual "g'lang." 18 RICHARD BAXTER On reaching home, Sally, unobserved, carried a cup of water to her room. Then, taking from her bosom the little nosegay that she had hidden from Johnnie, she pressed it to her lips, placed it in the water, and hid the cup behind the mirror on her dressing-table. CHAPTER IV The Honest Lawyer THE county town in country districts was usu- ally the centre of civilization for that lo- cality. There was the court-house and near by, the jail, often an academy, the country stores in which were sold wet and dry-goods of every name and nature, hardware, agricultural implements, and in fact every- thing likely to be wanted by a farming community. Around the square, near the court-house, were the old- fashioned tavern, barrooms that had not then assumed the dignity or title of saloons, insurance agencies, and lawyers' offices. Directly across the square, facing the court-house, in Mendon, was a little two-story wooden building, with which our tale has much connection. On the lower floor, as the red and white pole indicated, was a barber shop. Bill Muggins, the barber, had never heard of a tonsorial parlor. You could get a hair-cut for ninepence and a shave for f ourpence ha'penny, to- gether with all the gossip of the neighborhood. Up the staircase, the treads of which had been worn thin by the heavy cowhides of generations of farmers who had shuffled up those stairs desiring the aid of the law in getting them justice, was the office of Abraham Baxter. Many a man went up into that dingy little office, 19 20 RICHARD BAXTER as angry as could be, determined to get even with his neighbor for a wrong, generally fancied, and went down again somewhat cooled oif and guessed he wouldn't sue. Abraham Baxter was an old-fashioned lawyer, so old-fashioned, indeed, that he was known far and wide as one of a species which perhaps is ex- tinct, as we hear no mention of it now, (item, an honest lawyer) who used his experience and knowledge of the law to settle difficulties and not to engender strife. The weather-worn old sign on the front of the building read: "Abraham Baxter, Attorney and CounseUor-at-Law." His practice as an attorney had long since ceased, but his opinion as a counsellor was considered of much value, not only by his clients, but by his associates of the Bar of the county of Mendon, which was also the name of the township. It used to be told of him that when about to be con- sulted by a client he would say: "If you have an honest claim, I will take your case, but if you have not, go to someone else, for there are other lawyers here in town who can do better for you, as I will not help you to oppress or rob anybody." Many a would-be client left his office without further consultation. He had been the confidential adviser of more than two generations of the people of that locality. To him was confided, without hesitation, their secrets, and in many a family he had the key to the door of the closet where hung its skeleton. But never a word of scandal or gossip' went from that old man's lips to raise the flush of shame on or pale with fear the face of anyone. His clients were his friends, and not one THE HONEST LAWYER 21 ever regretted placing confidence in Abraham Baxter. An incident or two may explain the reason for the remark often made by other lawyers : "C»nf ound old Baxter; the law will not be worth anything in this county as long as he lives. If he had his way he'd shut up the court-house, except for criminal prosecu- tions, and on these the Lord knows he's hard enough." A man would come to him with his heart full of anger for some fancied wrong, determined to sue his neighbor at once. After having talked a while with "Father Abraham," as he was familiarly called, he would go away forgiving his grievance. In other cases the opponent would be called in, and everything satisfactorily settled. This method of practicing law brought little money to Abraham Baxter. He died poor, and would have had a scanty living had it not been for the fact that the majority of the legal papers in the county were written in his beautiful, square, copper-plate hand. The last time that he appeared in court as an attor- ney was in support of a will. Its probate had been opposed on the ground of forgery, the amount in con- test being something over $20,000. His client had promised him a fee of ten per cent, if he won the case. The liberality of the offer aroused his suspicion; but after having carefully examined all the facts that could be reached, he came to the conclusion that the will was the last will and testament of Abijah Ochle- tree. He went into the case with a full belief that he was in the right. He had an ambition to win, and a desire for the fee, which he sadly needed. 23 RICHARD BAXTER It is unnecessary to go into the details of the trial. The evidence had all been submitted and it was the opinion of those who had listened to the case that the jury would render a verdict in his favor without leav- ing their seats. In closing with quite an extended peroration he said : "Your Honor, and gentlemen of the jury, the evidence clearly shows that this will which I hold in my hand bears the genuine signature of Abijah Ochletree." Holding the open sheet be- tween his eyes and the window, he continued : "Your Honor and gentlemen of the jury, the evidence is as clear as God's sunlight -" At that moment he stopped, turned pale, looked staringly at the sheet he held between him and the light, threw down the will, and in an agitated tone said : "Your Honor, I with- draw from this case." He picked up his papers which were scattered on the table, put them into his green baize bag, and walked out of the court-room. Since the last word he had spoken, silence had reigned. It was the silence of astonishment. The opposing lawyer, as the door closed on Abraham Bax- ter, picked up the will and held it to the light, then turning quickly to the presiding judge: "Your Honor," he said, "I desire to make an unusual motion, which I think under the circumstances Your Honor will grant. That is, to re-open this case for the pur- pose of re-submitting exhibit A, this will, to the jury for examination. The date of this will is March 1, 1825. The water-mark shows that the paper on which it is written was not made until 1827." The THE HONEST LAWYER 23 judge directed the jury to render a verdict against the genuineness of the will, which they did, without leaving their seats. It was a remarkably clever forgery, and had it not been for the water-mark in the paper, would never have been discovered, for all the evidence was in favor of its validity. The genuineness of the signature of the testator received the support of all those who had been familiar with it when the testator was living. It was a holograph will, and there did not seem to be the dot of an i or the crossing of a t, the tail of a g or y that had been neglected. The two witnesses, who it was alleged had appended their names "in the pres- ence of the testator and of each other," were dead. The selection of witnesses who had died since the ex- ecution of the will showed the great shrewdness of the forger. Abraham Baxter had always prided himself, as we have seen, upon the integrity of the causes which he advocated, and the outcome of this suit so mortified him that he never entered the court-house again, nor would he take a case that required his appearance in court. Such, as a lawyer, was the deep sense of honor, the passion for justice and the sterling character, of Abraham Baxter. [Note. — The writer has submitted this incident, which is a true occurrence, to many lawyers, and has never found one who said that he would have done as Abraham Baxter did, that is, have abandoned the case. They generally responded that it "is the first duty M RICHARD BAXTER of a lawyer to protect the interest of his client"; "contrary to the ethics of the profession"; "stick to your client, right or wrong" ; "never under any obli- gation to furnish evidence for the other side"; "we don't hear of any such kind of fool nowadays" ; "you say that this lawyer died poor. Well, I can readily^ believe that."] CHAPTER V The Hypocrite ON the death of his mother, Richard Baxter, at the age of fourteen, left home for school, where he spent three years, and then four years in college. His father (Abraham Baxter) died during the last year of his collegiate course, leaving to him his law Hbrary, an unsullied name, and the title "an honest lawyer." He desired that his son should adopt some other vocation than the law, wishing him to be an honest man, and knowing how difficult that was for a lawyer. Richard admired his father when living, and now deeply honoring his memory, resolved to follow in his footsteps. He was a young man of good, not bril- liant talents, had been graduated with a fair propor- tion of honors, and a reputation for sterling integ- rity; and was. Indeed, a good specimen of American mediocrity. He appreciated that he did not know it all, an advantage over most young men. He was too modest for sudden success, and on leaving college bade fair to become a plodder. He took possession of the old law office just as his father had left it. The village painter desired to paint over the old sign, but this to Richard seemed sacrilege ; to put up a new sign, vanity ; and during 25 26 RICHARD BAXTER his life the old one was never changed, except by the weather, and that worked its usual spell. Richard was an athlete in form, but had no passion for athletic sports, although he had taken part therein during his collegiate career. He was a handsome man, and had the great good fortune never to have appreci- ated the fact. Many a girl had looked at him and wondered why she could not get Dick Baxter to flirt just a little. But he never thought of it, and so passed into manhood without the usual experience of most young men. For the opposite sex he had the greatest respect, and treated every woman as mother or sister, accord- ing to her age. The thoughts uppermost in his mind were those on religious subjects. He had been educated in the rigid dogmas of the Presbyterian faith, but did not accept them. Still you could not have found a college as- sociate who would not have said that Dick Baxter was the most pious man in his class ; though he knew that he was a hypocrite, and despised himself for it. "What ought I to do?" was a constant self -query. "I would believe if I could, God knows I would." This appeal to God, in Whom he had no belief, was only an expression inspired by the custom so prevalent In all Christian communities. Had he acknowledged being an agnostic, the little Presbyterian world in which he dwelt would have deemed him worse even than a Roman Catholic, and cast him out as a social leper. These people would tolerate a drunkard, a thief, or even a murderer ; but an infidel, never. In their opin- THE HYPOCRITE 27 ion, a man who had no belief was an outcast, for whom burning at the stake was quite too good. The opinions of the community in which Richard Baxter lived, or even its intolerance of an infidel, were not the principal reasons that prevented his throwing oflF the despicable cloak of hypocrisy ; for paradoxical as it may seem, he was as honest a man as ever lived ; in every moral essential a good man whose life was above reproach. He felt himself to be a victim of intellectual malformation, and often wondered how it was that the great boons of belief and faith were de- nied to him, while the ignorant, uneducated mass be- lieved, or at least thought that they believed. They could not know the depths of their profession. Re- ligion, in his opinion, could only be their habit. While at law school, he had lived where there were many Roman Catholics, simple, ignorant people, whose unwavering confidence in their church challenged his admiration. He was called from his bed one night by a messen- ger who informed him that Patrick Moriarty, an Irishman whom he had often met in his walks outside the town, was dying, and "would Mr. Baxter go and make his will.'"' He found at the home of the Moriarties, not only Patrick at the point of death, but also his wife Bridget. The man was in bed at one side of the room, and on a cot opposite lay his wife. After the will was made Patrick asked some of the bystanders to move his wife's cot over to the side of his bed, and to her he 28 RICHARD BAXTER said: "Bridget, me darlint, come over here, an' Oi'U take yer hand, an' we'll walk through purgatory to- gither, as we've ben walkin' togither fer nigh forty year, an' it'll only be half as far." The priest had been there and administered the Holy Communion, and anointed them with oil. The cot was moved over to the side of the bed on which Patrick was lying, as still as if already dead. Her hand was placed in his, too feeble to reach for it. She was very restless. All at once he aroused himself, and speaking quite sharply said: "Bridget, kape still, ye'U wipe the grase all off ye." Then, closing his eyes, he started at once on his long journey; but his wife was not ready to go with him. This incident made a lasting impression on Richard Baxter, and from that moment he respected the simple faith of the humble Christian. As before said, Richard did not continue his hype critical life through fear of consequences, but as a matter of conscience. He weighed everything on the scales of good, not those of truth. "Is it good.''" not "Is it true.'"' was his test of value. The good of his fellow man was the desire of his life. He had many times asked himself the question, "Is man better for having a religion?" the answer always being in the affirmative. He had studied all the religions of the world and had never found a heathen who would not have been more of a heathen without his religion. Richard Baxter continued his dual position on re- ligion at the dictate of his conscience, arguing: "I am harming no one but myself by my course. 'Tis THE HYPOCRITE 29 true I am deceiving everybody, but I injure no one in so doing." He was looked upon as a model Christian, and al- though the model was a false one, good came from It. No good would come from an avowal of his real senti- ments ; nothing but evil could follow such a course. Doubts would be sown where perfect faith was now triumphant. ' He had always treated everyone's hon- est religious belief, no matter how absurd it appeared to him, with the utmost respect, having never by act, word or look done aught to lessen the faith of anyone in the religion which he professed. He realized that to do so would be worse than robbery. It would be indeed a wicked act to take away a person's faith on the ground that in his opinion it was false, when he had nothing better to offer in its place. Richard Baxter was an encyclopedia on religion. There was not a minister of the gospel in all that re- gion who knew the Bible so well as he. But with all his knowledge he could never be induced to give an opinion on any religious subject nor drawn into an argument. When asked questions he was always ready to give facts, but never opinions. When forced into a corner, his reply always was, "I have never been given authority or ability to interpret the Scriptures." No one ever appealed to him for help, pecuniary or otherwise, who did not meet with a cheerful response. The poor could always obtain legal advice without, cost. Often had he appeared in court without fee, to defend them against oppression and wrong. CHAPTER VI The Peoposai. ON the afternoon of the opening of our story, John Manning resumed consideration of the eligible girls. He had a large field from which to choose, as the neighborhood included parts of three towns. He had seen Bill and Sam together, and as he returned, Bill was alone. "Lost Sam, have you.-"' he asked. "Where has he gone.!"' "Cross lots, over on the North road." John Manning had long known of Sam Drisco's liking for Sally Gibson. It had not until that mo- ment been a matter of any concern ; but now, having Sally in mind, he felt Drisco to be an intruder. He was so intensely egotistic and knew so little of woman nature, that he assumed it to be only necessary for him to condescend to inform any woman that he had selected her. Ah, how little did he know a woman's heart ! The next morning he drove over to the Gibson farm, and seeing the old man at work by the wayside, hailed him with a "Good-morning." Mr. Gibson ap- proached the wagon and put out his brawny hand, re- turning the salute with a "Howdy, howdy." Man- ning was not accustomed to waste any time in discuss- ing the weather, crops or any other make-talk subject. THE PROPOSAL 31 In this case, as was his habit, he came directly to the point, saying: "Mr. Gibson, you know that mother is dead, and my affairs at home are badly broken up. I can't find any good woman to run. things, and I think I'd better get married." "Surely, surely," said the old man. "I've been thinking over all th^ girls in the neigh- borhood and have concluded that your SaUy is the best of the bunch, and everything being satisfactory aU around, as of course it must be, we had better get married." To say that the old man was astonished sets forth the condition of his mind very mildly. "W'y, Mr. Mannin'," he hesitatingly said, "I didn't know thet you an' SaUy was much more'n jest acquainted. Hadn't seen ye round our house, an' didn't know thet you an' her hed ben a-keepin' comp'ny. Wall, young folks is mighty sly. Wonder 'f Mis' Gibson knows anything 'bout it. Thar ain't ben nothin' said to me." "There hasn't been anything said to anybody. I'm not the man to waste my time chasing after girls. I only made up my mind last night to marry her, and of course haven't said anything to her about it." "Surely, surely." "You know, Mr. Gibson, that I'm pretty fore- handed, and not a man that any girl is likely to say no to." "Surely, surely," rephed the old man. "Thet's all true 'nough, an' I don't mind a-sayin' right out thet I shouldn't object to yer marryin' my Sal, ef it's 'greeable all 'round. Sal's a good gal, good's any on 32 RICHARD BAXTER 'em, but she's a leetle high strung, an' kinder inde- pendent sometimes, an' she might not 'gree to it." "She'll do as you say, won't she?" "Wall, she alius has, but I hain't never said nothin' to 'er 'bout gittin' marri'd, an' she might kick, ye know." "Is anybody keeping company with her.'"' "No, 'tain't got to thet yit; but I've thought for some time thet Sam Drisco was kinder sneakin' 'round arter her ; but she can't hev him, even if she never gits marri'd." "Sam Drisco," sneered Manning. "I can fix him. He's of no account. I've a mortgage on his farm that's past due, and the interest will more than eat up his personal property." "Surely, surely. This thing's all right atween you an' me, but I think you'd better go 'bout it in the ord'- nary way, waste a leetle time a-courtin' an' sich like, 'cause wimmin is queer critters, an' sometimes ye can an' sometimes ye can't." "All right, Mr. Gibson, as long as you and I under- stand each other I guess I won't have any trouble fix- ing it ; but I'll accept your advice." The attempts of John Manning to "court" Sally Gibson, as well as those of her father to drive her into his arms were, as might have been expected, miserable failures. CHAPTER VII A Tkue Woman IN the village of Mendon lived a unique character, a woman who was the village "Jack-at-all-trades," being able to turn her hand with equal facility to the trimming of a bonnet, making a new dress, mak- ing over an old one, or cutting down the father's worn suit for the next generation. She could help out in the spinning, if anybody's "old woman" (the usual but by no means disrespectful term in which most men spoke of their wives) was behind with her work. If the mother was sick, they called in "Mis' Miles" to "nuss" her and help care for the family. In fact, "Mis' Miles" was the most important functionary of the place. She and her daughter lived in an humble cottage at the edge of the village. The extent of the premises was about one-half an acre, on which were the little house, a hen coop, a small kitchen-garden and a mort- gage, the last being an anxiety that haunted the widow day and night. The first of April, when the interest became due, had more terrors for her than the Day of Judgment. Being a reKgious woman, strong in the faith and fully conscious of the rectitude of her life, she had no fear for the "hereafter." "Give us this day our daily bread" was to her the most important line in the 33 34 RICHARD BAXTER Lord's prayer, which she never omitted morning or evening. Like so many other people, she had seen better days. She wedded a well-to-do man, and passed her mar- ried life in a large city where she had all the advan- tages of good society. As is often the case, Mr. Miles lived up to his income, and made no provision for a "rainy day." In the prime of life he succumbed to an attack of typhus, leaving his wife and child prac- tically penniless. The great problem of "how to live" demanded solu- tion. Mrs. Miles was a woman of good physique and sound health. Her early associations naturally sug- gested a return to country life. She must earn her living and there were no genteel avenues open for her. It was work, absolute labor that confronted her, and she met it "manfully." After the settlement of her affairs and the disposal of household effects, there were but a few hundred dollars left. She decided to go into the country ; but where ? To one place she would not go, to the home of her child- hood, which she had left on the high wave of good fortune. No, she could not bring herself to bear that ; but would seek some locality where it would be im- possible for her history to be known, being well aware of the curiosity of country people and their suspicious nature, when one did not turn himself inside out for inspection and inquisition. How to meet this troublesome matter perplexed her much, and she often dreamed of being tried by the A TRUE WOMAN 35 sewing society of some country town. "Who is she?" "Where did she come from?" "What's she doing here?" "Widow, did you say?" "How long has her husband been dead?" "Did he leave any property?" "How's she going to live?" "I wonder if she's re- spectable? Good many of these city folks ain't, you know. Can't teU by folks' looks, you know." Mrs. Miles was a brave woman and ready to obey the laws of necessity. Hardly knowing why, she se- lected Mendon as the place in which to take refuge. Before leaving the city, she sold all her fine cloth- ing, even down to the last under-garment, shoes and stockings, and provided herself clothing suitable to the new position in society which misfortune forced her to occupy. Her daughter Mary would remain at boarding- school, as her tuition had been paid for the year. Mrs. Miles arrived in Mendon by stage one pleasant spring day, intending to remain at the tavern until she could mature her plans. She called on the minis- ter and the doctor, both pleasant old gentlemen, who received her kindly, and after examining her letters, and finding her sound in faith and practice, oblig- ingly permitted a reference to them. On the morning after her arrival, the town was panic-stricken by a smallpox scare. At first, it was the whole of the east village that had the dreaded dis- ease ; then it was more than a dozen. It finally dwin- dled to one suspect, a poor Canadian hired man on Silas Brown's farm. He was warned at the risk of his life not to leave the little shanty where he slept. 36 RICHARD BAXTER The Selectmen hurriedly met to see what could be done. A resolution was promptly adopted, declaring, "the shanty on Silas Brown's farm, where that blasted Canuck has the smallpox, be and hereby is declared a pest-house, according to the law so made and pro- vided." That the man must be cared for was a foregone conclusion, but by whom.? They felt quite certain that no one could be found ; when their anxious delib- erations were interrupted by the' appearance of a strange woman, who told them that she was a nurse, immune, having had the smallpox, and competent to take entire charge of the case, without the aid of a doctor. The satisfaction of the Selectmen, as well as of the whole town, was unbounded, and Mrs. M" entered at once upon her duties and carried the t through successfully, surprising even herself. She was a woman who had a wonderful ability to conform to circumstances and adapt herself to the situation. She took the position of nurse, in this case, to test her ability to meet any requirements that might arise, believing that there could be no better introduction for her. Alexis, a Canadian with an unpronounceable sur- name, was the patient. He appreciated what she did for him and never after missed an opportunity to re- pay all that he in his humble capacity could. While Mrs. Miles had been caring for Alexis, the town gossips had thoroughly discussed her. That was as far as they could go, for when she appeared among them, they found that although she did not A TRUE WOMAN STf "put on airs," she was not a woman of wKom they could ask questions for the gratification of a vulgar curiosity. CHAPTER VIII " Now OE Nevee " SALLY, on returning from town one day, met Sam Drisco, who said to himself as he saw her coming, "Now or never." He was quite well aware of the situation existing at the Gibson farm, as John Manning's attempt at making Sally his wife was town gossip, and to him it seemed that his only chance was, as he said, "now or never." He ap- proached Sally, looking her full in the eyes, extended his hand, and said : "God only knows, Sally, how glad I am to see you." She replied with all her natural frankness: "Sam, I am glad to see you." They looked at each other for a moment, and with- out a word left the highway and turned into a path that led into the deep woods, beyond sight from the road. They walked side by side for a few moments, then : "Let us sit down upon this log," began Sam, "I have something I wish to say to you." He poured out his heart, telling how his life was one longing for her, closing with: "Sally, Sally, I love you beyond my power to tell. I want you to be my wife," and held out his hand, which she frankly took. "Oh, Sam, you cannot love me more than I love you, but it cannot, cannot be. Father says that I must "NOW OR NEVER" S9 marry John Manning, but I never will. I cannot marry you, Sam, for I dare not. He is so hard and bitter against you." "Sally, I am a man, you are a woman. Why should we be governed by an unreasonable father? Oh, come with me, Sally, and we shall be so happy." "No, no, dear Sam, I dare not; though I cannot marry you, I will never marry John Manning, nor anyone else." They talked for a long time, but Sally could not be turned from what she believed to be her duty. CHAPTER IX Maey Miles WE have omitted to notice, though it was an event of sufBcient importance in the history of Mendon to make it worth chronicling, the advent of Mrs. Miles' daughter Mary, who had been left at school when the mother had come to Mendon. It is a difficult task to describe her. The simplest way would be to say that she was Mary Miles, unique in herself, a type of her own. It is not easy to detail the apparel of a well-dressed young lady. There is such a harmonious blending of color and style that no salient points attract attention. So it was with Mary. In form she fulfilled the requirements of the sculptor; in feature she realized the artist's dream. And still her face was not pretty, but it was beauti- ful, for therein were portrayed all the characters of perfect womanhood. In her character there was not an apparent defect. She at once became a great fa- vorite in the village, as she had always been with all who had ever known her. For a wonder she was held in equal esteem by both sexes, young and old, but especially by the aged; for to them she showed such unusual respect and courtesy that they could not help loving her. The little jeal- ousies which so often exist among young women were 40 MARY MILES 41 not present in this case. Her loveliness disarmed them all, and although the daughter of Widow Miles, the nurse, seamstress and general woman-of-all-work, who served those who demanded her services by the day, she was everywhere received in the best society of Mendon, as a social equal. A natural Christian, it required on Mary's part but little effort to be good. The right path was always open, the other never suggested. She was not en- titled, therefore, to such credit as are those who resist temptation. Unlike many of the naturally good people, she was not selfish and cold-blooded, but had a warm heart, and was extremely charitable toward the shortcomings of others, especially of those of her own sex. CHAPTER X A Briefless Lawyer RICHARD BAXTER was what is known to the profession as a briefless lawyer. For such condition he was alone to blame. Many a profitable case he had turned away because he thought his client in the wrong. He had inherited from his father the integrity that bade fair to ruin his prospects as a lawyer, and had often considered the advisability of trying some other means of getting a living. He had sat many a day watching the spiders build- ing their cobwebs. He never disturbed them, a super- stition which he could neither explain nor understand protected them. To his view they were as frail as re- ligious faith, easy to destroy, but impossible to re- build. As he watched he listened for the client's footsteps on the creaking old stairs ; but in vain. The small in- come from drawing deeds, contracts and other legal instruments hardly sufficed to pay for his food. His clothes had the shiny evidence of having seen better days, and his body showed lack of nourishment. He was getting despondent and melancholy and could not study or think. Had it not been for his pride he would have done manual labor. "Would I not have greater respect for myself," he 42 A BRIEFLESS LAWYER 43 soliloquized, "if I were earning an honest living by the sweat of my face, than sitting here brooding over my misfortunes? Why should I have any regard for the opinion of those who sit like hungry vultures waiting the outcome of my problem?" He remembered reading a notice tacked up at the post-office: "Wanted — ^Wood Choppers. Will pay fifty cents per cord. Joseph Barker." Joseph Bar- ker was the owner of a wood lot about a mile and a half out on the Sheldon road, which he had begun clearing. "Wood chopper, indeed!" Then, looking at his soft, white hands, he mused a while, and turning toward a little mirror that stood on a mantel, saw his gaunt face, which he saluted with: "Pauper, that's just what you are. Nothing more, nothing less. No, that's wrong, you are something more. You are — ^a —fool." He was behind with his rent, and that morning the barber who owned the building had said to him that Squire Canfield wanted to hire the office and if Mr. Baxter couldn't pay he wished he'd move out, for he could not wait longer for his rent. Richard felt greatly mortified to think that the little, insignificant, illiterate, one-legged barber was in a position to tell him, a gentleman born, a college graduate and a law- yer, to pay his rent or move out. It was quite cer- tain, however, that he had no longer use for the premises as a law office. His father had occupied that office for a lifetime. Richard remembered with what pride and hopes of 44 RICHARD BAXTER success he had taken possession on his graduation from the law school. Were all his ambitions to be crushed and his prospects ruined? How would his father have felt could he have foreseen the blasting of the cherished hopes for the success of his dearly be- loved son? He looked around the office and every piece of the old furniture seemed to say in chorus, "This must not be"; and jumping to his feet, he defiantly shouted, "And it shall not be!" He determined that he would not give up yet, and soon completed his plans, which were to chop wood and earn money enough to pay his rent and keep the office, at least until he could go over all the papers that his father had left, take care of those that were of any value and destroy the rest. After freeing himself from debt he would seek other fields and begin anew. He had in his wardrobe an old corduroy boat- ing-suit that would serve him well for working clothes. Knowing that he could not put in a full day's work at first, he would attempt but half a day. Just as he had settled on this course, old Caesar, a negro who had "chored" for Abraham Baxter many years until his death, and had known "young Massa Baxtah eber since he was knee-high to a hoppergrass," came shuffling up the old staircase, and as he entered the door, took off his cap, bowed his head, and scrap- ing the floor with his right foot, saluted: "Good-mawnin', Massa Baxtah. W'y, honey w'at's de mattah ? Bettah not go down get shaved dis mawn- in', foh de blessed face is so long dat it cost double. A BRIEFLESS LAWYER 45 Dis niggah dunno much, but dis niggah knows w'at's de mattah wid Massa Baxtah. He done gone an' got no money to pay rent." "How do you know that, Casar?" "Kase, dis mawnin' I hab some wood to split foh de babah, down in de ya'd, an' Massa Postmastah he come 'long an' he say, 'Good-mawnin', Caesar,' an' den he stop an' he say to dis niggah, 'Cassar, w'at kine ob niggah be you?' an' I says, 'Massa Postmastah, I'se coal-brack niggah, I is.' Ya, ha, ha! Ya, ha, ha!" and Csesar laughed until it seemed to Richard that the shovel and tongs danced on the hearth. He was quite sure that the grim old portrait of George Washington relaxed its solemn features, and at least smiled. As was intended by the friendly negro, the laugh became infectious, and Richard joined quite heartily. After a moment he said : "Caesar, you have not told me how you know that I am short of money." "Well, boss, it was dis way. Massa Postmastah he go into de babah shop to get shave, an' foah soon I heah him say 'Baxtah' ; den I knows dat it was you dat was bein' slandahed, an' I jes' cock up dat long eah. Ye know, Massa Baxtah, dat dis 'ere niggah hab one long eah an' one short one." "Yes, that's all right, Csesar, but go on and tell your story." "Well, den, Massa Baxtah, dis niggah, ole brack Caesar, he play 'possum, an' Massa Babah he say, 'Massa Postmastah, dat young Baxtah up de stahs is dat hard up dat he can't pay de rent, an' I'se done 46 RICHARD BAXTER goin' to turn him out, foh Massa Canfield he want dat office.' " "Yes, Cassar, it is true that I am short of money just now, but it will come out all right bye-and-bye." "Yes, yes, Massa Baxtah, dat's all right. Bye'n- bye long way off sometimes, but dis niggah got money now. Ye see, Massa Richa'd, it am dis way. Caesar is de ole brack niggah, an' foah long time de Lawd He say, 'Csesar, ye mis'ble brack niggah, wha' is ye? I wants ye now. You's no use down dah, you's on'y in de way. Ye ha'r's all gone, ye teef s all gone, you's got de rumaticks an' can't work no moah. Come up heah an' be an angel. I'se got some big brack wings foh ye, an' I'se a ha'p foh ye, wif a t'ousan' strings.' An' I say, 'Yes, good Lawd, I'se comin', hev Petah hoi' open de gate.' An' ye see, Massa Richa'd, dis ole Caesar is no common niggah. He's 'spect'ble, an' he wants to leave dis worl' in a 'spect'ble mannah ; so ole Caesar, he done gone an' sabe money to put ole Caesar in de groun' in a 'spect'ble mannah. I'se got twenty-seben doUahs hid undah de chimbley-stone, an' honey, I gibs ye all on'y two doUahs, an' de s'lect- men can bury ole Ceesar. Dey'U hab to put dis ole niggah in de groun'. Live niggah bery 'fensive, but dead niggah, whew ! nobody lib in same town wif dead niggah. I'd gib ye all, Massa Richa'd, on'y I wants de music w'en dey puts ole Caesar undah de groun'. I'se 'ranged wif Eph Mo'gan foh de fife an' Ike Brown foh de drum, two doUahs foh bof . Dat's w'y, Massa Richa'd, dat ole niggah Caesar doan' gib Massa Richa'd de whole ob dat money." "Caesar^ come up Beali an' be an angel. I'se got some big brack wings fob ye^ an' I'se a ha'p foh ye, wif a tousan' strings." A BRIEFLESS LAWYER 47 That Richard Baxter was deeply touched at this ex- hibition of friendship by the old negro need not be said. He exclaimed: "Thank God, I have one friend." Tears filled his eyes, and rising, he went across the room to where Caesar stood near the door, grasped his hand and shook it warmly, saying: "You are very kind, Caesar, but I cannot take your money. I hope and pray to soon end my trouble." "Pray foh help. Dat's aU right, if ye knows how to pray. 'Tain't no good prayin' 'less ye does some- t'ing. De good Lawd helps dem w'at helps demselfs. De Lawd nevah bring dis niggah nuffin. He alius hab to go get it. Ole Caesar he want some chicken, an' he prayed de Lawd foh chicken. Dis niggah he pray foh free nights, dis niggah get no chicken. De Lawd nevah hcah dis niggah. Den ole Cassar pray de Lawd sen' dis niggah foh dat chicken, an' he hab de chicken de fust time." Richard told old Cassar that he proposed to chop wood. This disgusted Caesar beyond his power of expression. The idea of a "gemmen choppin' wood" was more than he could tolerate, and he hesitated about lending his axe to Richard. Richard said to him: "I can't beg and I will not borrow. Would you have me steal.""' "No, dis niggah doan' 'vocate any man to steal. Ole Csesar nevah steal nuffin' in dis worl' — on'y chicken," he added, after a sHght pause ; then resum- ing, meditatively, "No moah sin foh de niggah take chicken dan foh white man take 'brellah." 48 RICHARD BAXTER Caesar finally consented to lend his axe. Early the next morning Richard, dressed in cordu' roy suit, started for the woods. He went early, be- fore the villagers were up, not ashamed exactly, but very well satisfied that he was doing no wrong; still, he would rather not be seen, not just then, until he had gotten a little used to the situation himself. It is hardly worth while to follow him through the hardening process of backache, armache and blistered hands. But Richard was not the man to put his hand to the plow and turn back. Every day when it did not storm he went regularly to his work, with which he spent the forenoon. In the afternoon he busied him- self sorting out his father's old papers, for he had nearly concluded that as the law had abandoned him, he would in turn forsake it and get an honest living some other way. Of course it wasn't three days before the whole town were discussing this, as it was called, freak of Dick Baxter's. It did not take long for him to earn money enough to pay up his rent, but he still continued his morning work. He became healthy and hearty, lost his de- spondency and his woe-begone appearance. He claimed to have discovered the elixir of health, but none of his friends wanted any of the medicine. With vigorous health came happiness and visions of success in his chosen profession, and with them, renewed ef- forts to increase his knowledge of the law. The de- velopment of his muscles stimulated his brain. He determined not to give up the old office, so sacred to A BRIEFLESS LAWYER 49 him, for its memories of his revered father. He laughed as he asked himself: "How would a sign look : 'Richard Baxter, Wood Chopper and Attorney-at-Law' ?" In clearing up the office and assorting his father's old papers, he had omitted to open a little drawer in the desk, which stuck fast. He borrowed a chisel and forced the drawer open, finding therein a sealed letter, addressed to himself, in his father's well-known hand. He hastily broke the seal. It bore date but a short time before his father's death. The letter read as follows : "My Dear Son Richard : Your last letter informs me that you have determined to adopt the law as your profession for life. Although I have advised you, influenced by the hard lessons of my own experience, to seek a Hving in some other vocation, I must confess that I am not sorry. I would, if it were possible, point out to you the pitfalls in your path, but it would be useless, and it is better that you find them for yourself. "My dear Richard, be true to your God and He wiU be true to you. I am sorry to have noticed in some of your late letters an uncertain state of mind, as if you were wavering in your faith. I hope that this is not so. "Never be tempted to defend or to prosecute a wrong cause. "Be an honest lawyer. It is not the road to wealth, but it will insure you at least self-respect. The law 50 RICHARD BAXTER is a noble profession, but to its shame it must be ad- mitted that there is no crime so dastardly nor no cause so unrighteous that a lawyer cannot be procured to defend it. "On the shelves of this old bookcase are thirty vol- umes of Pickering's Reports. In them you will find treasure. As my last request I beseech you to read them carefully. I want you to read them, not to pick them up and skim them over, but to make a systematic business of it. Take volume one, read the title page ; then every one to finis. After having read it through, I wish you, on the last page, to write and sign the following : " 'This is to certify that I, Richard Baxter, have complied with my father's last request, and have read every word in this first volume of Pickering's Re- ports' ; and so on, as fast as you have the time to read each volume, to the last. "Also, I wish that you never part with this desk- bookcase. It was my father's, it is your father's, and will soon be yours. "Farewell, my dear Richard. I am, "Your aiFectionate Father, "Abkaham Baxtek." "Well, my father always was queer. I do not un- derstand what he means by treasure in Pickering's Reports. Oh, I have it. I remember the fable of the old man on his death-bed telling his sons that on his farm was hidden a pot of gold. As soon as the old man was buried, they began digging in search of the A BRIEFLESS LAWYER 61 hidden treasure ; and they dug the old farm over and over again, until it became so fertile that it produced the pot of gold many times. So, no doubt father thought that if I read Pickering's Reports studiously I should indeed find treasures in the end. However, it matters not what he thought; I will do as he wished." And from the day of the finding of that letter, he never missed, except on the Sabbath, reading more or less, according to the time he had to spare, until the task was finished. His health, strength and mind were so much im- proved by his wood chopping that he continued it for a while, notwithstanding the fact that it was no longer a necessity, having earned enough to free himself from debt. His afternoons he devoted to his office, although his clients were few and not very remunerative. The task of looking over and sorting the papers left by his father was a greater one than he had ex- pected, and he found so little wheat to so much chaff, that he was tempted to make a bonfire of the whole lot. It is quite probable that he might have done so had he not occasionally come across some memoranda concerning people of the village. One day while dusting these old volumes of Picker- ing, he thought to look at the last one, remarking to himself: "Fifteen volumes more before I reach the final fmis." He opened the book and was surprised to find the last two blank leaves sealed together, with a writing between the leaves. Under f,nis on the last page was written : S2 RICHARD BAXTER "Dear Richard: I have every confidence in you. I know that you will respect my last wish. "Your affectionate Father, "Abkaham Baxter." Whatever might have been Richard's inclination to break the seal, there was none now. He replaced the book on the shelf and resumed his weary task, in their regular order through the dull pages of Pickering. CHAPTER XI " GrOOD-BYE, SaLLY " IN the old first-growth pine forest, on the opposite side of the road from the Gibson farm, the trees were of immense size and limbless to a great height. The ground, free from underbrush, was cov- ered with a thick carpet of pine needles, which emitted a pleasant balsamic odor. This had been Sally's fa- vorite playground in childhood, and as she grew older, the beautiful spot, from late experience, had become more dear to her. On the log where she and Sam sat that lovely after- noon (their last meeting), she had sat many times be- fore, sewing, knitting, reading, or dreaming, as the mood had seized her. She had been seen with Sam in the woods by one of the farm hired men, who thought to make favor by telling Mr. Gibson. This was especially unfortunate, as the old man had just been discussing with his wife, Sally and her relations with John Manning. Mrs. Gibson, in her defense of Sally, had said many bitter things which had worked the old man up to a greater fury than she had ever seen him in before. As he passed out of the house, he met his sneaking hired man, who told him that he had seen Sam and Sally in the woods together. This added to his anger and he went into his tool shop, took down his rifle, 63 m RICHARD BAXTER hastily loaded it, and crossed the road into the woods, with murder in his heart. The hired man saw him go toward the woods with rifle in hand, but not daring to interfere, he ran quick- ly into the house and hastily said : "Oh, Mis' Gibson, Sally an' Sam Drisco are over there in the woods, an' Mr. Gibson's gone over with his gun." The old woman was out of the house and across the road quicker than can be told, and out of sight into the woods. She knew Sally's favorite spot, as they had spent many a happy hour there together, and hastened directly toward it. As she saw the old man she tried to scream, but could not, being dumb with terror. The gun was aimed and Sally sprang in front of Sam. With an effort, nerved by desperation, Mrs. Gibson leaped to the side of her husband and clinched his arm as he pulled the trigger, turning the gun to one side just enough to let the bullet whizz harmlessly by the heads of the lovers. Mrs. Gibson fell in a faint, and Sam sprang toward the would-be murderer, who, seeing that he had failed, was about to reload. Sam seized the gun, which old Gibson strove to retain. There could be but one out- come between the one, young and strong, and the other, old and weak. Sam raised the rifle as if to brain the old man, but a scream from behind him brought the realization that it was her father whom he was about to strike down and perhaps kill. He handed the gun back to Mr. Gibson and stood eying him as one would eye a wild beast, crouched to leap. "GOOD-BYE, SALLY '» 55 The old man was dazed, as if he had just awakened from a dream, seeming not to realize the situation. Without a word, he turned and went through the bushes, toward the house. Meanwhile Sally went to the assistance of her mother, who soon revived. They were instantly in each other's arms, sobbing as if life's fountains were breaking up. Sally turned to Sam, who eagerly clasped her in his arms and kissed her again and again. It was the first time, and with all the passion of possession. Then he held her at arm's length and looked at the face he loved so well, down which were flowing torrents of tears. She loosened the grasp of his hands and clung around his neck. Again their lips met. Where was her coyness, her reserve, her maidenly modesty? All gone. Nature was reigning. The term of this ecstasy was but momentary. The realities of the situation pressed their claims. They separated, looking at each other for a moment, when Sally extended her hands, which Sam eagerly seized. "Good-bye, Sam, dear Sam. God help us !" "Good-bye, Sally, good-bye. God bless you," he with great difficulty uttered. They never met again in this life. Have they ever met again? Mrs. Gibson stood motionless, gazing at this life's episode, this rending of hearts, so soon to be followed by rending of lives. Sally went immediately to the side of her mother, placed a supporting arm around her, and without a word they left the wood. As Sally turned into the road, she looked back and waved her hand to Sam, who quickly responded. CHAPTER XII The Knittee AMONG the noticeable characters of the neigh- borhood was a quaint old woman, who, al- though she has only a neighborly connection with our story, is, on her own merits, entitled to a few pages therein. Aunt Nancy was about seventy-five years old, hearty and healthy; a good woman, beloved by all who knew her. She was a widow, whose husband had been dead but a few years. He had left to her a com- fortable income, more than she, with her economical habits, could possibly spend. She was always benevo- lent and also charitable, a distinction and a diff- erence. Everybody in the neighborhood knew her as the "knitter." Knitting was with her a dissipation. She would knit in season and out of season. A very de- vout, pious woman; and although truly and conscien- tiously religious, she did knit on Sundays. But her Sunday stockings, as she called them, were always put in the missionary box. She used to say that as she could not read with any enjoyment she knit to keep the devil away, and that it was much less sin to knit on Sunday than to talk wicked gossip, or what was quite as bad, to think it. She had as keen a scent for scandal as a fox hound 6fi THE KNITTER 57 for his game, but her perception was used to avoid defamatory talk. She would often say, "Now, s'pose thet was you, how would you like to hev it talked 'bout? Less talk 'bout suthin' else." Whenever the subject of matrimony came under discussion she would remark, "Ye know, I don't b'lieve in long engagements." Jonas Bond, her late husband, was a very peculiar man; a good and just man, who always intended to do right. He did not mean to be, and was not really, a hard man. His feelings were deep, especially his kindly ones, so deep that they seldom rose to the sur- face. He certainly did not wear his heart on his sleeve for daws to peck at. By the death of his father he came into possession in early life of a good farm, and was termed "fore- handed." His temperament was not cold, but quiet; a man of few words. In fact, he would not have been more sparing of them had there been a word tax of one cent each to be paid on utterance. He improved on the scriptural injunction, let your communications be yea, yea, and nay, nay, by yes and no, with a pre- ponderance of the latter. This undemonstrative, apparently emotionless man, fell in love. One would have supposed that Jonas Bond was immune, and no matter how virulent the epidemic, would have escaped. When his engagement was announced, no one to whom the conundrum was proposed could guess to whom, and when told that it was little Almira Jane Watkins and that she had the disease even worse than 68 RICHARD BAXTER Jonas, it could hardly be believed. The idea that this great coarse-fibred man should love such a doll of a girl, the little kitten, as she was known by her mates, or on the other hand, that the diminutive, aesthetic piece of femininity should love one of such contrast as Jonas Bond, was beyond comprehension, and furnished talk until the wedding, not long de- ferred after the fact of the engagement had become the property of the neighboring gossips. She was so small and he so large that he could carry her about on his shoulder, take her in his lap and cuddle her in his bosom as he would any child. The gossips of the neighborhood expected him to tire of his plaything, but he did not. Soon the frail flower faded, withered and died. The baby boy she left did not compensate for her loss. This great strong man bowed under his anguish and could not be reconciled. It seemed to him that no one had ever before lost, suffered as he suffered; but, day by day, the necessities of daily duties pressed for recognition, and his friends at last had hopes that he would again become a rational being. What troubled him most was to get a proper person to take care of the baby boy. He would not part with it. To him it was a portion of its lost mother. At night it was his care, but in the daytime it was left to the tender mercies of the ignorant Canadian woman who did the farm housework. One night the child had been more than usually fretful, and its father had walked the floor all night, in a vain effort to quiet it. At daybreak he laid the child on the bed, and in a fit THE KNITTER 59 of desperation said, "You shall have a mother before another night." He hitched up his old horse and drove to Neighbor Brown's, and asked Mrs. Brown if she knew of a good motherly woman to take care of the baby. "Now," said she, "Jonas, it's a pow'rful short time sence Almiry Jane died, an' some folks might think it scand'lous fer you to git marri'd so soon. Thar's a-plenty of good wimmin thet 'ud marry ye, pertick- erly bein' as you've got sich a good farm, but you can't hire none of 'em to go an' take care of thet poor baby, 'cause thet might make more scandal." Mrs. Brown had known Jonas ever since he was a baby, and felt authorized to talk motherly to him. She was busy washing her dishes, but stopped to count off on her fingers nine or ten proper women for Jonas to marry, and probably would have added more had she had more fingers. But Jonas said : "Thet's 'nuff. I'll go an' marry one of them wim- min afore night, if she'll hev me." Some of them were widows, to whom Jonas did not take very kindly, and he said to Mrs. Brown : "I'd ruther not hev second-hand goods, but I s'pose I'll hev to take my chance the same's in buyin' a cow. But I alius feel safe as long's the breed's good." "You'd better go an' look at them wimmin jes' as they come on the road, an' not omit any on 'em 'cause yer sot ag'in widders." After finishing her breakfast dishes she wiped her hands on her apron and sat down to discuss in detail the merits of the list of eligibles she had mentioned. 60 RICHARD BAXTER "Wall, thar, Jonas, in the beginnin' an' fust on the road is Widder Munson. She's a right smart woman ; some folks says she's a leetle too smart to be comfort- 'ble to live with. Her husband was a minister of the gospel, an' orter ben sanctified 'nufF to live with mos' any woman; but my ole man says, an' he's a putty good jedge of human nater, thet he don't know whar Mis' Munson's husband went to when he died, but wharever 'twas, he don't b'lieve thet he's ever ben scary. She's a putty high stepper, an', Jonas, I don't b'lieve thet ye want 'er, but ye kin go an' see fer yerself. She's good-lookin' an' w'ars good close. Then, thar's my niece, er ruther, my ole man's niece, Mary Brown; mighty nice gal, but 'tain't no use to bother 'bout her, 'cause she's good's engaged to thet young Gates thet keeps store in Mendon." Mr. Brown, coming out of the bam where he had been doing his chores, noticed a rig standing in the road at the front of the house. He came in to see who the visitor was, and finding Jonas Bond, shook hands and sat down to have a neighborly talk. "Spring's pow'rful late. Got yer oats in yit? My groun's too wet, an' I'm all behind with my work." "Wall," broke in Mrs. Brown, "if yer all behind with yer work, ye'd better go an' 'tend to it, fer we's a-talkin' over Jonas' private afi'airs an' we don't want yer help." The old man rheumatically raised himself from his chair and meekly said: "Yes, mother, I kin take a hint, ye needn't speak no plainer," and went out, Mrs. Brown went on : THE KNITTER 61 "Thar's nothin' in the world thet I'd like better, Jonas, ef I wam't so ole, than to take thet leetle crit- ter of yourn to raise. I want a baby dreffully, fer my gran'childem air so fur off they aim't no use to me. Kinder queer, ain't it, but none of my childem was half so precious as my gran'childem. Lemme see; we was a-talkin' 'bout my niece. Good gal, but she's out of the calkerlation, an', come to think 'bout it, I dunno's you'd want 'er anyhow. Wall, next on thet road's Mehitable Calkins. She's a proper good gal. She's got a class in Sunday-school, an' Parson Whitin' says she's one of the elect. Thar's never ben nothin' said agin her character, but then, I dun- no's you'd want 'er. I wouldn't ef I was a man. She's nigh onto forty year ole, all skin an' bones, nothin' but a skel'ton. No, sir; I'd as soon lay in a chist of j'iner's tools as to git into bed with her. Guess ye don't want 'er, do ye, Jonas ? A man nater- 'lly wants suthin' 'sides character an' bones fer a wife, don't he? Now, lemme see — ^thar, thet pot's a-b'ilin' over. I mus' 'tend to thet er I'll hev the kitchen floor to mop, an' it's only yistiddy thet I cleaned all up." Returning, Mrs. Brown said: "Lemme see! Who was we a-talkin' 'bout.'' Oh, we was talkin' 'bout Mehitable. I alius call 'er Miss Scraggles. Don't s'pose she's to blame fer bein' thin. Yer good bait, Jonas, with yer nice farm, an' yer putty well fixed, too. Yer orter ketch a good fish, but yer kinder hampered, bein' in sich a hurry. Wimmin, ye know, Jonas, is queer critters. They's suthin' like fish. When I was a gal I used to go fishin' with my 62 RICHARD BAXTER brother Bill. I'd hold a nice bait right afore a fish's nose an' it wouldn't even open its mouth, but turn an' swim away jest as if he didn't see it. But ye draw it away towards another fish, then he'd grab quick. Yes, fish's queer critters, an' so's wimmin. Lemme see ! Thar's Lucy Todd. I hain't nuthin' ag'in her, only she giggles. My, I dunno but she'd giggle at her own fun'ral. I seen her do it at the time they buried her mother. Then, thar's thet ole maid. Mis' Skinner. She's alius cross. She hain't got no milk of human kindness in her buzzum. She wouldn't be good fer nuthin' to nuss a baby. Wall, thar's Julia Johnson, but she's red-headed. Hev ye got any prej- udice ag'in red-headed folks.? I hain't. I've knowed jest as good red-headed wimmin as any other kine. My, I 'member Parson Whitin's third. She was red- headed. She was jest as good a woman as ever lived, an' when she died, thar was more real mourners at her fun'ral than ever I seen in the meetin-house afore. Thar's 'nuther one I'se 'memberin'. Thet's Nancy Pringle. She's ole an' humbly, but she mus' be good er she'd a killed thet ole she-devil of a step-mother of hern afore this. If thar's any virtue in trial an' trib- ulation, she's a saint. Them's all the gals an' wim- min thet I now think on wuth mentionin' ; an' mind ye, I don't recommend any on 'em. They say marriage is a lottery, but ef ye git any of these wimmin 'twon't be long afore ye knows whether ye got a prize er suthin' ye don't want." Jonas thanked Mrs. Brown and said he'd "go an' try 'em," bade her good-morning and mounted his THE KNITTER 63 wagon, feeling that he had not received the help that he came for. As he drove out of the yard Mrs. Brown rushed from the house and fairly shouted: "Say, Jonas, whatever ye do, keep away from them air Blossom gals. They's pizener than the smallpox CHAPTER XIII Courting. IT is of no use following Jonas all that long day. After getting Mrs. Brown's eligible list of wid- ows, old maids, and young girls, he started on his tour of inspection. People on whom he called thought him to be demented. It certainly was a crazy way to get a wife. At every place he bluntly told his story. Some of the widows laughed at him, others invited him to call again; but that would not answer, as he was deter- mined that his boy should have a mother that night, and could have quoted from the pirate's song, "This night or never my bride you shall be." As to the old maids, they would have none of him, and considered themselves insulted ; while the young girls simply tee- heed and ran into the house. It was nearly dark when he reached the last name on the list, that of Nancy Pringle. Before he came in sight of the house, which was around the comer, he saw evidences of Jonathan Pringle's peculiarity. It is said that every man has a hobby, which in Jonathan's case was the auction mania. Mrs. Pringle could control her husband in everything but this. He never heard of an auction within twenty miles that he did not attend, and always came home with a lot of useless truck. Carts, wagons, 64 COURTING 65 sleds, plows, harrows, fanning mills, anything and everything that could be bought cheaply, were brought home and distributed beside the road. It was all "for sale," but nothing was ever sold. Old wagons had stood beside the road for twenty years, until they had fallen to pieces. Jonas pulled up his horse, looked to the right and to the left, and said to himself, "If Nancy is as shift- less as the ole man, I don't want 'er. But then — ^the boy must hev a mother," and he drove on. Having been rebuffed so many times, he was about discouraged, and felt very much inclined to think that the last criticism that he had received, from the tongue of an attractive widow, "You're a born fool. Do you suppose any decent woman is going to marry a man without even time to wash her face?" might be true. He would try this last on his list. Jonathan Pringle was a very worthy man, and his seven girls were respectable, not attractive. As he could not dower them, they were getting a little shop- worn. The eldest, Nancy, thirty-eight years old, was a child of his first wife, and she and the step-mother had never agreed. Mrs. Pringle, the second, had tried every means that she could think of to get rid of Nancy, except poison, and Nancy was quite convinced that that method had more than once been thought of. It was nearly dark when Jonas Bond drove into the yard. He had known Mr. Pringle for a long time. Without ado he began : "Good-evenin', Mr. Pringle." "Good-day, Neighbor Bond." 66 RICHARD BAXTER "I s'pose ye know, Mr. Pringle, thet, I lost my wife 'bout three months ago, an' she left me a little baby." "Jest so." "I can't hire a suitable woman to come an' keer for the baby, 'cause I'm a widderer." "Eggsactly. Jest so." "An' I've made up my mind thet the child shall hev a mother." "Jest so ! Jest so !" "I want a wife." "Jest so !" "Mis' Brown, she thet lives over on the Creek road, spoke well of your daughter Nancy, an' I thought I'd come an' see 'er." "Jest so! I sartinly can't object to you an' Nancy a-keepin' comp'ny ef ye both wants to. She's of age, I s'pose ye know," and he laughed a queer little laugh. "Yes, I know 't Nancy ain't young. We used to go to the ole brick schoolhouse together a good many years ago." "Jest so !" "But I ain't got no time to waste a-keepin' comp'ny with any woman. Thet ain't what I'm arter. I want a wife right off now, to-night. I want to take *er hum with me, in this 'ere wagon, now!" "Wall, I never! Jest so!" The old man was struck aghast by the strange proposition. It was only the novelty of the proceed- ing that made him hesitate. "Ye'd better go in, Mr. Bond, an' hev a talk with COURTING 67 Nancy, an' I'll talk the matter over with Mis' Pringle." Jonas went into the house and was shown into the best room. As Nancy entered, he said : "Ye remember me, don't ye?" "Oh, yes, how could I fergit ye?" "Wall, I'm glad ye remember me. Ye hearn, didn't ye, thet my little wife died 'bout three months ago, an' left me a little baby? Wall, I'm a-lookin' fer some good woman to take care of thet little baby." Nancy made no reply, but stood with eyes down- cast, blushing with embarrassment, which greatly in- creased as Jonas continued: "I've come, Nancy, to ax ye to be my wife." No reply. Before she was embarrassed, now thun- derstruck, and countless emotions almost stagnated her thoughts. She had dreamed for many years and hoped for the lover who would come and rescue her from her miserable existence. Here was the long- looked-for deliverance, in this middle-aged man, who was older than his years. "Won't ye ans'er me?" "Please not now. Give me time to think on it. It's all so sudden like. I'll talk with my father to- morrow." "To-morrow won't do. I mus' hev a wife to-night." "To-night? Oh, no, I couldn't think on it." During this conversation in the best room, Mr. Pringle was in the kitchen telling his wife of Bond's queer proposition. 68 RICHARD BAXTER "Wants to marry to-night? Wall, these widderers is alius in a ter'ble hurry. I 'member one, but he wa'n't quite so fast 's this man. Wonder what she'll say to him.'' Guess she'll refuse 'im. Ole maids is orful pertickeler." Jonathan saw his chance to hit back, and said: "Ya-as, jest so! I recoUec' an experience thet I hed with an ole maid once." Mrs. Pringle didn't feel called upon to notice this side-thrust, being too anxious as to what Nancy would do. She soliloquized: "She never hed sich a oppor- tunity, an' she'll never git another. She shall marry him. I was fool 'nough to let slip a good chance to git rid on her five year ago." Then, turning to her husband : "Jonathan, you go and talk to Mr. Bond, an' don't ye let him git away; an' send Nancy to me." Nancy came and was scarcely in the room when her step-mother asked: "What did ye tell 'im.?" "I tole 'im I'd talk with father to-morrow." "What good '11 thet do to talk with yer father to- morrow? He wants to marry ye to-night." "Oh, I can't do thet. It's too sudden." "Hain't ye ben a-waitin' twenty year fer a chance? Shouldn't think twenty year very sudden. Wall, ye know what I tole ye five year ago, thet if ye ever let slip 'nother chance I'd bounce ye out of the house, an' I'll do it, too, an' yer ole fool of a father can't help it, either." A good deal more of this sort of language followed, COURTING 69 as Mrs. Pringle was a free speaker. Nancj knew that her step-mother ruled that house with an iron hand, which was never gloved, and that all that her father dared was to say, "Yes, mother, jest so !" Nancy had no aversion to Jonas Bond, and no doubt had she been approached in the usual manner of courtship, would, after a proper time for consid- eration, gladly have said yes. There is something about the usual courtship and a formal wedding that appeals to every woman's senti- mental nature. The wedding gown, the cake, the ring, and all the associated paraphernalia are the de- sire of every daughter of Eve. Nancy well knew that her step-mother would keep her word and turn her out of doors. She said she would go upstairs and think a little while. She went to her room, knelt down and prayed for help. "Oh, my God, what ort I to do .'"' It was a serious struggle. She reasoned that there was nothing to prevent her marrying Jonas Bond, except that she did not love him. He did not love her. He only wanted someone to take care of his baby, her child, the child of the lit- tle woman he loved so weU. If she loved it, and she knew that she would, perhaps she would soon love him, and he might love her. At last the matter was arranged and she and her few belongings were put in the wagon. They were to drive four miles to Parson Whittaker's, and from there four miles home. "Good-bye," she said, as they drove out of the yard, feeling that she was taking a leap in the dark. 70 RICHARD BAXTER "Hold on, hold on, Jonas," cried Jonathan Pringle. "What'U ye do ef the parson ain't to hum?" "I'll fetch 'er back all right," responded Jonas, as he cracked his whip over the old mare's back. Perhaps it is better to let Aunt Nancy tell the rest of the story. "It tuk more'n half an hour to git to Parson Whit- taker's, it bein' nigh onto four mile, an' Jonas never spoke a word, 'cept 'g'lang' to the ole hoss. Parson Whittaker was to hum, an' when Jonas tole 'im thet we'd come to git marri'd, he said he hoped we hedn't run away, an' thet when sich young folks come to git marri'd they orter bring a written consent from their parents; but he'd let thet go this time as he knowed us both. Jonas didn't like 'is jokin', as he wa'n't no joker. We went into the house an' the parson marri'd us. Jonas gin 'im a dollar, an' then turnin' to me said, 'Git into the wagon. You're my wife, Nancy, an' we'll go hum.' 'Twas nigh onto nine o'clock thet night when Jonas an' me got hum, an' I was Mis' Jonas Bond, an' them twenty cows hedn't ben milked. Jonas said to me, 'Nancy, I'll put out the hoss, an' you go in the house. In the butt'ry off the kitchen you'll find the milk pails, an' we'll milk them cows in a jiffy.' Ye see, we'd hed our supper to my ole hum afore we started. Wall, I fergot to tell ye thet Jonas hed tuk the baby over to Mis' Wil- liamses, an' she said she'd take care on it till Jonas got back, as he tole 'er 'twouldn't be twenty-four hour afore thet baby 'ud hev a mother, an' 'twan't, an' a good one, if it's me as does say it. Wall, 'tain't nee- COURTING 71 essary f er me to tell ye how we got along thet night, with settin' the milk an' kinder straightenin' things out. In the mornin' arter breaffas', Jonas hitched up the ole hoss an' we druv over to Mis' Williamses. We went into the house, an' Jonas said, 'Good-mornin', Mis' Williams. Lemme inter juce ye to Mis' Jonas Bond. We've come arter our baby.' Mis' Williams was one of them wimmin thet carries suthin' on the end of 'er tongue to throw out, w'ether it's jest the proper thing er not, an' she said, 'What, thet ole maid. Mis' Bond.'" " Aunt Nancy dropped a stitch at the recollection of this sarcasm, and continued: "Wall, thet's nigh onto forty year ago, an' I hain't forgin 'er, though she's ben dead more'n thirty year, an' I never will. 'Tis true thet I'd never ben marri'd afore, an' was in my thirty-eighth year, but she needn't a ben so mean's to throw it in my face. Wall, we tuk the baby an' went hum, an' Nathaniel never knew thet I wan't his mother, an' I never knew thet he wan't my child, f er he alius seemed so to me, seein' as how I never hed no baby of my real own. Nathan- iel, poor little critter, was alius weak an' sickly. Ye see, he tuk arter 'is mother, Almiry Jane. The Wat- kinses w'an't none on 'em strong. The hull fam'ly's dead an' gone. It almos' broke my heart to let 'im go, an' I prayed God to lemme keep 'im, but I s'pose Almiry Jane was a-prayin' the Lord to let her hev 'im, an' bein' nearer the throne she hed the mos' in- fluence an' got 'im. He w'an't only four year ole, poor little critter. How I'd a liked to kep' 'im! Jonas wa'n't so broke up as I 'spected. He didn't 72 RICHARD BAXTER know nothin' 'bout a mother's love. But I mus' hurry on. The neighbors hed a good 'eal to say 'bout Jonas Bond's ole maid, but them gossips is dead long ago, an' though Jonas an' me hed our little tiffs, same's I s'pose all marri'd folks does, he often said he wa'n't sorry he marri'd thet ole maid." When Jonas buried his Almira Jane he buried his heart with her. Up to the time of the grand episode of his life, he was in truth a hard-shell bachelor ; not unkind, simply expressionless. It is often said that when one does not have the measles in childhood, and has them in maturity, it goes harder with him. So it is with love. When a man passes the mating period in life without having ex- perienced the divine passion, if, later, Cupid succeeds in penetrating his armor, it is a more serious matter than with a youth. Thus it was in this case. He loved Almira Jane with all the life there was in him; and that was no mean quantity, for his was a strong nature. Nancy was a natural woman. She had always wanted somebody to love, and soon grew to love Jonas Bond. He was kind to her, always treated her with much consideration ; but she was unable to kindle that dormant spark of love that shone so brightly during his life with Almira Jane. She lavished on the boy while he lived all the love that could have been possible had he been her own. Years went on and they became old. She hoped COURTING 73 and strove, all in vain. He never once had said that he loved her. She continued to knit. In almost every room in the house where she had frequent occasion to go, might be found a stocking, with the needles in, on which more or less had been knit, lying where it could be caught up in passing. She squared the heels and rounded the toes of many a dozen socks. One might go into a room after dark, where she was sitting with- out a light, and know that Aunt Nancy was there by the click, click, click of her knitting needles. But the time came when she had to lay down her knitting, for her husband was sick, sick unto death, and needed all her care, which was tenderly bestowed. She anxiously watched with the hope that at last he would utter the words of love so long hungered for. Every time that he spoke her poor starved soul leaped with expectation, only to be again disappointed. Finally the supreme moment seemed near at hand. He called: "Nancy, Nancy." She sprang to the side of the bed. "Nancy." Again the dying man murmured in softer tones, "Nancy." "Yes, yes, I am here, dear Jonas," and she bent her head close to his lips, expecting the benediction so many years waited for. "Nancy." "Yes, dear Jonas." "Nancy, when corn gits to a dollar, you sell." His head fell back on the pillow, and he was dead. [74 RICHARD BAXTER Nancy fell upon her knees beside the bed and wept bitterly. Her sobs and tears were not so much be- cause of his death, as from her disappointment at not receiving an acknowledgment of that which every woman's heart so ardently craves. "Wall," she said to herself, "Almiry Jane hes waited a long time fer 'im, an' I s'pose thet thej^'re happy now." Jonas Bond did love his wife. He could not have lived with her all those years without loving her, for she was a lovable woman. True, she lacked the re- finement of a lady, and knew nothing of the fine arts, but in her coarse setting was a tender heart, a true woman's nature, ever mindful of her husband's least wish, expressed or discerned. He loved her and ap- preciated her, but he could not have told her so to save his life or hers. You do not know why; neither do I. There are things that cannot be either under- stood or explained. Jonas Bond married because he needed someone to take care of Almira Jane's baby, but it was a long time after that hurried marriage ceremony at Parson Whittaker's before Nancy became his wife. He lived on a memory, nursed it, and tended it with all the care that one would bestow on a delicate plant. He strove to be loyal to it, and when his heart, in spite of himself, began to warm toward Nancy, he felt that he was verging near to unfaithfulness to Almira Jane, and thought to compromise by never opening his heart to his wife. How much happier both would have been had he avowed his love for her, one can only imagine. COURTING 75 At least such a course would have demonstrated whether one could love a memory and a reality and be equally true to each. The assumption that love is a flower that only blooms in the spring, is a great mistake. Does not everyone know that the pale tints of the spring are not to be compared with the rich, ruddy glow of the autumn flowers? "Oh, how shocking! Isn't it ter- rible!" is the common expression, when death steps in to separate a young couple who have just started on wedded life. They are like two young trees that have been set side by side. One can be pulled up, scarcely disturbing the ground about the other, and in a short time the grass grows over the spot, and the turf is again sohd. So it is with the young widowed. Were it not for the dainty little weed or the narrow mourning-band of the groom, which soon disappears, no one would ever have known of the mating. But let those trees stand side by side for ten, twenty, thirty, forty, or as is often the case, fifty years, all the time throwing out those little fibres and rootlets, ever inter- twining, so you could not with Roentgen rays tell to which trunk the roots belonged. Now, when death pulls up one of these trees, it is truly "shocking, terrible." "What God has joined together let no man put asunder." There was nothing out of the common about Jonas Bond's funeral, except that those present who did not know Nancy Bond and her peculiarities, were aston- ished when into the "best room," where lay the remains 76 RICHARD BAXTER of her late husband, came the widow, knitting-work in hand, and remarking more to herself than to anyone, "I mought as well knit a few bouts while the mourners is gatherin'." CHAPTER XIV An Angey Father AFTER the murderous scene in the woods, when Solomon Gibson attempted the life of Sam Drisco, the old man went home at once, and was soon followed by Mrs. Gibson and Sally. As mother and daughter entered the house they were met by as angry a man as ever escaped apoplexy. His rage knew no bounds. Woman though Sally was, had it not been for the interference of her mother, her father would have struck her down. "Stop, Solomon Gibson, stop!" she cried. "You shall not strike my child." He lowered his threatening arm and began a tirade of abuse that continued until both vocabulary and strength were exhausted. "Mind you," he said, "you huzzy, you shall never marry that miserable Sam Drisco, an' you shall marry John Mannin'." Sally, who had been standing gazing at him more in astonishment than fear, said quietly: "Father, I know that it is my duty to obey you, but though I may never marry Sam Drisco, I shall not marry John Manning." "Git out of my sight, ye huzzy! Ye shall marry John Mannin', ef I hev to take ye to the meetin'-house bound hand an' foot." This was the last time that 77 ,78 RICHARD BAXTER her father ever spoke to her directly on the subject; but he did not intend to be thwarted in his plans. The would-be husband came from time to time, but Sally never met him, except in the presence of someone else. For this Manning did not much care, not being an ardent lover. In fact, he was no lover at all. The holy flame had never been kindled in his breast. The arrangements for the marriage were all made and the day set. It was the custom in that commu- nity for marriages to take place in the meeting-house, and they were public. By intermarriages, most of the neighbors were cousins in some degree, and where not related, intimate friends, so that a wedding or funeral in the neighborhood was always considered a family affair, which all attended, without special in- vitation. The festivities were often omitted or de- layed to a convenient season. This arrangement was satisfactory to Mr. Gibson, as he feared that at the last moment Sally might re- fuse to submit, but hoped that her deep religious feel- ings would restrain her from making a scene in the meeting-house. As for John Manning, he did not desire any festivities, as he had no intimate friends whom he wished to participate. Sally was informed by her mother that her father had fixed the day, and she simply said, "I will be ready." She requested that her dress should be plain white muslin, which was made and trimmed in accord- ance with her wishes ; though in its plainness it was more like a shroud than a wedding gown. AN ANGRY FATHER 79 It was a bright Sunday morning, just such a day as two happy hearts would wish for their wedding. Sally felt that the bright sun was mocking her, as she went sadly to her room to dress. Mr. Gibson went out to hitch up his team, and then came back to get himself ready, by donning his Sun- day clothes. The meeting-house was two miles dis- tant. At ten o'clock he began to be uneasy, fearing that they would be late, and waited impatiently for SaUy to come down. Out of patience, he went to the staircase and called angrily, but there was no re- sponse. Again and again he called, and then went hastily up to her room to exert his parental authority for the last time. The door stood wide open, but Sally was not there. Returning, he told his wife, and they both searched the house ; but Sally could not be found. Failing to find her in the house, Mr. Gibson looked through the barn and all the farm buildings, with no better suc- cess. Then, it was the most natural thing in the world for him to think that SaUy had gone with Sam Drisco. He went out into the road to look for wagon tracks, but there were none in either direction. It had rained in the night and the road was a little muddy. He thought of the woods, but not a footprint was to be seen. There seemed nowhere else, as no one thought of the river, whose placid surface looked too- innocent to conceal anything. The Gibson farmhouse stood but a short distance from the river, which ran behind it. On the bank was a large oak tree, and as the current had changed it 80 RICHARD BAXTER had washed the earth away from the roots, so that many of them, in the springtime, were covered by the water. Later in the day someone walking on the river-bank saw the skirts of a white dress floating on the water, and gave an alarm. Sally Gibson lay in the deep pool beneath the oak. With her right hand she held herself under water, by grasping the root of the tree at the bottom of the river. In her left was a little dried bunch of flowers. Sally's body was not taken from the water until nearly dark. No one could be persuaded to unclasp that hand from the root, at the bottom of the river. There was something so uncanny about her deter- mined effort to die that many felt that to release the hand that clasped death so tightly would be an inter- ference with fate, with God's will, perhaps. People in those days were very superstitious. A pit-saw was brought and the root severed. There were then no telegraphs, telephones, or wireless mes- sages, but in some surprising way the neighborhood, far and wide, had heard of the sad catastrophe and hundreds had gathered under the old oak tree. The body was taken from the water, carried to the house and laid upon a couch in the living-room. Old man Gibson sat in a corner, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. The mother paced up and down the room with rapid strides, stopping every now and then to bend over the body of her child. She shed no tears, but moaned; and such a sound could only come from the depths of a human heart where unspeakable agony reigned. She went over to the AN ANGRY FATHER 81 comer where the old man sat, and stopping before him, said: "Solomon Gibson, look at your work. I hope that you are satisfied now." He raised his head. "Oh, don't, mother, don't speak so to me." She looked at SaUy and then, turning quickly to him, said: "No, Solomon, I will not speak so to you, and never again will I speak to you, so long as God lets me live." And she never did. The funeral was to take place the following Tues- day, the regulation limit of time from death, estab- lished by many years' custom. Most of the farmers of that day buried their dead on the homestead. Years before, Solomon Gibson had selected a plot of ground on the summit, about an eighth of a mile west of the house, for a family burying-ground, and had enclosed it with a substantial stone wall. A gate opened into the highway. To this virgin soil the dead virgin was to be committed. On Monday morning the village cabinetmaker was ordered to make the coffin. Meanwhile the body of Sally lay on a stretcher in the parlor, tenderly placed there by kind neighbors. The fingers of her left hand still held the dried bunch of flowers. Her mother would not permit their removal. Her right hand clasped the short piece of the root of the tree, for so rigid were the fingers that they could not be detached without violence. At evening the watchers came and sat in an adjoining room, it being the custom that the 82 RICHARD BAXTER dead should not be left alone during the night. The sad vigil was kept by two of her dear friends. It is but just to Mr. Gibson to say that he was broken-hearted by the loss of his daughter, though the varied elements of humanity that raged in his bosom were beyond analysis. He looked upon Sam Drisco as the murderer of his child, and could not have been more certain of it had he seen him commit the deed. It was done, and, as he felt, by Drisco. It mattered not how. On Monday, Sam Drisco came to the house. Old man Gibson met him at the door. They did not ex- change compliments. Sam said at once, his utter- ance being so far beyond his control that his articu- lation Avas scarcely intelligible: "Mr. Gibson, may I see — ^her — ^her — ^body.'"' "No !" thundered Mr. Gibson, "an' if I ever ketch ye on my premises ag'in, ye murderer, I'll shoot ye," shutting the door abruptly. Sam went sadly away and walked slowly down the road, turned into the path to the woods, and sat on the log where he and Sally had had their last parting. On Tuesday morning, when the watchers went into the parlor to replace the cloths on the face of the dead girl, they noticed that instead of the dried wild-flowers she clasped in her hand a bunch of fresh violets; whence or how they came, no one knew. Later, when Mrs. Gibson came to take the last look at her dear child, she missed a little curl of Sally's hair. She said nothing, and even felt a satisfaction that Sally's lover should have this token. AN ANGRY FATHER 83 The hour of the funeral came, and with it the peo- ple from far and near. There was no such thing as private grief. Everybody attended a funeral, from many different motives. Some came to express their sad sympathy, others to pay their respects to the dead and to the living, others for the gratification of a mor- bid curiosity. On this occasion all came, except the two supposed to be most interested, John Manning and Sam Drisco; though it was said that someone saw Sam watching the procession, from behind a tree in the woods, as it passed from the house to the little graveyard on the hill. We here leave Sally Gibson, and she passes out of our story ; but she never passed from the memory or lost the love of Sam Drisco, as evidenced by the fact that for more than forty years, to the end of his life, there was always to be found on her grave each springtime large bunches of traihng' arbutus. CHAPTER XV The Auction JOHN MANNING was a man who had not the least respect in the world for Mrs. Grundy. He did pretty much as he liked, keeping always well within the law, and never taking into consideration whether the gossips of the neighborhood might or might not approve. As has been said, he did not attend the funeral of Sally Gibson. He was disappointed and chagrined at the outcome of his matrimonial venture. To him there was no more in the loss of Sally Gibson than there might have been in the failure of making a prospective purchase of oxen or horses. Probably there was not a person in the neighborhood who was so httle touched by her death as he. His dominant feelings that morning were anger, bitter resentment and a desire for revenge on Sam Drisco. "I'll get even," he muttered to himself, "with that meddling fool. I'll teach him a lesson in mind- ing his own business that he'll remember quite as long as he will Sally Gibson." He went to his bedroom, and after carefully bar- ring the door, pulled the bed away from the side of the room, turned back the old rag carpet, and lifted a small trap-door in the floor. Beneath the floor the old deacon, his father, had walled up with stone a 84 THE AUCTION 85 space about two feet square and a foot in depth, which he used for a hiding-place for his valuables and money, when he had occasion to keep any in the house. This was covered with heavy oak plank. He took from this safe an old tin trunk which was fastened with a padlock. Taking a key from his watch-chain, he unlocked the box and took out a package of papers. Holding them in his left hand and pulling the ends over so as to uncover the inscriptions, he soon found what he wanted. "Ah," he said, "here it is. 'Eben Drisco and wife to Daniel Manning.' We'll see, Sam Drisco, whether you'll mind your own business." He put this paper in his breast-pocket, and then replac- ing everything, sat down at the table near the window to look over the mortgage, which was security for a note of two thousand dollars given by Eben Drisco to Daniel Manning. The inspection of the mortgage and of the accompanying note was satisfactory. "It's all right," he said. "I'll have him off that farm in just forty days." He then went to the door, called his hired man, and told him to hitch his horse to the buggy. After changing his clothes, he drove out of the yard, and turned to the left, which was not toward Farmer Gibson's, where lay the dead bride awaiting the last rites. "Wall, I swow," said the hired man to himself, "ef thet John Mannin' ain't the curiosest critter thet ever I seed. He ain't a-goin' to his gal's funeral." No, with that mortgage in his pocket and ven- geance in his heart, he was hurrying away to the 86 RICHARD BAXTER county town to place it in the hands of his lawyer, to be foreclosed "just as quick as you can do it." The interest was two years past due. Sam Drisco had. had hard luck. His old mother, of whom he never thought without a "God bless her" rising to his lips, had been for years a chronic invalid, and it had often been said by the neighbors that Dr. Sharp was swapping his pills for the Drisco farm. Mrs. Drisco's sickness had been a grievous burden, not only on account of the loss of her services in the house, but because of the doctor's bills, and the time that it took Sam from his work. It seemed that everything that he took hold of turned out badly. The year before he had a large field of corn, by the sale of which he had expected to pay the interest on the mortgage which hung over his life like a black cloud that for years had not let a ray of sunlight through. To add to all these troubles described above, there came up at this time a terrible storm. Torrents of rain fell, and the mountain streams over- flowed their banks. The fierce flood swept away his cornfield, soil and all, and in its place was left the debris of the forest which had stood above it. When the interest became due he could not meet it. John Manning said that he must have security or he would foreclose the overdue mortgage, though the fact was that he had already begun foreclosure pro- ceedings. Sam said to him: "I have nothing but the stock, the farm tools, and the furniture in the house," THE AUCTION 87 "Well," replied John, "I'll take a chattel mortgage on them." This Sam cheerfully gave, having no desire to evade his honest debts. He did not notice the short time the mortgage had to run. If he had, it would have made no difference, for there was no alternative. Notwithstanding the giving of the security for the interest, Manning foreclosed the mortgage on the farm. At the expiration of the time allowed by law, the farm was sold at auction by the sheriff, and of course was bought in by John Manning, for the mort- gage and the back interest left no equity for anyone to purchase. Notice had been served on Sam Drisco "to quit, sur- render and peacefully deliver up the property herein described." The chattel mortgage was foreclosed, the property advertised, and the day set for a public vendue, to take place at the Drisco farm. This chattel mortgage had been merciless in its drawing, for it not only enumerated the horse, five cows, the yoke of oxen, pigs and hens, the carts, the plows, the harnesses, the wagons, the sleds, and all the household furniture, even to the beds and bedding, but ended with the sweeping clause, "also included herein every movable article of personal propertyanow within said cottage, occupied by the said Sam Drisco." As if Sam's cup was not quite full, the old horse kicked him the morning of the auction, breaking one of his legs, and at nine o'clock, the advertised time of the sale. Dr. Sharp was setting the broken leg. 88 RICHARD BAXTER All of the men and boys of the neighborhood were there. John Manning looked over the assembled crowd with great satisfaction, thinking that he would certainly realize enough from the sale to pay up the interest. But few of the people who came that morn- ing came to buy. Most of them were there from cu- riosity, to see "how Sam took it." Any of them would have liked a bargain, but John Manning was so much disliked in the neighborhood, and his course toward the Driscos had been so cruel, caused as all knew by the Sally Gibson incident, that there was an almost unanimous feeling of protest, which they would register by refraining from bidding. Before the time arrived for beginning the sale, a young farmer, who had a reputation for striking out from the shoulder, defending on all occasions what he considered the right, and always helping the under dog, passed quietly through the crowd, saying in a low tone, "I don't think there's any man here who wants to bid on this property." To be sure this only appeared to be, as Joe explained it, "my humble opin- ion," but the hint was too significant not to be under- stood. The auctioneer stood up in a wagon in the centre of the yard, and read the advertisement of the sale; then said: "Now, gentlemen, let us begin our day's work. There are a good many articles here to be sold, and everything must go. If you will only bid lively, I'll knock the bargains down as fast as they can be trotted out. Also, gentlemen, I take pleasure in announcing THE AUCTION 89 that John Manning, Esq., the mortgagee of this property, has set up a barrel of cider, a-plenty of crackers and cheese and cold meat, to partake of which you are cordially invited, at the intermission of the sale. Now, gentlemen, the first article that we will offer you, will be this old horse, old enough and ex- perienced enough to be safe for any woman or child to drive ; pulls straight in the furrow and never balks. Now, gentlemen, what am I offered for this horse.'' She's well worth a hundred doUars. Will you bid fifty? Do I hear fifty.'' Does anyone say forty.'' Don't be backward, gentlemen, don't be modest. A wink's as good as a nod. Will you give me thirty.? Who says thirty? Who says twenty-five? Well, gentlemen, if you don't hke my valuation, make your own. How much wiU you bid? How much will you bid?" Again and again he looked over the crowd, so- liciting a bid. One old feUow who had lost his horse the week be- fore, opened his mouth and said "Fi " but before he could finish the word, Joe Lynch pinched his arm, quietly saying, "I guess you don't want that horse, Mr. Spriggins." The auctioneer was from a neighboring town, and having no knowledge of the situation, was greatly as- tonished; but supposing that no one wanted a horse, said: "Well, gentlemen, as there does not seem to be any- one who wishes to bid, we will withdraw the horse and offer her again later. Now, let us try a cow." And he went through the same process, with the same re- 90 RICHARD BAXTER suit. His suspicion was at last aroused, for cows were quite scarce, were, in fact, almost legal tender in that community, and he knew that in this assemblage there must be at least twenty men who would, under ordinary circumstances, have bid on that cow. After a whispered conversation with Manning, he said: "Gentlemen, as you do not seem to want either horses or cows, it is useless to go on further in this line. I would ask you if there is anything among the articles enumerated in the advertisement on which you would like to bid. If there is, we shall put it up." He waited a few moments for a response. None came. "Well, gentlemen, as you do not desire to bid on any of the articles singly, the entire schedule enumer- ated in this chattel mortgage will be sold in one lot. The amount secured by the mortgage is $250, and the expense will probably amount to twenty-five dollars more. Now, gentlemen, what am I bid for the entire property.? It is certainly worth five hundred dollars. How much am I bid, bid, bid, bid? How much am I offered.'' What will you give.'' Name your own price. Will not someone make me an offer.'"' At last, seeing that he could get no bid from the crowd, he turned to Manning, and again said : "How much am I bid.'' Will you make a bid, Mr. Manning.'"' He replied: "I do not want the property, but as the law requires Its sale at auction to the highest bid- der, I wiU bid one hundred dollars." THE AUCTION 91 "Gentlemen, I am bid one hundred dollars," said the sheriff. "One hundred dollars, one hundred dol- lars," as he looked from right to left, scanning each uplifted face before him. "One hundred dollars. This is an outrageous sacrifice. One hundred dollars. Who will raise it.'' Gentlemen, if you will not bid, it is no use to dwell. Gentlemen, is one hundred dollars the best bid that I hear.'' If so, I shall knock it down. One hundred dollars, once ; one hundred dollars, twice ; one hundred dollars for the third and last time ; and sold to John Manning, Esq." The auctioneer then said: "Gentlemen, I beg leave to thank you for your at- tendance here to-day, and regret that we could not have had closer business relations. Mr. Manning re- quests that you all go back to the barn and partake of the hospitable refreshments, which he has so gen- erously provided." As he stepped down from the wagon, he started toward the barn, saying, "This way, gentlemen," but not a man followed. Was it because there appeared to be a heavy shower coming up, or was their action a protest? Many who knew the Driscos had been In the house and condoled with Sam and his mother on the multi- plicity of their misfortunes that had overtaken them. All wondered what Sam and his mother would do, as they were aware that John Manning had in his pocket the dispossess warrant, and that this young man and his aged mother were penniless, homeless, actually shelterless; but not one extended a helping hand. 92 RICHARD BAXTER These people were not really heartless, only thought- less. Each one supposed that of course there was some way, that some provision must have been made by somebody, and more than one of these men was asked by his wife when he. reached home, "What's a-goin' to become of the Driscos?"; for the Driscos were favorites, having been kind and generous neigh- bors, who had always extended a helping hand to the unfortunate. They certainly had a large credit bal- ance to their account, but no draft upon it would be honored without presentation, and it would never be presented by them. "What's a-goin' to become of Sam, with his broken leg, an' his feeble ole mother?" "Dunno," was the reply in each case. "Dunno; s'pose they'll hev to go to the poorhouse." After the crowd had dispersed, John Manning drew from his pocket the dispossess warrant, handed it to the sheriff, and said : "I want you to get those people out." "What do you mean?" asked the sheriff. "You don't propose to turn them into the highway, do you?" "I certainly do. The property is mine, and they must get out, and get out quick, too. I'll not wait a minute." "Why, look at that storm coming, Mr. Manning. Do you mean to say that you are going to put them out into the highway now, without any shelter? Do you know that that man has a broken leg, and the old woman is sick and feeble? Why, you are liable to be indicted for murder." THE AUCTION 9B Manning responded: "I've nothing to do with the storm. I didn't break his leg, nor I didn't make the old woman sick, but they're on my property and they must get off." Our sheriff-auctioneer had the reputation of being easy-going and not over sentimental in his legal trans- actions. He had secured his election by his good- fellowship. He would not hesitate to do anything which the duties of his office demanded, provided al- ways that there was a good bond behind him; but to the utter surprise of John Manning, he stopped in his walk, faced about and, looking him squarely in the eye, said : "Mr. Manning, as a boy, as a constable, and now that I am sheriff, I never did in all my life so mean a thing as you propose, and so help me God, I never will." "Now, Mr. Sheriff, you needn't get up on your high horse, for it isn't any use. I know your duties, and you'll serve this dispossess warrant or I'll see that you are dispossessed of your office." "Office or no office," rephed the sheriff, "I can't for- get that I have an old mother at home, and were she in Mrs. Drisco's place, and a man came to do the cow- ardly thing that you want me to do, I'd shoot him, if I had to hang for it. I've hanged folks, but I never hanged a man so mean as I should feel myself to be if I did this dirty business for you." "Well, Mr. Sheriff, you are putting on a good deal of style for a man who hasn't any more property than 94 RICHARD BAXTER you have. You forget the handsome fee that I prom- ised you, and I am willing to double it." "Fees be d d !" blurted out the sheriiF. "You haven't money enough if you put it all into one big fee to induce me to set those Driscos out into the high- way in this storm that's coming on. You are welcome to all the fees that you owe me. Your dirty money would be worse than the wages of the devil." Just then the storm broke in all the fury of a sum- mer thunder-shower and the downfall of water was of itself a deluge. The sheriff stepped up to the post where his horse was tied, and Manning said: "You had better drive into the barn." "I'd sooner seek the shelter of hell than. any cover that belongs to you," and the sheriff drove out into the storm. John Manning took shelter under the shed, disap- pointed, enraged. He felt that he had been deprived of a pleasure for which he had paid a high price. The people had all gone away, with the exception of Jim Hudson, who went into the house. Jim lived about half a mile down the road from the Driscos. He was a poor man who worked out by the day, had a wife and six children, who had come into the world one by one, year by year, as if they were the calendar by which he kept account of the years of his wedded life. It seemed as if he had been allowed by Providence to earn by his work among the farmers just enough to keep his family fed and ragged; for it would have been a gross misnomer to have termed their habili- ments clothing. He had worked a good deal for Sam THE AUCTION 95 Drisco, and many a time, as he was going from his day's work, Mrs. Drisco had given him a basket of potatoes, a piece of pork, a loaf of bread, a little meat, tea or sugar. As he stood there looking at their mis- ery, it seemed to him that he could see all those gifts which she had so kindly and so opportunely bestowed upon him, laid in line one by one, down the path to the road, and down the road, reaching clear to his house, and he was trying to solve in his mind some way by which he could repay those people who had been so good to him. Just that moment the door from the woodshed opened, and in stepped Manning. Without waiting for any courtesies, he harshly said, "Sam Drisco and Mrs. Drisco," turning from Sam, who lay groaning on the couch, to Mrs. Drisco, who. sat knitting in a high-back, wooden-seat rocker, "I suppose you know that I bought this property to-day, and it is mine. Everything there is under this roof. Every movable thing that's in the house, in the bam, in the yard, or anywhere else on the premises. You are intruders here, and I want you to get out." At this moment Jim Budson said: "Mr. Mannin', if I recoUec' right, the cat wa'n't included in the schedule that the sheriff read afore he begun the sale." To say that Manning was angry at this remark does not begin to describe the state of his mind. He was mad, mad clear through. He stepped up as if he would strike Jim Budson, who did not move, but look- ing him squarely in the eyes, said : 96 RICHARD BAXTER "Guess I wouldn't do thet, Mr. Mannin'. Take a leetle time to think, an' you'll remember thet I've gin you a goldarned lickin' more'n once, when we was boys, an' I'm able, an' putty nigh willin' to undertake it now, an' I think I would ef 'twa'n't f er the fact that a gentleman of your standin' wouldn't be likely to want to be mixed up in an ole-fashioned hard scrabble in the presence of a lady. But ef yer anxious to work off a leetle bit of yer surplus spite I'll try to 'commo- date, ef ye'U step out doors." "You miserable pauper," replied Manning, "you're a curse to the neighborhood. You rob the hen roosts and the pig pens, and steal everything that you can lay your hands on, to keep your brats and that miser- able bitch, their mother, from starving." This was too much. It was more than the manly spirit of Jim Budson could brook. He made one jump, grabbed Manning by the throat with one hand, and with the other gave him a twist which threw him on his back on the floor. This quicker than could be told, and quicker than Manning could use his great strength in defense. Then placing his knee on Man- ning's breast, he angrily said: "Now, you liar, take back every word thet you said, and say that you're sorry thet you insulted my wife, or I'll choke the life out of you." Mrs. Drisco screamed with terror, and cried: "Oh, Jim, for God's sake, don't murder him!" Sam turned on his couch so that he could see all, but did not speak. Jim slightly relaxed his grasp on the throat of THE AUCTION 9T Manning, who made an ineffectual struggle to unload him, and then said faintly: "I didn't mean it." "Did ye ever know er hear of my stealin' any- thing?" "No, I never did," muttered the prostrate man. "What did ye mean by callin' my wife a bitch.''" And he gave the poor man's throat another clutch. "I didn't mean it," again gasped the man on the floor. Jim Budson then arose. "Git up an' git out, an' don't ye ever cross my path ag'in. Ef ye do, ye'U not git off as easy as ye hev this time. I wouldn't like to kill ye, but I might pinch a leetle too hard on yer gullet, an' the cor'ner 'ud decide who done it." John Manning picked up his cap and went out, closing the door with a bang, but returning in a mo- ment, said: "Remember, you Driscos, that everything in this house belongs to me, and don't you touch so much as a potato. If you do, I'll have you arrested for stealing." CHAPTER XVI Love Asseets Itself IT was not long after the coming of Mary Miles to Mendon before she and Richard Baxter became acquainted, and it seemed not only to them, but to an observing public, that they met at every corner of their lives. This was quite natural, as they were about the same age, associates in church and society, co-workers in the Bible class and Sunday-school, and both members of the choir of the Rev. Snodgrass' church. In addition there was a great similarity in their literary tastes, and Mary supposed that they held like views on religious matters. There being so much common ground on which they could meet and agree, it was no wonder that they became very dear friends. There sprang up between them what they thought to be a purely Platonic friendship. Another ever-present bond of sympathy was their poverty. He, a briefless lawyer; she, a poor school- mistress. What an incongruity would love be be- tween two such people! They had too much good sense to think of it; at least they thought they pos- sessed that kind of sense. Meanwhile their intimacy became greater, their meetings more frequent. If they were to attend any function, public or private, they generally went to- LOVE ASSERTS ITSELF 99 gether, and he always accompanied her home. The other young men of Mendon made way for, as they recognized in the situation, the successful lover. Mary taught the village school, and it was a com- mon occurrence for Richard either to come to the school at dismissal time, or to overtake her on her way home. One day as she came into the house, after having stopped a long while at the gate talking with Richard, her mother said to her: "Mary, are you and Richard Baxter engaged?" "Engaged! What do you mean, mother.'"' "Why, engaged to be married, of course. What else could I mean.'"' "Richard Baxter and I engaged to be married!" repeated Mary, her face flushing with a rush of blood, which immediately receded and left it pale. Her left hand involuntarily clutched her heart and she fell in a faint. A lightning flash is quick, but not so quick as the varied emotions that struggled for control between mind and matter in this emergency. Up to the mo- ment when her mother, by an abrupt question, broke the spell, she had in her association with Richard been sailing on Lake Placid, without even a ripple of thought to disturb its surface. Her mother's inquiry had been like the sudden coming of a whirlwind, which tossed her frail bark on the waves. She succumbed, and, as it were, passed down into the dark, deep waters. When she rose to the surface, she was an- other being, and to her new consciousness Richard was 100 RICHARD BAXTER a lover, and she realized an intensity of love for him beyond power of description. Why attempt an impossibility? Those who have experienced the divine passion need no portrayal, and those who have never loved could not understand. The intercourse between Richard and Mary had been as frank and free as between brother and sister living in family intimacy from childhood. Oh, why should love assert itself to destroy their happiness ! CHAPTER XVII Death by the Roadside AS John Manning closed the door of the Drisco cottage on the afternoon of the auction, the old mother said: "Well, I suppose he expects us to go hungry, and I'd sooner starve than eat his food, even should he give it to us." "Mother, you are right," groaned Sam, as an un- endurable pain passed through his broken leg. Jim Budson suddenly left, without saying a word. Sam, in anxious tones, spoke: "Mother, do you know that it is only the poorhouse that will open its doors to us.''" "Yes, my son, it is only the poorhouse that will take us in. God help us to bear the disgrace." "Mother, there is no disgrace. Have I ever done anything to disgrace you? Could I have avoided our misfortunes.'' We are poor enough, God knows, but it is not our fault." Mrs. Drisco rocked herself in silence for a long time ; then speaking as if it were a sudden conclusion : "Sam, I have never told you, but I believe that the mortgage which is on our farm was paid by your father to Daniel Manning." "But, mother, the mortgage. John Manning has 101 103 RICHARD BAXTER the mortgage and the note. I have seen them both many times, when I have been to pay the interest." "I can't help that. I believe that the mortgage was paid, for your father often said to me, when I would worry about our old age, 'Don't fret, mother, we'll soon have this farm free and clear, and as long as I am able to work we'll have plenty to eat, without eating any of the farm. And besides, Sam is getting to be a big boy and will soon be able to help us if we need it, and thank God he is willing. Sam is as good a boy as ever lived, and not a lazy bone in him.' Right after dinner, one day in March, your father hitched up a colt that had been driven only a few times. How well I remember! I'll never forget it. I begged him to take the old mare, as I had a feeling that something would happen, but he only laughed at me and said, 'Pshaw ! mother, you must have had bad dreams last night. I'm strong enough to handle two such colts. Now, don't worry, because I'll bring good news for you when I come back. We'll have a cele- bration.' He didn't say anything about paying off the mortgage, but I knew what he meant, for he had told me the day before that he was going to town to meet Daniel Manning at Squire Baxter's ofBce, I waited supper until after dark. Oh, how it thundered and lightened !" Mrs. Drisco shuddered at the recol- lection. "At last I heard the wagon come into the yard. I hurried to put a candle in the window, went out the door, and saw standing, there the colt, with the for- ward wheels of the wagon. I was all alone. You had DEATH BY THE ROADSIDE 103 gone over to your Uncle Jack's. I pinned an old shawl over my head, put a candle in the lantern, and ran down the road toward Mendon. It's more than half a mile down to Minx's. When I got there Mr. Minx told his hired man to hitch right in and come after us, and we went on down the road. We had gone but a little ways, when we found your father lying almost dead, in the road. His neck was broken. I got right down in the mud where he lay, and cried out, 'Oh, speak to me, dear Eben, speak, oh! speak,' and he said, 'Paid Manning,' and died, without an- other word. Mr. Minx and his hired man lifted him on to the straw in the bottom of the wagon. It thun- dered, lightened and rained. Human nature could stand no more, and I fell. I fainted away. They laid me beside my dear, dead husband and brought us home. When I came to my senses the next day, I was lying on my bed, and heard Mrs. Minx say, 'Laws sake, she's a-comin' to !' The house was full of neigh- bors, who were very kind to me." Mrs. Drisco related all this to her son, just as if she had never told it before, though she had told him many, many times; and it seemed such a consolation for her to recall all the horrid details of his father's death, that he never interrupted her, but heard it all patiently. This reference to the story of the death of Eben Drisco by his widow makes it necessary for us to go back to the time of its occurrence. Deacon Manning attended the funeral and made anxious inquiry of the coroner as to whethei* Drisco 104! RICHARD BAXTER had any papers in his pockets. He seemed much re- lieved when told that there were none. The widow; was for many months out of her mind, and frequently said pleadingly: "Father, don't take the colt. Now, please don't take that colt." On the first day of January following the accident, Deacon Manning called and asked for the interest on the mortgage. This was something that Sam knew nothing about, and his mother was not in a condition to understand. The deacon told Sam that it was all right, showed him the deed and the note and the en- dorsements of interest regularly, the last of which was dated on the first of January before. "Why," said Sam, "I supposed that mortgage was paid." "I alius gin yer father a receipt ev'ry time he paid me money, an' ye'U find 'em prob'ly 'mongst his papers." Sam went to his father's old desk and found the filed receipts, the last of which was, as the deacon had told him, dated the first of the previous January. Sam saw no other way than to pay the interest, which he did as soon as he could raise it ; and the money had been paid every New Year's since, until the last two. Deacon Manning died the year following the death of Eben Drisco, and left a hard-hearted successor in his son John. After Mrs. Drisco had closed her story, with flint and steiel she lighted a candle, drew from the comer the Bible stand, opened the old family Bible and be- DEATH BY THE ROADSmE, 105 gan reading aloud the twenty-third Psalm, "The Lord is my Shepherd." Sam was restlessly tossing on the lounge, evidently suffering much, and he impatiently exclaimed : "Oh, stop, mother, or you will make an infidel of me. My cup does run over, but it is not with God's blessings." CHAPTER XVIII "RiCHAKD, My Richaed!" THE realization by Mary Miles of her love for Richard seemed to have changed her into an- other being. She, whose temperament, daily life, entire existence, had up to this moment been a model of equipoise, was unbalanced. Her physical and mental condition could only be compared to the machinery of the astronomical world that had been suddenly thrown out of gear, with the planets of the firmament rushing pell-mell through space. Her mother, who in early life must have had her love episode, failed to understand the sudden shock, but considerately said nothing. After Mary recovered from her faint, she went to her room, and did not join her mother, as was usual, in evening prayers. She sat in the dark for hours, a victim of uncontrollable, often maddening thoughts. In every group was Richard, ever Richard. Up to this time she had regarded him as a very dear brother. Many a time, in their strolls through the wood, of which they were fond, they had walked hand in hand, but the clasp was only material, not spiritual. There had never been any going-out of heart to greet heart ; but now, realizing her love, she desired to rush to meet him, to throw her arms about his neck, to smother him with kisses and cry : 106 "RICHARD, MY RICHARD!" 107 "Richard, my Richard! Dear Richard, God only knows how I love you !" She seized the pillow from her hed, clasped it to her bosom, and Mary Miles, the innocent maiden who had never felt the inspiration of a lover's kiss, hugged and kissed and hugged the inanimate object, held it at arm's length, and then, as if looking into her lover's eyes, ejaculated: "Oh, Richard, dear, dear Richard, do you love me? Tell me, do you love me?" Alone with her God, na- ture had burst aU bonds of maidenly reserve and love was reigning triumphant. She knelt down to say her prayers. "Our Father, Richard's Father, my Father, our Father Who art in Heaven." She had no sound sleep that night, but tossed fever- ishly, always dreaming; some, happy dreams, more that were not. The next morning she recalled to the last detail all her insanity of the night before. Was it insanity? Each must judge from his individual viewpoint. She looked in the mirror and asked: "Who are you? Who am I? You have the fea- tures of Mary Miles, but I who stand to make that reflection am not Mary Miles, surely not the Mary Miles of yesterday. She was happy, I am miserable. She was hopeful, I am despondent. She had a very dear friend, and I, alas, have lost my friend. Have I exchanged him for a lover? How I wish I knew! Why should not the chrysalis of friendship in his case, as it has in mine, develop into the butterfly of 108 RICHARD BAXTER love? Are the conditions the same? How can I meet him and appear my old self, with this consciousness of change? And if we do not meet as before, how shall I greet him? Why should I not speak my love? Yet, suppose that he does not love me?" Then she ex- claimed, as many another girl had before, with as doubtful sincerity: "I wish I were dead!" CHAPTER XIX " OvEE THE Hills to the PoonHorsE " AFTER Jim Budson suddenly left the Drisco dwelling, he started for home with the inten- tion of bringing some food, but before reach- ing there it occurred to him that his family had no food to spare, so he turned and went across lots, over on the South road, to Farmer Nixon's, where he told the sad story of the Driscos. He came back with a plentiful supply of food, not forgetting the tea and sugar so essential to the comfort of Mrs. Drisco, who, as she saw him enter, turned to Sam and repeated from the Psalm, "The Lord is my Shepherd." Jim hurried away, saying: "PU come back early in the mornin', as ye may need some muscle." The night was without incident. The next morn- ing Mrs. Drisco, though weak eind feeble, was early astir. After making Sam as comfortable as possible, she prepared the remnant of their provisions for breakfast. The food that Jim had brought them was the first bread of charity they had ever eaten. Mrs. Drisco remembered her girlhood days and the happy home where plenty always abounded, her re- fusal to marry the well-to-do Sol Gibson, his curse when she chose the poor man she loved; she also re- 109 110 RICHARD BAXTER called her happy married life, comfortable, though not luxurious. And now, looking over her situation, she and her son paupers, did she think that she made a mistake when she refused to be the wife of Sol Gibson? Not for one moment had she a regret. Though she realized that God had always been good, she could not forget her lost husband, whose strong arm she so sadly needed in this hour of distress. "God," said she, "has always been " looked at Sam, stopped short and burst into tears. John Manning had been seized by a devU. He knew that he was wrong and that his treatment of the Driscos was contemptible, but the more he thought of the devilishness of his acts, the more furious he be- came. He arose from his bed in the night to go and turn them out with his own hands ; then it occurred to him that he would be likely to have a damage suit to settle, and he reluctantly returned to his bed. In the morning he was early at the cottage with a pliable tool in the shape of a deputy sheriff, who, whatever might be his scruples, dared not disobey Manning. Jim Budson was also there. Mrs. Drisco sat in her rocking-chair with her Bible in her lap. Manning entered the cottage without knocking, and said: "Take the old woman out first. She can walk if she has a mind to, but if she won't walk, carry her out and dump her beside the road." As she showed no disposition to walk, the deputy sheriff and a man who had come with him lifted on SAM AND HIS MOTHER ARE DISPOSSESSED. "TO THE POORHOUSE" 111 each side of the chair and carried her out of the yard and set the chair down. "Bring back that chair," shouted John Manning. "Come an' git the chair, ef ye want it," responded Jim Budson. Manning came to the roadside in a threatening manner, but it was not the first time that he had al- lowed his discretion to control his. valor. While this discussion was going on, the two men had brought Sam out and placed him on the ground. Jim hurried to the bam and brought out two bundles of straw, which Manning told him to carry back. "You kin carry it back when I git through with it, ef ye want to. I sha'n't." He spread the straw on the ground, making as comfortable a bed as possible. Manning had sent word to the poormaster the night before that the Driscos would be turned out in the morning, and that he must come and care for them. It was about eight o'clock when Poormaster Carter reached the Drisco farm. He was astonished to find Mrs. Drisco sitting by the roadside, with the old fam- ily Bible in her lap, and Sam lying on straw on the ground. He was indignant that respectable people should be so treated, and had not John Manning taken good care to get away, it is quite hkely that he would have been the subject of a word-portrait that would not have flattered his vanity. With the help of Jim Budson Mrs. Drisco was lifted into the chaise. They had to wait the arrival of the ambulance that was to take Sam. It was a farm wagon, without springs, the body resting on the axle- 112 RICHARD BAXTER trees, drawn by a yoke of oxen. There was an abun- dance of straw in the bottom of the wagon, on which were a feather bed and some blankets, so that the jolt- ing and shaking should not cause unnecessary suffer- ing. They placed him carefully in the wagon and the slow and weary journey to the poorhouse began. It was a terrible trial for Sam, and he often wished himself dead. Had it not been for the duty that he owed and the love he bore his dear old mother, he would have shuffled off this mortal coil and faced the eternity of which he had as little fear as knowledge. But such would have been a cowardly act, and Sam Drisco was not a coward. The poormaster drove off with Mrs. Drisco, leaving Sam to the slow progress of the ox team. The road to the poor farm ran directly by Sol Gib- son's, and when he saw the poormaster that morning driving down the road, he hailed him with: "Hey, Carter, I seen yer cattle go down by here an hour ago, but they was so fur ahead afore I got out to the road thet I couldn't make the man hear, so 1 didn't find out where he was a-goin'. An' now you're a-goin' the same way with the chaise. What's up this momin'?" "Well, Mr. Gibson, you're a big taxpayer an' sar- tinly hev a right to know all thet's goin' on at the poorhouse. I hed notice las' night from John Man- nin' thet he should dispossess Sam Drisco an' his mother this mornin', an' I mus' come an' take 'em to the farm. I sent my man with the ox wagon f er Sam, who has a broken leg." "TO THE POORHOUSE" 113 "Oh, thet's it, is it? The Driscos is a-gittin' their desarts at last. The poorhouse is a dern sight too good fer sich cattle. Ef I hed my way, they'd rot by the roadside." The poormaster drove on, and, as we have seen, took Mrs. Drisco in his chaise and started on his return. Solomon Gibson was waiting by the roadside to in- tercept them. As they drove toward him he signalled the poormaster to stop, and stepping to the side of the chaise, in a mock polite manner, took off his hat, and in sarcastic tones said: "Good-mornin', Mis' Drisco ; fine momin'. Ridin' out fer yer health.'' Glad to see ye lookin' so fine. Fine mornin', eh? Hope ye'll like yer new res'dence. Ruther a come-down to go to the poorhouse. Ain't so proud's ye was twenty-five year ago." At last he stopped, and Mrs. Drisco answered : "Yes, Solomon Gibson, I am moving, and here (lift- ing her Bible from her lap) is all I have to take with me, thanks to John Manning." "Wall, Mis' Drisco, ye've heerd the ole sayin', folks makes their bed an' has to lay in it." "You're right, Solomon Gibson. I made my bed, and I've lain in it a great many years ; and I tell you, Solomon Gibson, I've never, with all my misfortunes piled high on me, seen the minute that I was sorry that I didn't marry you ; and if I'd ever had a glim- mer of regret, your cruel words to-day would have dis- pelled it. It's true that I've had much suffering, but no doubt I deserved it. God's will be done." Then 114 RICHARD BAXTER she turned the old Bible around in her lap, and it seemed to open automatically at the twenty-third Psalm, and she began to read: "The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want," etc. This was more than Solomon Gibson could stand, and he shouted to the poormaster : "Drive on, drive on! I wish you much joy with yer baggage!" CHAPTER XX The Love Wail WHILE Mary Miles was trying to decide upon a plan of action when she should next meet Richard, her mother received a letter from an only sister, announcing her serious illness, and asking that Mary should come at once. To Mary this was a deliverance, as it would pre- vent meeting Richard until she had adapted herself to her new mental condition, feeKng, as she did, that she could not meet him now without betraying her love. She longed to speak, and if with him, could not avoid it. Then came the awful possibility, "Suppose he does not love me? I cannot run the risk. I must not, dare not, see him. Oh, if I could only tell my love! Why should I not speak? I will see him be- fore I go and tell my love. I cannot live this lie of concealment. But if he does not love me, my confes- sion would kill me." After this hysterical outburst, she became calm and had a talk with her mother about the letter, saying that she would go. at once. Mrs. Miles thought that Mary's relations with Richard had more to do with the hasty decision than her aunt's condition, but considerately said nothing, thinking that a separation would be for the best. It was arranged that Mary should start early the next morning, and a seat in the stage was engaged. 115 116 RICHARD BAXTER She told her mother that if anyone called, to tell them, which was very true, that she had a very severe head- ache, but to say nothing of her journey. Then going to her room, she knelt down by the window, in the dark, and listened for the tread she knew so well. At la^st she heard the footsteps down the road. Nearer, nearer they came, each step keeping time with her heart-beats. Then the httle gate creaked on its hinges in consonance with a pain that shot through her heart. When his feet craunched on the gravel walk it seemed as if they were grinding her heart to powder. A knock at the door. It was a knock at the door of her heart. Oh, why should she not open and bid him enter! She heard her mother open the door, and the well-known voice sounded changed. There was a softness, a mildness, a love-tone that she had never recognized before. It said : "Is Mary at home this evening.'"' She heard her mother answer "Yes, but she has gone to bed, sick with a severe headache." "I am very, very sorry. Tell her, please." "Will you step in?" "No, thank you; there's a shower coming, and I wiU hurry home. Good-night." Mrs. Miles said "Good-night" and closed the door. Richard had nearly reached the gate, when Mary leaned her face against the open blind-slats and cried out in tones of anguish: "Richard, dear Richard, speak to me !" At that instant a terrible clap of thunder drowned all other sounds and it was to Richard Baxter as if the THE LOVE WAIL IIT love-wail had never been uttered. He hastened down the road to get shelter from the rapidly breaking storm. Mary remained on her knees for a long time, not in a swoon, nor in a faint; yet half -unconscious. When she came to a reahzation, she prayed; and such a prayer! She put the agony of her heart into her words, and then, becoming calmer, besought God to guide her aright. If Richard Baxter could have re- ceived a tithe of the blessings she asked in his behalf, happy indeed would he have been. Then she wrote him a hasty and rather formal note, announcing her departure, and its cause, and giving him good wishes and good-bye. She signed it, "Ever your friend, Mary Miles." The strain of the last twenty-four hours had exhausted her, but she could not sleep. CHAPTER XXI The Pooehouse HOTEL MENDON, as the poorhouse was named by some wag who had a lively idea of contrasts, was not kept on the principles that govern most hotels, namely, to make it as popular as possible, so as to increase its patronage ; but on an exactly opposite plan, as every effort was to make it unpopular and to drive away patrons. The public rec- ognized the fact that the poor must be taken care of. Common humanity demanded that they be fed and clothed, although their covering could hardly be called clothing. The theory seemed to be, that though the law would not permit the killing of paupers outright, yet there was nothing in the statutes that prevented their being starved to death. The one who could keep paupers at the least cost was the man most popular for the place with the tax- payers. The town owned the farm and assumed all cost of maintenance, except that of food. At the spring town-meeting the paupers were bid off at auc- tion, and the man who would take the farm and feed them at the least price was the successful bidder. At the time of which we write, the price for main- tenance was forty-nine cents each, per week. Chil- dren from five to twelve, one-half price ; under five, no charge. 118 THE POORHOUSE ill9 A pauper had not quite as good a standing in the community as a thief, for it was considered more of a disgrace to have been an inmate of a poorhouse than of a jail. The stigma was as unaccountable as it was unjust. In those days, no one willingly became a town charge. Paupers were only tolerated. Now, poverty is not looked upon as the disgrace it was then, and poorhouses are havens of rest for the weary, or the lazy who have lost all self-respect. A majority of the inmates of our charitable institutions of to-day never lived half as well before they became wards of the public, housed as they are in magnificent architectural structures, surrounded by parks and flower-gardens, and fed on the fat of the land. It is well to be charitable, but a course that demoralizes and encourages vice and crime is not charity. The guests at Hotel Mendon were a "motley crew" of all ages and both sexes. There was Noah Dalrymple, of whom it was face- tiously said that he came out of the ark. There was certainly no one in town old enough to dispute it. He claimed to be one hundred and seven years old ; he cer- tainly looked it. The most wonderful thing about him was his teeth. They were double all around, perfectly sound, and as white and clean as a hound's. He had a most wonderful memory, which, aided by a lively imagination and encouraged by sympathetic listeners, often carried him back to the landing of the Pilgrims. When he lapsed into his most brilliant reveries he would tell the particulars of his passage over in the Mayflower. 1120 RICHARD BAXTER Next to him in age was Aunt Sally. No one knew her surname. She was a helpless imbecile, who simply existed. She was cared for, or supposed to be, by her companions, who often forgot her, and, as might be expected, she suffered from hunger and neglect. Why did God permit the continuance of her suffer- ings.? There was one old man entirely blind. He was the most cheerful and hopeful person in the house ; always good-tempered, never low-spirited. The young chil- dren all loved Uncle Abe, for for them he had always a kind word, a ride to Banbury Cross on his foot, and a pretty story. Salute him with "Uncle Abe, how are you to-day.!"' and his stereotyped reply was, "Fine, superfine." "Is God good to you to-day. Uncle Abe?" "God is always good to me." "How about the loss of your eyesight ; do you call that being good to you.?" "God knows what's best for old Uncle Abe. It ain't for me to find fault." There were also several other notable characters here. Heading the list was a quiet, mild-mannered little man, who assumed to be Napoleon. It is odd how many of the insane dub themselves Bonapartes. Other warriors and statesmen were also represented among the men, and among the crazy women there were queens and empresses. The violent insane were kept in separate sheds, herded like beasts, but not as well cared for as the stock on the farm ; sometimes chained to the floor, wallowing in filth, or confined in THE POORHOUSE 121 cribs ; oftener naked than half -naked, and always half- starved. There were old men with the "rhumatiz," so bent and doubled that they could hardly hobble about ; born idiots and other kinds of fools, viragoes and common scolds; some kind, sweet-tempered, sweet- faced, motherly old women, who did much to leaven that measure of human meal ; and young women with nursing babies of doubtful- parentage. To this mixed mass of humanity were brought Sam Drisco and his old mother. At first they were not well received by their to-be associates. It was known that they lately owned a farm, of which they had been dispossessed, and, until the storm broke, were considered "well-to-do." They were looked upon as a species of aristocracy, and were no more welcome than are the Twuveau ricJie who have jumped suddenly into the society of the wealthy of longer standing. Position, be it high or low, to re- ceive proper respect, must not be too suddenly at- tained. Be the rank what it may, it must be reached through regular gradations if it would be respected by those in occupancy. The feeling against the Driscos was only a natural prejudice inspired by the circumstances, though that soon wore off, as they made no claims of superiority, implied or expressed. Sam was kind and affable, and old Mrs. Drisco, with her family Bible always at hand, loveliness itself, a constant exemplar of the "Lord's will be done." The twenty-third Psalm, as she ex- pounded it, had a tranquillizing influence, and when Mother Drisco, as she soon was familiarly called by 122 RICHARD BAXTER the family at the poorhouse, adjusted her spectacles and began to read aloud from the Bible, this act, with- out dissent, took precedence over all other occupations. She had tact, and was careful not to force her re- ligion on unwilling ears. She believed in God and in His beneficence, and that God did everything that was done, and that everything that was done was right. She never argued, not even in her own mind. If an attempt were made to combat her views, she would answer that it was not given to a poor mortal like her to question God's motives ; though she did not understand, it was her duty to accept and believe. Her influence in that poorhouse family was good, and all were happier for her coming among them. It was a pleasant sight of an afternoon to see the assemblage gathered in the living-room. There were the old men, too decrepit to get out of doors, and the old women, some with their knitting or sewing, more of them with their hands listlessly folded in their laps, all attentively listening to Mrs. Drisco as she read from the Scriptures, lying on the little Bible stand and placed near a window; for there was not much daylight in that room, its walls being darkened by many years' smoke from the huge fireplace. Three times each day the horn was blown at the poorhouse door, to give notice that the occupants were to be fed. The room in which this function was per- formed was long, narrow, and dark. In the early part of the nineteenth century glass was much more costly than lumber, and in most all houses the windows, were "stingy small." At the further end of the room THE POORHOUSE US stood a large chimney, with an open fireplace, with its long swing cranes, pot-hooks, and trammels, and scat- tered about the hearth a liberal supply of pots, kettles, baking-tins and spiders, in which all the food for the family was cooked. Down the centre of the room was a table made of pine boards, resting upon some supporting horses, ac- commodating twenty-four people, which was the aver- age number of table-guests at Hotel Mendon. A bench on either side served for seats, with a few chairs for cripples who could not climb over the benches. There was no cloth on the table. It was sufficiently covered with dirt to prevent injury from the careless use of the "implements." At each place was a pewter plate, a knife and fork, a gourd shell, from which to drink their beverage, usually a hunk of rye and Indian bread or a cut of Johnny-cake. There was no change in the breakfast. It was always the same — fried pork, boiled potatoes, and coffee. On Sunday morning, in season, each had a fried egg. The coffee was neither Old Java nor Rio nor San Domingo. It grew on the farm and con- sisted of a mixture of barley and wheat, browned and ground, boiled in a huge pot, with two quarts of skim- milk, a pint of molasses, and water to fill. For din- ner they had either boiled corned beef and pork, cab- bage and potatoes or salt codfish, and about twice a week, what in these days we would call an Irish stew. This was really the most appetizing dish that was set before them. For supper they seldom had more than bread and tea, the latter being a decoction of herbs. 124 RICHARD BAXTER It is possible that it may have been a cup that cheered, but it never inebriated. The food all being the prod- uct of the farm, was satisfactory in quality, but it lacked in quantity. There was no sickness from over- eating. The description of the man and woman who ran this establishment at forty-nine cents per head can safely be left to the imagination of the reader, who must draw the picture according to his own conception. It can truthfully be said of anyone who lived and died in a poorhouse of seventy-five years ago that the pains and penalties of purgatory should be remitted, since he had passed through that stage on earth. CHAPTER XXII School Fellows RICHARD BAXTER and Sam Drisco were school fellows at the district school, and after- ward at the academy, for the Hmited time that Sam could be spared from the farm, and the tuition from Farmer Drisco's scanty purse. They were drawn together as boys often are, and a friendship was formed which lasted through life. As they grew older they met less often, and while Richard was at college there was a long break in their intimacy, only interrupted by an occasional letter. Letter-writing in those days was the exception, not the habit. After Abraham Baxter's death and Richard's return to Mendon, they again clasped hands and renewed their mutual confidences. Sam went to Richard for counsel and advice, but more frequently for sympathy. They often talked over Sam's financial condition, and what was to be ex- pected from John Manning when the day came, as soon it must, that Sam could not meet the interest of the mortgage on the farm. He had told Richard his mother's story, and of her belief that the mortgage had been paid, but there was no legal evidence to sustain the theory. The princi- pals in the transaction were all dead, Abraham Baxter, who probably was the lawyer employed, Daniel Man- ning, who received the money, if it were paid, and. 125 126 RICHARD BAXTER Eben Drisco, who paid the money. The county rec- ords afforded no evidence that the mortgage had been satisfied. There was nothing on which a case could be founded, except the belief of one old woman. The claim had no legal standing, and had long since ceased to be considered by our young lawyer and his client- friend. Before its decision by the death of one of the par- ties thereto, there was a case which they frequently discussed at their meetings. It was that of Drisco vs. Gibson, in which the plaintiff, Samuel Drisco, free- man, was about to bring a suit against one Sally Gib- son, spinster, both of the town of Mendon aforesaid, etc. As the action was to be brought in the court of Cupid, and as the plaintiff's attorney, one Richard Baxter, had never been admitted to practice in that court, he was of doubtful value as counsel. He had advised, however, that an action should be brought at once and an attachment secured, before the defend- ant should put the property sought, to wit, one heart, out of her possession. Another reason the learned Baxter, plaintiff's attorney, had given for immediate action was that other parties might bring suit. But the plaintiff had lacked confidence in the outcome and had let several terms of court {i.e., opportunities) go by without pressing his claim. If Richard Baxter had had the experience in love affairs that usually falls to the lot of most young men, he would have better understood the hesitancy of his client. CHAPTER XXm Aunt Nancy's Home AUNT NANCY BOND Hved in a smaU farm- house just off the highway, about a quarter of a mile from the Mannings, being their nearest neighbor. The older generation of the Man- nings had always been very neighborly in sickness and in health. She used frequently to run over to Mrs. Manning's with her knitting. The two wom- en depended upon each other for news; a sort of exchange of gossip, which was very pleasant for both. In front of her house, between it and the road, was her flower-garden, in which she took great pride. Her front door opened on to a path that ran down the centre of the garden. Over the door was a trellis supporting some climbing roses. Beside the windows were running honeysuckles, Virginia creepers, morn- ing glories and four-o'clocks. On the sides of the path, at each end and in the centre, were great clumps of the fragrant southern wood, and scattered through this garden, which was of the same width as the front of the.house, was a profusion of all the common flow- ers, such as marigolds, bouncing-betsies, bachelor's- buttons, sweet-williams, sweet pinks, lady's-delights, purple irises, hollyhocks, tiger-Hlies, and, as they would say on auction bUls, "other articles too numer- 187 128 RICHARD BAXTER ous to mention," and no weeds. This flower-garden of Aunt Nancy's was the pride of her heart, and she took great pleasure in showing it to visitors. The well, with the curb that protected it, stood just beside the driveway, midway between the highway and the barn. On the well-curb, hanging to a nail, was a gourd shell, from which to drink. A tall, crotched tree-trunk supported the well-sweep, with its balance- stones at one end and the pole dangling from the other, which hung directly over the well. To it was attached the old oaken bucket. On the fence that separated the driveway from the flower-garden was nailed a board, on which was traced with red chalk, the following notice: No shuteing loud hear. Aunt Nancy loved the birds, and her robins were as tame as ever wild birds get to be. The same ones came to her quiet home year after year. There was one pair of very large robins that had reared their brood for two seasons. The third year the cock robin came alone; also for two years thereafter, and th.en was seen no more. The old "widderer," as Aunt Nancy called him, never mated again. Back of the barn was a berry patch, to which aU the children who chose to come were welcome. Their happy faces and merry laughter brought joy and warmth to the old heart of Aunt Nancy, by which name she was always called by her many visitors. She was generally at the door, knitting in hand, to wel- come them, and often when they returned from the AUNT NANCY*S HOME 1^9 berfy patch they would find her waiting for them with a pitcher of milk and a pan of cookies. Mary Miles had several times accompanied her school-children on these berry-picking trips Saturday afternoons, and her acquaintance with Aunt Nancy had ripened into a warm friendship, which at a future period was to prove of very great value. CHAPTER XXIV The Philosopher SAM DRISCO was a philosopher, and endeav- ored to take every incident in his life philosoph- ically. One of the first copies that was set for him when learning to write was a line from Pope's Essay on Man, "Whatever is, is right." This he wrote so many times that it was stereotyped on his brain and became a prominent maxim of his daily life. Later on he met, in reading, the couplet : "Two things will not trouble a sensible man, — The thing he can't help, and the thing that he can." These useful precepts helped him over many rough places. Incidents and accidents were neutralized by repeating them. All of his misfortunes, the failure of his crops, the death of his stock, and many other trials of his life were much lightened by these bits of wisdom. They had served well, up to the loss of Sally Gib- son. Then all of his philosophy vanished into thin air. It had no substance, and Sam Drisco was noth- ing but common clay. He found himself on a level with other humanity that moaned in its agony and thought it found relief in cursing God. The constant claim of his mother, that "God doeth all things well," 130 THE PHILOSOPHER 131 irritated and antagonized him, and he frequently said to her, as he did the day they were turned out of their home, that if she persisted in reading the Bible to him she certainly would make of him an infidel. He could see no goodness in a God who permitted his sufferings. The poor man had closed the only source of con- solation. CHAPTER XXV " Thar's Only One Deun Fool in Sight " ON the morning that Mary Miles started to visit her aunt, the horn sounded long before daylight and the stage stopped before her mother's cottage in its round through the village, picking up those passengers who had booked their names for seats the evening before. Mary had been early enough to secure a back seat. The little hair-covered trunk was put in the boot and she climbed into her place. There were several other passengers, but she could not see how many, on ac- count of the darkness. The stage was built to carry nine inside. Getting in, she heard a sharp female voice say : "Here, Jerushy, you set up here nex' ter me, fer I dunno what kin' of a critter's a-gittin' in, an' I'd ruther hev you nex' ter me. I'd kinder ben in hopes thet thet air seat warn't tuk." Mary soon ascertained that Jerusha was a young girl, slight in figure, and that the seat was not crowded. She thought herself fortunate to have a comer rather than to sit between two people, as she didn't know what "kin' of critters" they might be. The stage rattled down the hill and again the driver woke the echoes and the sleeping villagers by a loud blast of his horn. They took another passenger in- 133 ONE FOOL IN SIGHT 133 side and one on the box with the driver, then drove around to the post-office for the mail, and soon the wheels were running smoothly over the pike, and Mary snuggled herself away into the corner for a little dream; but she was soon disturbed by Jerusha, who said, "Say, ma, don't ye think it's 'bout time we hed suthin' to eat?" The mild-mannered mother replied, "It's nuthin' but eat, eat with ye all the time. Ye alius eat more'n the hired man, an' ef the crops fail, we'll all hev to go to the poorhouse, jest to sat'sfy thet belly of your'n. Ye can't hev no vittles till arter daylight, so thar, ye mought's weU hoi' yer jaw." Jerusha subsided and Mary resumed her dreams, from which she did not wish to be disturbed. She was soon aroused, however, by the sharp voice of her fellow-passenger, this time directed at her. Ordinar- ily she was sweet-tempered, placid and considerate, but the shaking up of her system in her mental com- muning with Richard Baxter the evening before, her sleeplessness during the night, and her early rising were too much for the maintenance of her character of "sweet Mary Miles." To the first salutation of Jerusha's mother of "What mought yer name be.'"' she paid no attention. After a moment or two, again the inquiry, "Say, miss, what mought yer name he?" brought from her in an unmistakably bitter let-me-alone tone, "It might be Smith, but it isn't, and it isn't Jones, either." This suspended the conversation for a while. The next incident recalling her to things mundane 134 RICHARD BAXTER was the stopping of the stage at the toll-house. The bar was down across the pike and locked, that none might pass without paying toll. It was still dark and the gate-keeper had not left his bed, the warmth of which he seemed loath to change for the cool outside air. It was not until the stage-driver had pounded the door with a stone that he appeared. He was bare- headed and barefooted, having on neither coat nor vest. His trousers were held up by one "gaUus" drawn over the left shoulder. In his left hand he held an old round tin lantern, through the perforated sides of which shone such rays as a tallow dip could furnish. Then ensued a wordy altercation, in which much pro- fanity was used, and threats on the part of the stage- driver, that if he was stopped in this way again he'd "break the demed old bar, fer I'm a-drivin' the United States mail, an' thar ain't nothin' thet's any right to stop it." After collecting toll from the stage-driver and each passenger, during which there was quite a "jaw" with Jerusha's mother as to paying toll for Jerusha, as "she warn't only thirteen year ole," and a parting threat on her side to "hev the law on him," the stage-driver climbed on to his seat, and taking the reins that the passenger on the box had been holding, cracked up the leaders and they were once more on their journey. Mary Miles again settled back into her corner and resumed her reveries. After thinking the matter over, she felt a little ashamed for having so spitefully resented the woman's impertinence, and resolved that if asked again she would treat her more civilly. She ONE FOOL IN SIGHT 135 was in deep thought of "Richard, my Richard," when the old woman again asked : "What mought I call yer name ?" Mary sweetly answered : "Richard Miles — I mean Mary Baxter — no — Mary Miles." She was greatly annoyed on hearing the suppressed titter of her fellow-passengers. The old woman said : " Jerushy, what's yer name ?" "Jerushy Mirandy Bump," promptly rephed the young hopeful. "Thar," said Mrs. Bump, "I larnt her thet when she was two year ole an' she hain't ever forgot it." That Mary felt annihilated there can be no ques- tion, and she hoped that her persecutor would now he merciful. But she reckoned wrongly, for it was more than fifty miles to Concord, and the performance had but just begun. At about sunrise the stage stopped for breakfast and a change of horses. Mrs. Bump was now ready to feed her Jerusha, and provided some cold sausage, or, as she called them, "sassengers," and some corn cake, which they both ate with an apparent relish. Mary, having had a cup of tea and a snack before starting, did not desire breakfast, but was glad of the opportunity to get out of the stage for several rea- sons, principal of which was that by so doing she could rid herself of that odious woman's society for twenty minutes ; and for this she walked up and down the tavern piazza. The stage was brought around from the barn with 136 RICHARD BAXTER four fresh horses. "All aboard," and again they were on their way. When Mary got into the stage, Mrs. Bump saluted her with: "Ain't ye hungry, Miss — er — ^Baxter? I'd a-gin ye some of my stuffin' ef ye hadn't ben in sich a hurry to git down." "No, thank you, I did not want anything to eat." "Be ye a-goin' to Concord.'"' "Yes." "Ye live thar, do ye?" "No." "Ye live in Mendon, don't ye?" "Yes." "Thought so. Most of them Mendon folks is putty much stuck up. Be ye any relation to the Bax- ters over to Humbolt.!"' "No." "P'r'aps yer some kin to ole Squire Abraham Bax- ter, thet died not long ago. He lived in Mendon. Be ye.?" "No." "I don't 'low thet ye said w'ether ye was Miss er Missis.?" "Miss." "Ye ain't marri'd then, be ye?" "No." "How ole mought ye be?" "Twenty-two." "Got a beau, hain't ye?" ONE FOOL IN SIGHT 137 Mary could stand it no longer. She covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. "Oh, I see how 'tis. He's gin ye the mitten, hain't he? Lord sakes! thet ain't nothin'. Don't feel so bad 'bout it, dearie. Thar's jest as good fish in the sea as ever was caught. W'y, w'en I was eighteen year ole I hed a beau, an' we was a-goin' one night to a corn-huskin', an' I axed our hired man, Jethro Green, ef he couldn't find me a red ear, which he done, an' I tuk it an' jest slipped it into my stockin'. Putty soon arter the huskin' begun a feller got a red ear, an' he sez 'Who'll match this?' an' I reached down under the corn husks an' pulled out my red ear, an' held it up. He dim' up over the corn pile to kiss me, an' 'cause I didn't fight 'im ofi', w'en we was a-goin' hum Joe begun a jawin' 'bout it, an' said as how I was too willin', an' he didn't like it, an' I said, 'Joe WUkins, ef ye don't like it, ye kiqJump it.' An' he said, 'I'll see ye hum, an' then I'm done with ye.' We was 'bout three-quarters of a mile from hum, an' I said, 'Joe Wilkins, ye needn't go no furder. Thar ain't no panthers, ner wolves atween here an' hum, an' I don't see but one derned fool in the road, an' I ain't afeard of him, fer he ain't a-goin' my way. Good- night, Mr. Wilkins ; I hopes ye'U be able to fin' some gal thet dunno the diff'r'nce atween a red ear an' a yaller one.' Thar was 'nuther corn-huskin' a few days arter, over to Bill Snookses. Joe Wilkins was thar, an' he didn't fetch no gal, an' he tried to shin' up to me, but 'twan't no use, fer I'd got 'nuther beau." The relation of how Mrs. Bump got the "mitten," 138 RICHARD BAXTER in theatrical parlance, "brought down the house"; that is, the stage full of passengers laughed heartily, in which Mary could not help joining. She said to Mrs. Bump: "Won't you please let me be, for I have a head- ache." "Headache .?" repeated the old woman, "thet's too bad. Here, smell of this 'ere," and before Mary Miles could put up a hand to prevent, Mrs. Bump had a bottle of hartshorn under her nose, and she had in- haled enough to almost bring the dead to life. "Ye see, 'twas this way: I kinder liked Joe Wil- kins. He was a putty good feller, but he was kinder saft, sometimes ; but he had a mighty good farm over thar to Felterville, an' I'd kinder liked to hitched up to 'im, but 'twan't a-goin' to be." Here Mrs. Bump stopped to "heave a sigh," and Jerusha broke in with : "Ma, ma, say ma, when air ye goin' to lemme hev a beau.P" "Shet up," the old woman snapped out, and re- sumed : "Ye see, I'd talked Joe Wilkins all over with dad an' ma, an' dad he 'lowed thet all things consid- ered, I couldn't do no better. But 'twan't to be, 'twas ag'in fate. Ye see, ev'rything run long jest as slick as hog's butter, but 'twan't to be. It's no use to kick ag'in fate. Joe went long callatin' to be marri'd in the spring, but I knowed 'twan't to be, 'cause 'twas ag'in scripter, fer don't ye know the Bible says thet true love never runs smooth.?" Again the old lady sighed, and repeated, " 'Twan't to be, an' as ole Par- son Johnson used to say, what alius was, will be." ONE FOOL IN SIGHT 139 Then Mrs. Bump folded her hands across her lap, and in silence looked, as she would have expressed it, "sol- emncoUy" at the green fields. For a while there was quiet on the back seat of the stage. The men talked about the weather and the crops, and whiled away the time in telling stories, in which Mrs. Bump occasionally joined, as she was a woman of "experiences" and liked to tell them. At about noon, with much blowing of horn and cracking of whip, the stage rattled to the front of the Red Lion, where it was to change horses and allow the passengers to get dinner. As Mary was getting out of the stage, Mrs. Bump saluted her with : "Say, you, Miss Baxter, don't ye want some of my vittles.? I've got a-plenty." "No, thank you, I must have some tea." She went into the tavern and had dinner and a half- hour's relief from persecution. The men were walking about and talking, their principal subject of conversation being Mrs. Bump and her victim. The passenger who had been riding outside said he would oiFer to exchange seats with the young lady. He walked over to where Mary was standing and said: "Miss, I've heard what an uncomfortable time you are having inside the stage, and if it please you, I will change seats with you." It was a splendid day, and if for no other reason she would have been glad to change; but she would rather have suffered exposure to a terrible storm than to have longer endured the company of Mrs. Bump. 140 RICHARD BAXTER She gladly accepted the oifer and warmly thanked her deliverer. Mrs. Bump was heard to say : "Lors sake, ef thet gal ain't a-climbin' up on top! Gals nowadays don't seem to keer how much of a show they makes of themselves." The stage had hardly started before Mrs. Bump turned to the newcomer and said: "What mought yer name be .'"' "Now, look here, old woman," he replied, "you needn't try to pump me, for I ain't as big a fool as I look." "Humph," quickly replied Mrs. Bump, "I didn't know thet." The laughter from all the passengers that followed this repartee was hearty and boisterous, and much an* noyed our would-be philanthropist, and he wished he had stayed outside. Mrs. Bump was quiet for nearly an hour, when, after looking sharply at a passenger who was sitting on the front seat and facing her, she started, as it were, to address him, but seeing something in his ap- pearance that was not inviting, she desisted. This man was dressed in black broadcloth, wore spectacles, had a smooth-shaven face, and in every respect the appearance of a minister. Beside him sat a young dandy. Again Mrs. Bump essayed to open conver- sation with him: "What mought yer name be. Mister.'"' The young dandy answered, "What did you say, ONE FOOL IN SIGHT 141 Mrs. Bump replied, "I didn't speak to you, boy. I spoke to the minister. What mought yer name be. Parson?" "None of your d n business," closed the con- versation and squelched Mrs. Bump. The explanation is, that our clerical friend was as deaf as a post, and neither heard nor answered ; but a wag, an amateur ventriloquist, seeing a chance for a little fun, tried his talents with grand success. CHAPTER XXVI " HossES Is Very Mitch Like Wimmin " JOHN MANNING began to tire of farm life. The difficulty that he had in getting any "help" in the house was a constant source of annoyance. He had to depend upon the ignorant Canadian women, who were the only help that could be hired. His butter was hardly fit for soap-grease, his cheese no better, and but one article that came within the women's control brought full price ; that was the eggs. The hens had not become demoralized, and their merry "cut, cut, ka, da, cut" was the most cheerful sound on the farm. He sold his cows, and the Manning dairy, of which his old mother was so justly proud all her life, was a thing of the past. Surprising as it may be, John Manning had sentiment enough to say that he was thankful that the abandonment of the dairy did not occur until after his mother died, as it would have broken her heart. He bought a new buggy of the latest style, a fine double harness, blankets, robes, etc. He had a handsome pair of colts, of his own breeding, pure Morgan. He increased the frequency of his drives to town, which formerly were confined to mar- ket days, or when a load of produce was to be deliv- ered; but now, leaving the "trucking" to his hired man, he went to town in his buggy, drawing the lines 142 "BOSSES LIKE WIMMIN" 143 over the backs of as good a pair of steppers as there was in the county, John Manning, as one of his horsey friends put it, had begun "to feel his oats." With better "horse furniture" came a taste for better clothes to replace the farmer's blue frock. With his spick and span new turn-out and fine clothes, he looked like a gentle- man, and, as Si Slocum said, "put on more airs than the biU called for." In earHer days he had always driven his horse or team, as the case might be, under the tavern shed, and hitched them himself ; but now he drove up in front of the tavern with a grand flourish, and called the hostler, much to the edification of the "committee," as the regular tavern loafers were called. Some of the "committee" were always on duty, and one or all were ready to respond to the shghtest hint that their society at the bar would be agreeable to someone who was about to take a drink. In front of the tavern, a two-story building about fifty feet in length, was a piazza about six feet in width, extending the entire length. At the back of the piazza, against the building, was a seat, the occu- pancy of which reflected on the good name of the vil- lage of Mendon, as on pleasant days it was generally well filled; and often, when matters of interest, Hke the best time of Flora Temple, who was then beating the record, were under discussion, the overflow were seated on the edge of the piazza, with their feet rest- ing on the ground. Si Slocum was the oracle, and whatever Si said "went." 144 RICHARD BAXTER Josiah Slocum, familiarly known to the country all about as Si, was really an authority on horse matters. It was duly accorded that what he didn't know about a horse wasn't worth knowing. Where he came from no one seemed to know, he having tramped into the village about a dozen years before, becoming hostler at the tavern. He did not present any credentials, and as the tavern-keeper needed a handy man about the barn, and needed him right badly, no questions were asked. That opportu- nity being lost to ascertain Si's antecedents, the sub- ject was not opened again by the tavern-keeper; and to the barroom loafers who exhibited any curiosity he gave short answers, and in a tone that did not encour- age a continuance of the investigation. It was not at all surprising that the good people of Mendon had looked upon him, on his first appearance among them, with suspicion. He had a hunted look, more that of a chicken thief than of a highwayman. Perhaps their opinion of him was well expressed by a remark, "Seen that new specimen at the tavern barn? Bet he's stole more'n one sheep." This appearance of having "got away from 'em" wore oiF, as he made acquaintances and began to feel at home. He used to mysteriously disappear for two or three weeks, once in about six months, and when he returned would bring with him one or two old plugs, as a class of horses was familiarly known. These he rejuvenated, and generally fixed up and traded or sold to some innocent, who didn't know an old horse from a young one. "BOSSES LIKE WIMMIN » 145 He was very skillful in this process, and would change the appearance of a horse in the course of two or three weeks, so that "his mother wouldn't know him," not to mention the great mass of people who only noted the general appearance of a horse. White stars on a horse's forehead, or white feet, were readily changed to the color of the body. If desirable to re- duce his age, his teeth were shortened and a hot iron would make the necessary indentations. He had a wonderful faculty for convincing a lame horse that he wasn't lame at all, for a short period, although the old lameness would be sure to come back as soon as Si had gotten rid of the horse. He always kept himself out of the clutches of any legal action for redress by carefully avoiding to name the age of the horse, or to warrant him to be "sound and kind." Instead of answering questions he would ask them. The usual conversation was about like this : "Si, how old is that horse.?" "Wall," he would answer, "I dunno much 'bout it. But the boss doctors all tell ye thet it's easy 'nuff to see how ole a boss is by the peculiar marks of his teeth. Now, less look into this ole boss's mouth. Ye see, ev'ry boss's teeth has hollers in 'em, an' when them hollers git wore off, it shows thet the boss is a-gittin' 'long putty well in years, an' a boss without any hol- lers in his teeth is likely to be a dozen years ole, er more. Now, ye see, sometimes anybody thet's dishon- est an' wants to cheat ye in a hoss trade, takes them air teeth what's wore off, an' scuUops 'em out, an' makes 'em look's ef they's colt's teeth. Now, does 146 RICHARD BAXTER this 'ere hoss's teeth look's ef they'd ben scalloped out? You kin see jest as well as I kin. I guess, Mis- ter, 't you're a putty good jedge of hoss flesh, an' it 'ud take a putty dern smart feller to beat ye on a hoss trade. I don't feel equal to it myself, an' I'm kinder 'fear'd to trade with ye anyhow." He did not consider it good policy to run down the horse for which he was trading. "Now, Mr. Slocum, what I want to know is whether that horse is sound.'"' "Sound.'' Wall, thet's a conundrum. A hoss may be sound to-day an' not sound to-morrow; er he may be off his feed er suthin' yistiddy, an' all right to-day, to-morrow an' alius. A hoss is more like a woman than any four-legged critter that runs. You're a fam'ly man an' has a woman on yer hands, an' ye knows they's queer critters. So's bosses. Ye gits up in the mornin', builds a good fire on the hearth, hangs on the tea-kittle, takes yer pails an' starts fer the barn to do yer milkin'. Arter 'bout an hour ye comes in, 'spectin' the fried pork, eggs, an' b'iled pertaters '11 be spread on yer bountiful board, an' thar's nothin' but an empty table, an' ye sings out, 'Mandy, whar in the devil's the breakf as' ?' An' a low voice ans'ers ye from the bedroom, 'Oh, Zekel, I've got sich a head- ache, I can't git up.' Now, ye wouldn't go to yer respected father-in-law an' say, 'Mister, thet air gal I got o' ye ain't sound, an' I want ye to take her back.' Wall, ye see, bosses is very much like wimmin, unsartin critters. Now, when ye cum away from hum, ev'rything was all right. When ye go hum, the ole "BOSSES LIKE WIMMIN" 147 mare, I mean the ole woman, may be knocked out, clean out. Who knows? Still, she was sound when ye come away. No, hosses an' wimmin is both unsar- tin critters, an' I'd as soon warrant one's t'other." Old Judge Myers wanted a horse and went to Si Slocum for advice and assistance. He flattered the old Judge, who consented to let him get a horse, as Si thought he knew where there was one that would suit to a dot. He found one, a fine animal, in every way just suited to the Judge's wants, which he sold at a really low price. The Judge was perfectly satisfied and Si took advantage of this fact, used him as a ref- erence, and by this means scalded several people badly. They complained to the Judge and he said that all he knew about Slocum was that he bought a horse of him and that everything was just as he represented it. But finding that he was being used as a cat's-paw to pull Si's chestnuts out of the fire, he addressed him the following note, which he readily understood: "Mr. Slocum: "Sir — It will not be for your interest to send people to me for any further recommendation. "Jacob Myees." This rebuff took Si down a few pegs, as he had ex- pected to use the Judge's influence to assist him in selling a horse to a friend of the Judge in the next town. But Si thought he was equal to the emergency, called upon the Judge, and they had quite a parley. The Judge told Si that he had simply given him a 148 RICHARD BAXTER good trade in order that he might use his influence to cheat people, and that he would not be used in that way any longer. Si begged him to "let up" and give him a letter of introduction to his friend, prom- ising that he should have a good trade. An idea struck the Judge, and he finally consented, sat down to his desk and wrote the following: "J. W. Wainwright, Esq., "Lindentown. "My Dear Sir: — This letter will be handed to you by Mr. Josiah Slocum, who desires to sell you a horse. Mr. Slocum is a very reliable man, and you can place confidence in any representation that he makes to you ; that is to say, you can put as much confidence in him as you ought to in any man who has a horse to sell. "Yours truly, "Jacob Myers." "There," said he, as he finished the letter. "I hope that will please you," and chuckled as he read aloud the first clause in the letter, omitting the last. Si Slocum being an illiterate man, read writing with difficulty ; therefore really never saw the point of the joke. He delivered his letter, but did not make his sale. CHAPTER XXVII The Satisfaction Found ONE afternoon Richard Baxter, tired of por- ing over Pickering's Reports, laid down the volume, pulled a drawer from the safe con- taining some of his father's papers, and began in- specting them. To get at them more readily, he took the drawer out entirely, placing it on the table. As he did so, a paper dropped from between the back lining into which it must have fallen from the drawer above. The paper was a sheet of foolscap, folded twice to the usual form of legal documents. On the back was written, in Abraham Baxter's square hand: "Satisfaction of Mortgage Daniel Manning to Eben Drisco. March 17, 1828." "Mem. Tell E, D. that this satisfaction must be recorded. — ^A. B." The satisfaction was in the regular legal form, ac- knowledging payment of $2,000 and the interest, be- ing in full satisfaction of and discharging a certain 149 150 RICHARD BAXTER mortgage, signed by Daniel Manning and witnessed by Abraham Baxter. Here, then, was the solution of the mystery. Mrs. Drisco was right. The mortgage had been paid as she thought. The satisfaction had probably been left with the old lawyer, had slipped through the crack at the back of the drawer, and fallen between the lining. The sudden death of Drisco prevented his calling for it ; that explained the disappearance of the satisfaction. The mortgage, it seemed, was not surrendered. It would have been of no value had the satisfaction been recorded. This also accounted for Daniel Manning's anxiety as to whether any papers were found on Drisco's body. The satisfaction not making its appearance, and the death soon after of Abraham Baxter, made the road clear for Deacon Manning to rob the widow and orphan. Richard's knowledge of John Manning led him to suspect that he knew of the fraud, and therefore it would be necessary to proceed cautiously, for Man- ning undoubtedly would contest to the bitter end. He slept but little that night, feeling that he was no longer a briefless lawyer, but instead had on his hands a case that bade fair to be one of the most im- portant that had ever been tried in that county. He had no evidence to sustain the genuineness of the satisfaction, all the parties to the transaction being dead. How bitterly he realized the truth of the old saying that dead men tell no tales. He knew that he had to encounter a wily, unscrupulous foe, who had four important points to defend. First, the restitu- THE SATISFACTION FOUND 151 tion of the mortgaged property ; second, the refund- ing of the interest that had for so many years been collected; third, damages for dispossessing and driv- ing to the poorhouse Sam Drisco and his mother ; and fourth, his character in the community in which he lived. His first thought was that he would have the satis- faction recorded at once at the office of the County Clerk, which, had it been done when made, would have spared the Driscos so many years of suffering. Then he decided that it would not be advisable to do this until a plan of action had been settled, for if he did so, it would give John Manning a better opportunity to prepare his defense. In the morning he consulted the County Clerk, a friend in whom he had perfect confidence, who advised that a copy of the satisfaction be made and attested, and the original placed in the office vault, as the copy would answer every purpose until the trial. CHAPTER XXVIII Thkee Appeals to God THE morning after the finding of the satis- faction of the Manning-Drisco mortgage, Richard Baxter, with the attested copy in his pocket, started for the poor farm to inform Sam Drisco and his mother of the turn in their fortunes. It was a delightful fall morning, the air cool and crisp, with an oxygen cocktail in every breath. Na- ture was at her loveliest, just decking herself in those gorgeous hues which are at the hei^Tit of fashion at that season of the year. A devout person would have seen God in everything. But Richard was never devout when alonCj and had the appearance of a "believer" only when in company. He gladly threw off the robes of hypocrisy which were so much of a burden and a mortification to him, when- ever he could do so without endangering his standing with the people among whom he dwelt. The "evi- dences" did not attract his attention. He was com- muning with himself, and was, as it were, at the crisis of his life. A mistake would be fatal. If he could win the important case of Drisco vs. Manning, his po- sition as a lawyer would be established. He need no longer spend his time drawing conveyances and writ- ing contracts, but could leave clerk's work to clerks, and Richard Baxter would be in fact Attorney and 162 THREE APPEALS TO GOD 153 Counsellor-at-Law. He strode rapidly along. The purple asters at the roadside were at his mercy, for he thoughtlessly struck off their heads with his light walking-stick. He was not thinking of asters. Their beauty did not attract his attention. He was recall- ing to mind some points in Pickering's Reports that were especially applicable to Drisco vs. Manning, and he said to himself: "Father was right. Pickering's Reports are like the Scriptures, for in them He hidden treasures." Then his mind became reminiscent, and his thoughts ran back a dozen years or so to the time of the death of Eben Drisco. He soUloquized: "Eben Drisco was a good man, a model man, a pro- fessed and presiunably a good Christian. A kind husband, a good father, and his family had much need of him." Then turning and facing a huge boulder that had at some time, long ago, rolled down the mountain and rested by the roadside: "They say that God is omnipotent, omnipresent, and omniscient. If that is so, God must be in this rock. Now, tell me, O Rock of Ages, granite God, why this good man, who was so much needed here, was removed, and why so many miserable wretches who cumber the earth are suffered to live." Then passing on down the road, he next stopped at the foot of a giant oak, and apostrophized: "If God is everywhere, in everything. He must be with you. Tell me, monarch of the forest, why should that poor, worthy widow and her orphan son be made to suffer unjustly so many years, and to be deprived 154 RICHARD BAXTER of the enjoyment of their own, while the wicked flour- ish like a green bay tree?" He passed on, and a bend in his path brought him to the bank of the river, that flowed on down through the farm of Solomon Gibson. Stopping, he took off his hat and again spoke : "O majestic river, beginning with the dewdrop in the mountains far away in the north, gathering vol- ume and strength every inch that you flow to the sea, until you float great ships on your bosom, if God is omnipresent He must be in you. Tell me, beautiful river, why the weary seek rest in your depths. Why should that lovely maiden have been obliged to fly to you for shelter, to protect her from a worse fate.? Why, oh, why.'' Will these mysteries never be ex- plained.'"' There was no sacrilege intended by Richard Baxter in the asking of these questions. They were honest inquiries inspired by the doubting mind that was born in him, and from which he would gladly have freed himself, but could not. "Lord, help my un- belief." He resumed his walk and soon reached the poor farm. Sam Drisco was in the field, digging potatoes. He could hobble on one crutch, handling quite efi^ectively his potato digger, and turn the "murphys" out of the hills faster than a boy with a basket could pick them up. He had no lazy bones in him, and although it was painful for him to get about, he preferred doing it, even without pay, than lazily to drone out the day. TELL ME, O ROCK OF AGES, GRANITE GOD. THREE APPEALS TO GOD 155 He was surprised by a "Hello, Sam," from Richard, to which familiar greeting he quickly responded : "Hello, Dick. It's good for sore eyes to see you. What in time brought you out here?" "Why, you idiot, my legs, of course. How stupid you are getting! You haven't as many eyes as a potato. Living up here among the aristocracy seems to have befuddled you. I know what is the matter. It's high living, too much to eat." He continued : "I'm a tax-payer — pay a dollar a year poll-tax — and I've appointed Richard Baxter, Esq., Attorney and Counsellor-at-Law, a committee to inspect the poorhouse, and see that the people's money is not be- ing carelessly wasted ; and particularly that the guests at this hotel don't have too much salt on their potatoes." This badinage on the part of Richard astonished Sam, as he had not seen him for a long time when he was not in the dumps, and he wondered what could have happened thus to raise his friend's spirits. "Well," said Sam, "tell us all about it. I'm glad to congratulate you." "Congratulate me! You are the one to be con- gratulated. I have some good news." "For me .'' Well, break it gently. I'm not used to that kind. I could bear additional bad news, if 'tweren't the death of my mother, God bless her." "AU right, Sam, come across the road, and we'll sit down on that log over yonder, for I've a good deal to say, and we want no eavesdroppers." Sam went across the road slowly, and after shaking il66 RICHARD BAXTER hands cordially, they sat down together on the log. Richard drew from his pocket the copy of the satis- faction, and as he handed it to Sam, remarked : "Read that. It is an attested copy. The original is safe in the vault at the County Clerk's office. After you read it, I'll tell you all about it." It is difficult to describe Sam Drisco's emotions. The first thing that he said was : "Thank God, my poor mother will have her old home to die in, for she has often said since we came here that she could endure living at the poorhouse, but the prospect of dying there and of being buried as a pauper made her miserable." Richard related all the details of the finding of the satisfaction; and expressed the opinion that when it was executed it was probably left with Esquire Baxter for safe keeping. This view seemed to be corrobo- rated by the memorandum to remind Drisco to have it recorded. The accident to Eben Drisco, by which he lost his life on the way home that day, prevented any knowledge coming from him as to the transaction, be- yond his last anxious words to his wife that he had paid Daniel Manning. One thing they could not understand: Why were not the note and mortgage surrendered at the time of the payment of the money and the execution of the satisfaction.'' Daniel Manning, in all probability, had them in his pocket at the time, and perhaps, no de- mand being made, had kept them. The satisfaction not coming to light led him into a crime, which the death soon after of Abraham Baxter made it easy to THREE APPEALS TO GOD 157 commit, and, as it turned out, difficult of detection. It was natural that the question as to whether or not John Manning had knowledge of the fraud should be discussed between them. Sam was positive that he knew all about it, in which opinion Richard concurred. But whether he did or did not know that he was stealing from Sam Drisco was comparatively of little concern. Richard had discovered a most important document, John Manning appeared about to be van- quished, and the fortunes of the Driscos seemed again more hopeful. CHAPTER XXIX Did He Love Hee? NOTHING has been said about the love af- fairs of Richard Baxter, for the reason that there was nothing to say. That the sexual affections were dormant would hardly express it cor- rectly. We might more properly say that they were inert, undeveloped, like the strength of a giant whose muscles had never been tested. Some day, no doubt, this power would be shown. The strongest sentiment in Richard, he himself would have said, was his affec- tion for Mary Miles ; but it never occurred to him to look upon her other than as upon a sister. His love for her was an undiscovered mine, and there were no surface indications. He had not suspected the pos- session of the undeveloped passion. He called the evening before Mary went away to tell her of the finding of the satisfaction, intending to talk it over and ask her advice ; and went away but little disappointed, as he expected to see her on the morrow, which would do nearly as well. There were many morrows passed before they met again, and meanwhile a great many happenings of important mo- ment in both their lives occurred. He called again the next day, received her brief note and a simple statement of the facts from Mrs. Miles. That Richard was lonesome after Mary left can 15B DID HE LOVE HER? 159 readily be understood, as she was his nearest friend and only intimate associate. Her absence made a void that could not be filled. He felt the loss of her society more than, under the same circumstances, would most of the young men of the village, who usu- ally spent their evenings going from store to store, where they sat on the counters, exchanged gossip and told stories. Twaddle did not suit Richard, and he never indulged in it. If there was any subject worthy of discussion, he was always ready to take part, and could talk well ; but he could not make talk. Most of the evenings that he had been in the habit of spending with Mary, he now occupied in reading. This gave him more time for Pickering's Reports; but they had become a bore. That was not a day of magazines or periodical liter- ature. Daily newspapers were only published in large cities, and it was seldom that a copy reached Mendon. There was a home Weekly, and no one could criticize if, in referring to it, it were spelled Weakly. There being no circulating library in Mendon, there was really a dearth of reading-matter. The debating society held occasional meetings. Richard was a member, but not being controversial by nature, seldom took active part, though he often coached the contestants on both sides of a question, being well able to do this, from the fact that he was by far the best-read man in Mendon. The singing-school was another diversion, but Mary's absence had robbed it of all interest to him. Another reason, though it never occurred to him, \^'hy 160 RICHARD BAXTER he took little interest in the singing-school was a prej- udice against the Professor, who had been quite at- tentive to Mary. The dances occasionally held at the tavern had like- wise no attraction for him. But at the spelling bee he really enjoyed himself. Being the most proficient speller in town, he headed the list of contestants selected by the leaders who had the first choice, and Mary, when present, was always chosen to head the opposite sidd CHAPTER XXX " I'll Clip the Wattles of That Turkey Cock " JOHN MANNING was a good judge of horse- flesh. He had a natural love for horses, having been brought up among them (Deacon Manning was quite a breeder when John was young), was fa- miliar with all of their good and bad points, and could detect an unsoundness or a blemish at a glance. His opinion with regard to a horse was valued by his neighbors. He had once or twice intimated that a horse that Si Slocum was endeavoring to sell might not be perfectly sound. Though not a horse-dealer to any great extent, he was recognized as a horse- man and a member of the unorganized guild, one un- written law of which was, that each should mind his own business. The fact that the hinted opinion of John Manning had prevented two of Si Slocum's prospective trades, had led the oracle to have an opinion of his own in regard to him, and that was that he was a "derned slouch" ; and he went so far as to say that he would get even with that Prince of Manning's Corners, and added with a big oath: "I'll clip that turkey cock's wattles afore a great while, ye see if I don't." Si was already graduated from the tavern barn, 161 162 RICHARD BAXTER and had long since ceased to be a hostler. He had accumulated a little money, and this capital enabled him to trade horses to advantage, as he always kept a bulge on his wallet. As evidence of his prosperity, he wore a light drab, double-breasted overcoat, with welted seams, and abundantly ornamented with big horn buttons; and a tall drab hat. From a horseman's point of view he was really quite stun- ning. As has been said, Si had a great faculty for fixing up a horse. He had an equal faculty for fixing one down. On his return from one of his mysterious journeys, he brought with him a pretty little mare, which was hustled into his private stable and put under lock and key, before being seen by more than two or three. He took entire care of the horse him- self, not permitting his helper to go near the animal. This conduct on his part aroused suspicion at once, for anything that wasn't as open as the day in that community, where every man minded everybody's business but his own, must necessarily need watching, and Bill Johnson, the hostler and occasional helper to Si Slocum, appointed himself a watcher. Si put up with this for a few days, and then made up his mind that it was safer to take Bill into his confidence. This he did, and Bill entered heartily into the scheme to "clip the wattles of that turkey cock." About six weeks after Si had brought in the little mare, whose existence had been forgotten by the two or three who saw her, he one day drove out of the bam with the worst-looking specimen of horseflesh ever I'LL CLIP THAT TURKEY COCK 163 seen in that community, hitched to an old buggy. Horse, harness, and buggy were all in keeping. It was a frouzelly looking, unkempt, uncurried, un- carded little mare, with her mane and tail full of bur- docks. She had a decided limp in her off foreleg, evidence of a big spavin in her nigh hindleg. Her legs were puffy, and all in all she was a pretty poor specimen of horseflesh. Si had been watching from the barn for John Man- ning to drive up, as it was about the time of day that he usually came, and as soon as Manning arrived in front of the tavern. Si drove around with his wonder- ful equipage, which at once attracted the attention of the "committee," and someone sang out: "Hello, Si has drawn the booby prize." As he came along by the side of Manning's fine turnout he was saluted with : "HeUo, Si, what you got there.-'" "Got a fast boss," replied Si. "Fast hoss?" sneered Manning. "Yes, Mr. Mannin', a fast hoss, an' the subscriber means jest what he says." There was considerable badgering on both sides, and jeers from the crowd. John Manning said: "I'U bet you. Si Slocum, that that horse of yours can't be gotten over the road a mile in eighteen min- utes, unless loaded in a wagon." "Wall," said Si, "I'll bet you a hundred dollars thet she kin beat thet thar team o' your'n in a two-mile spurt. Now, put up er shet up." 164 RICHARD BAXTER "Well, if that's your little game, I'm your man. Name your terms." "Wall," said Si, "I'll bet you a hundred doUars, an' the tavern-keeper shall hoi' the stakes, thet I kin drive this ole mare, ahind which I'm a-settin', from Mannin's Corners to this 'ere tavern quicker'n you kin your spankin' bays." "I'll take that bet," said Manning, drawing out his wallet and counting out one hundred dollars, which he gave to the landlord. Then turning to Si he said : "Cover that or close your clam shell." Si drew from his pocket a big, bulgy wallet, from which he counted out one hundred dollars, all in small bills, and handed them to the stakeholder ; then fold- ing up his wallet, which appeared as if an elephant had stepped on it, put it in his pocket, and with a good deal of bluster said : "I'll bet you 'nuther hundred dollars thet ye can't git here into two minutes as quick's I kin." John Manning, who had noticed the condition of the wallet, jumped to the conclusion that it was empty, and that Si was bluffing, said he would take the bet; though he did not consider that he was running any risk, even if Si did have the money. He handed an- other hundred dollars to the tavern-keeper. Si pulled out his wallet and took from the inside tuck a hun- dred-dollar bill, which he gave to the stakeholder. "Now," said Si, "I'll make ye 'nuther prop'sition." Although John Manning did not like to be bluffed, he concluded that it was not best to risk any more money, beginning to feel a little suspicious. I'LL CLIP THAT TURKEY COCK 165 They had no difficulty in agreeeing upon four judges. A line was stretched from a window in the third story of the tavern across the driveway, to the pole upon which, in a frame at the top, swung the old tavern sign. They agreed to be at Manning's Corners at eight o'clock the next morning; two of the judges were to be there to start them. At the appointed hour John Manning with his team, Si Slocum with the little mare hitched to a sulky, and two of the judges, in a light wagon, were at Man- ning's Corners ready for the race. It was agreed that they should start from a "standstill." At the word "go" they started. For the first quar- ter of a mile Manning's team was well in the lead. He jeeringly called to Si to "come on." Soon the little mare warmed up to her business and left John Manning far in the rear, so far, in fact, that he soon realized that he was beaten, and had it not been for his hope of winning the second bet he would have turned and driven home. The whole town was assembled in the square. Even the sober-minded people were there. Old Parson Snodgrass just happened to cross the road as Si Slo- cum drove under the line, and a mighty cheer went up, in which the Parson joined, waving his hat; then remembering who he was, hurried away to his home, not daring to trust himself longer with the excited crowd, who had cheered themselves hoarse during the time that elapsed before Manning rounded the corner. As he drove under the line he asked the judges: "Good for second bet, ain't I?" 166 RICHARD BAXTER "Sorry to say, Mr. Manning, that you have lost both." The explanation of the matter was, that Si Slocum, having determined to "do" John Manning, had bor- rowed of a friend in a neighboring town the famous mare "Dolly," who had a record of 2:40, fast trot- ting in those days. The judges directed the tavern-keeper to give the stakes to Si Slocum, who invited the whole town to drink. Rum ran like water. It didn't seem as if there was a teetotaler in the town, and the tavern- keeper said he hadn't sold so much "sence las' gin'ral trainin'." CHAPTER XXXI TEItTMPH OF WkONG THE never-ceasing thought of Richard Bax- ter and Sam Drisco was how to get restitution and damages for the outrageous wrong com- mitted in the turning out of doors and driving to the poorhouse of Sam and his mother. Mrs. Drisco was not told of the finding of the satis- faction, as she was inchned to be garrulous, and they were not ready to take the public into their confidence. It was hardly probable that any compromise could be effected. The satisfaction was prima-facie evi- dence of a strong character, but they must, if pos- sible, corroborate it. The principals were dead, and the chance of finding a witness was slight. Most likely the defense would be that the satisfac- tion was a forgery, which would place Richard in a precarious position; but he saw before him a wrong to right, a duty to perform, and would not shrink from it, whatever the risk to himself. It was of the utmost importance that he should begin right and make no mistakes. It would have been of great ad- vantage could he have counselled with someone. This he was unable to do, as every lawyer in the county was against him, because of what they called unpro- fessional conduct. Surely, Richard received little en- couragement in his effort to be an honest la,wyer, 167 168 RICHARD BAXTER Finding it impossible to get corroborative testi- mony as to the genuineness of the satisfaction, he de- cided to take his chances without it. The usual legal preliminaries were begun. The announcement of the case of Samuel Drisco versus John Manning created, as might have been expected, a great sensation, and many times before the day of trial the case had been tried in the court of public opinion, and a verdict rendered each day. The sym- pathies of the people were with Sam Drisco, and in their verdict they gave him restitution and substantial damages; but the cool judgment of the lawyers was that without corroborative testimony the satisfaction would be thrown out of court. The day of the trial came and there was no delay In securing a jury. Richard Baxter appeared for the plaintiiF and John Canfield, who ranked as leader of the Bar in Mendon, for the defense. The trial was short. The only witness for the plaintiff was Richard himself, and he could only tes- tify to the finding of the satisfaction. All the evi- dence, except as to its genuineness, was admitted by the defense. As Mrs. Drisco was not able to appear In court, her affidavit was submitted detailing Eben Drisco's dying words, with which the reader is familiar. John Canfield for the defense offered no evidence, but contented himself with a claim that the satisfac- tion was a forgery, a deep plot to defraud his client, and in his argument charged the plaintiff's attorney with the conception and execution of the fr§,ud, and TRroMPH OF WRONG 169 asked his honor, the judge, to instruct the jury that there was no cause of action. The judge did so, and the jury, without leaving their seats, rendered that verdict. Immediately the sheriff stepped up to Richard Bax- ter, presented a warrant, and arrested him for for- gery. He was stupefied with surprise. The con- sciousness of his innocence rendered his astonishment the greater. He, Richard Baxter, guilty of forgery ! Who could think so? He soon realized that he had to*meet the stern realities of the law, as he was under arrest. As he turned he saw standing before him John Manning, with a devilish grin of satisfaction on his face. "Shouldn't have thought this of you, Dick," he re- marked,/with an ill-concealed tone of pleasure. Canfield had drawn near, that he might enjoy the defeat of Richard, whom he had always disliked with the feeling that vice ever has toward virtue. He said nothing, however, for which Richard was thankful. The district attorney presented the indictment found by the grand jury, and moved that the pris- oner should be immediately arraigned. The judge so ordered. The clerk read the indictment. The grand jury had found a true bill against Richard Baxter for forgery in the first degree, charging the forging and issuance of a certain satisfaction for the purpose of defrauding one John Manning. Richard pleaded not guilty. The district attor- ney moved that he be committed to jail to await trial at the next term of the criminal court. 170 RICHARD BAXTER "Your Honor," said Richard, addressing the Judge, "am I not entitled to bail?" "Certainly," responded the judge, and turning to the district attorney, asked: "What amount do you suggest?" Manning whispered quickly to Canfield, and he to the district attorney, who replied : "Your Honor, in view of the enormity of the pris- oner's offense against the law and there being no doubt of his guilt, I would move that the bail be fixed at ten thousand dollars." The amount astonished the judge, and in response to the claim that it was excessive, he said, "I think it is. The bail is fixed at one thousand dollars." Richard did not suppose for a moment that he would have any difficulty in securing bail, and was deeply chagrined by the refusal of a half-dozen people, not one of whom did he suppose would decline. "Well, to jail it is, then," he despondently said to the deputy sheriff. As they went down the court- house steps toward the jail, they saw Si Slocum hur- rying across the square. "Hold on there, Mr. Sheriff, don't be in sich a derned hurry. I want thet pris'ner. I'll go bail fer 'im." They returned to the courtroom, and Si Slocum said to the judge that he wished to become bondsman for the appearance of Richard Baxter. "Do you know the amount of the bond?" sneered the district attorney. TRIUMPH OF WRONG ITl "Wall," repHed Si, "I heerd 'twas a thousan' dol- lars." "Your Honor," said the district attorney, "it is useless to waste the time of the court on this worthless horse- jockey. He is not worth a thousand cents." "Would it not be weU," said the judge, "to let the man speak for himself.?" And turning to Si, he said: "What is your name?" "Si Slocum, Yer Honor." "Mr. Slocum, do you wish to become surety for the appearance of Richard Baxter to stand trial on the charge of forgery at the next term of the criminal court?" "I do, Yer Honor." "Have you property to the amount of one thou- sand dollars, necessary to qualify you to act as bonds- man?" "I hev, Yer Honor." "Of what does it consist, and where is it located?" "It is in cash, Yer Honor, an' here 'tis," taking his wallet out of his pocket and counting out ten one- hundred-dollar bills. The judge said to the clerk of the court: "Take charge of this money and prepare the bond for exe- cution." "I object," said the district attorney. "On what ground?" asked the judge. "I do not think he is a fit man." "There, that will do. You have carried your ob- jections quite far enough. Your conduct begins to look like persecution." CHAPTER XXXII Town Meeting IT was election day and local politics ran high. The town hall was filled at an early hour. There was as usual a lively contest for the office of moderator, for in addition to the honor pertaining to the position, the incumbent dined at the expense of the town. It took several votes to settle the question as to who should preside over the day's deliberations. This was decided by a close vote, and the order of business began. There were quite a nmnber of questions regarding repairing roads and bridges and other matters of sim- ilar import during which the voting by ballot for town offices was going on, it being ordered that the polls should remain open two hours. The officers to be elected for the ensuing year were three selectmen, a town clerk, three assessors, two con- stables, and a justice of the peace. The domi- nant party had become hopelessly divided and could not agree upon a candidate for the latter office. There were animated discussions by little groups, and the calls of the moderator to "be in order" were not heeded. While some were not conscious of loud talk you could have heard them reason for a mile. One group was so especially turbulent that the mod- 172 TOWN MEETING 173 erator called out, "Captain Shedd, come to order. What's the matter with you?" The reply came quickly, "Ebenezer Richardson wants me to vote just as I'm a mind to, and I'm d d if I will." In this disagreement on the election of a justice of the peace, the "boys" thought they saw an opportu- nity to have a little fun. They went over to the printing office and had some ballots struck off, which read: "For Justice of the Peace, Josiah Slocum," and distributed them freely. Everybody took it as a good joke, and many, without considering the result, voted for Si, who had been an innocent victim, having taken no part in the game. The tavern stood right across the square and many times and often there was occasion to "go over and see a man." The present generation did not orig- inate the practice or the phrase. All did not go for a drink, as many went for pie and cheese, which was always in great demand for luncheon. Not a few brought their doughnuts and cheese from home. The board of selectmen took their dinners at the tavern on election day and charged the item openly in the ex- pense account as "Paid Lory Watson for dinners for the selectment and moderator, one dollar." This was their only perquisite. Town-meeting day was the day of all the year. Everyone came to town to visit, and the villagers were 1174. RICHARD BAXTER expected to keep open house for their uncles, their aunts, their cousins, relatives, and- friends gen- erally. The noon recess was from twelve to one, and on the return to the town hall, there was among many a feel- ing of "how come you so?" One old fellow from Johnson's Corners had been complaining about a woman who scolded everybody that came near her, and who, when they didn't come near enough, would go out into the road after them. He had called the attention of the moderator to the fact several times and no action had been taken. Finally he got desperate, for the last thing that his wife said to him when he left home in the morning was, "If you don't get Sal Johnson to shut up, you needn't come home." The moderator told him that he must make a motion, and he would put it to a vote. After dinner and several drinks of New England rum, his courage reached the oratorical point and he made the following motion : "Mr. Moderator, I move thet Sal Johnson is an open-mouthed old scold an' thet the s'lectmen be a committee to look into it." "Second the motion," came from all parts of the hall. The moderator said, "You have heard the motion of Mr. Bixby. All who are in favor will say aye, con- trary, no." It was unanimously carried. There had been quite a vigorous discussion between young Mr. Filkins, who had just graduated from col- lege, and old Mr. Bamett, in which Mr. Filkins had TOWN MEETING 175 accused Mr. Barnett of making a certain statement, which the latter denied. Mr. Filkins replied: "What you said was tantamount." Mr. Barnett, not understanding what his opponent had said, asked a bystander, "What did he say.^"' The reply was, "He called you a catamount." "Mr. Moderator," yelled Mr. Barnett. "Mr. Mod- erator, I didn't come to this 'ere town meetin' to be consulted by any little squirt, jest 'cause he come from college. Mr. Moderator, I fit in the Revolutionary, I did, an' I've ben to town meetin' more nor fifty year, an' this is the fust time I've ben consulted an' called names, an' ef this is the way to treat an ole pensioner, I'll go hum," and away he went. It was but a little while before that young Filkins was in an argument with old Mr. Dunlop, who was very lame and with difiiculty hobbled about. He had stated his proposition, and Filkins, replying, had said that Mr. Dunlop was lame in his statement. "Mister Moderator, Mister Moderator," screamed the angry old man. "Yes, I am lame, an' I ain't to blame fer it, an' I don't like to be twitted on it. I ain't to blame, Mister Moderator, fer bein' lame. I couldn't help bein' kicked by a mule, an' now it's putty dern tough to be kicked by a young jackass right here in town meetin'." This brought down the house. Young Filkins sub- sided, and old Mr. Dunlop seemed mollified by the ap- plause that he received. The counting of the ballots cast for town offices progressed without incident, until the box for justice 176 RICHARD BAXTER of the peace was opened, and the counting begun. Then, many who had voted thoughtlessly for Si Slo- cum for the honorable and important office of justice of the peace began to consider their action, felt a little alarm, and hoped that he had been defeated, as either of the other candidates was, in their estimation, far better fitted for the office. The disgrace to the town of having elected a disreputable horse jockey as jus- tice of the peace would make them the laughing stock of the whole county and perhaps the whole State. But it was too late to prevent it. The ballots were cast and the result was the election of Si Slocum by a plu- rality of three. Those who styled themselves the best people were horrified, but the "boys" were jubilant, for they were quite sure, to use a modern phrase, that they would have a "wide-open town." In the village that night they had a great celebra- tion, almost equal to that of the Fourth of July. They borrowed the blacksmith's anvil and fired thir- teen guns, as they termed the explosions of powder. They "chipped in" and bought some spirits of tur- pentine and candle wicking enough to make a dozen fire-balls, and made all the arrangements for a grand pow-wow. Rum flowed freely across the tavern bar, and it looked as if there wouldn't be a sober man of the "committee" by eight o'clock. The Continental Band, bass drum, kettle drum and fife, were on hand. The men comprising this band were each over eighty years old. Evidently there is something about the soul-stirring drum and the ear-piercing fife that is TOWN MEETING 177 conducive to longevity. The arrangements were all complete and the ceremonies were to begin with a sere- nade beneath the window of Si Slocum's room at the tavern, where it was thought he had hidden himself to prepare a speech. The whole thing was intended to be a surprise to him, but it was the crowd who were surprised, for Si could not be found; but the play went on without him. The hostler at the tavern barn said that Squire Slo- cum hitched up his trotter at about six o'clock, saying that he guessed he'd take a spin up the pike. He did not return until long after the rioters had gone home and the town was quiet. CHAPTER XXXIII A Diamond in the Rough THE act of Si Slocum in becoming his bonds- man was as great a surprise to Richard Bax- ter as it was to everybody else. After the execution of the bond and his release, they walked over to the office and Richard asked for an explanation. "Why, Mr. Slocum, did you become my bonds- man?" "Ye see, Mr. Richard, I was alius misfortunate. Was born in the poorhouse. I never hed no father, as I know on. My mother 'ud never tell me nothin' 'bout 'im, an' I don't know as she knowed what be- come of 'im. I stayed in the poorhouse till I was twelve year ole; then they bound me out to Farmer Jinkins, an' ef thar ever was a meaner man than ole Jinkins, it was Mis' Jinkins, his wife. Thar warn't no children, but he alius called 'er mother. Why, Mr. Richard, she was thet mean thet a respectable skunk wouldn't hev owned her fer a mother. Mr. Richard, I'd a starved to death ef I hedn't a hed milk to live on." "So they gave you plenty of milk to drink, did they?" "Give me milk to drink? Not much ! Never hed a drink o' milk all the time I lived with ole Jinkins. No, sir, I lamt a trick thet made me fat. It took 178 A DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH 179 some time to git expert, an' Mis Jinkins use to say, 'Si, w'at's thet on yer frock? Ye ben a-drinkin' milk out o' the pail?' 'No, marm,' I use to say. 'I don't like milk, 'speci'Uy w'en it's warm.' Ye see, Mr. Richard, 'twas this way. Ye take holt o' the cow's teats so, an' I got so I could bend the teats jest right, an' squirt two streams inter my, mouth to onct, an' it didn't take long to git a pint er a quart, ef I wanted so much, an' I alius tuk the strippins 'cause thet's putty much all cream. "I stayed at ole Jinkins' nigh onto three year, an' I got to be a big boy, an' strong fer my age, an' done more work than the hired man. "Ole Jinkins never let me go to school, 'though 'twas writ in the 'greement with the overseer of the poor thet I should alius go to the winter school. But ole Jinkins didn't keer fourpence ha'penny fer 'is 'greement. One day I said very 'spectfully, 'Mister Jinkins, ain't ye goin' to lemme go to school this win- ter?' He said, 'I'll I'am ye all ye want to I'arn,' an' he grabbed me by the neck of my frock an' shook me, an' he said, 'Don't ye know yer bound out?' an' he let go an' tried to kick me. I got my mad up fin'ly, an' threw 'im down putty middlin' solid on the hard ground. Then I jumped over the fence into the road. The ole man was a-pickin' hisself up, an' I said, *Good-bye, Mister Jinkins. Give my love to Mis' Jinkins. I'm bound out, do ye hear? I'm bound out, I be.' An' thet was the las' time I ever seen Mis- ter Jinkins. He stud thar ahind the fence, a-shakin' a fist at me. 180 RICHARD BAXTER "Wall, I run round from pillar to post, as I've hearn tell on, fer nigh on to three year, got lots o' hard work, gin'Uy 'nuff to eat, but no schoolin' ner no money nuther; thet's to say 'mountin' to nuthin'. They alius managed somehow to cheat me out o' my wages, er bring me in debt. I tell ye, Squire Baxter, these 'ere farmers is a tough lot, an' closer than the bark on a tree. "I heerd a good deal 'bout goin' to sea, an' I thought the water couldn't be wuss fer me than the land was, so I tramped down to Boston an' tuk a job on a big ship thet was a-goin' to sail thet arternoon fer Calcutty. I axed the feller 'How long shall we be gone.^" an' he said, 'Oh, I reckon a couple o' weeks.' Wall, 'twas nigh onto two year afore I seen Boston ag'in, an' I got 'nuff o' goin' to sea. The cappen was wuss nor ole Jinkins. Ye couldn't jaw back ner say nuthin' till arter ye was soun' asleep in yer ham- mock, down in the fo'castle. Ef ye did, ye'd be hit over the head with a marlin spike, er strung up to the stays an' gin forty lashes with the rope's end. Don't want no more o' thet kind o' boardin' school in mine, ef ye please." "Well, I don't blame you. Si," interrupted Rich- ard; "sea captains are cruel tyrants." "I alius look on my voyage to Calcutty," continued Si, "same's two years in the workhouse. The cappen was wuss nor a hog, an' hedn't it ben fer the mate, who was a good feller, thar'd ben a mutiny, an' the black flag 'ud 'a gone to the masthead, fer thar was more'n one sailor aboard thet ship who'd ben a pirate. A DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH 181 I never was gladder in all my life than when we hauled up side o' Long Wharf. "Wen the ship was discharged I hed more money than I'd ever hed in all my life. I fell into the han's of the sailor boardin' -house keepers. These crimpers are the wust men thet ever lived, reg'lar land pirates, an' afore ten days my money was all gone. I was shanghaied, an' w'en I come out o' my drunk I f oun' myself two days out to sea, on one o' Enoch Train's Liverpool liners. "I got back to Boston in 'bout three months, an' w'en I was paid oflF I thought I'd profit by the lesson I'd I'arnt an' keep away from them rum holes; but I didn't, an' 'twarn't three days, one Saturday night, afore I fell into the han's o' the same gang thet robbed me afore. But this time I wasn't stupid drunk, but fightin' drunk, an' in the fight I struck the man who'd robbed me, a blow thet killed 'im ; so I thought at the time, but, thank God, he didn't die. I got away from the drunken crowd as quick's possible. Though I was crazy drunk w'en the fracas begun, I was as sober a man as ever lived in a minute. "I heerd the cry of 'Watch, watch!' an' run down Ann street as fast as my legs could carry me. It seemed to me thet thar was a thousan' men arter me. I turned suddenly into a dark alley, an' stumbled over a derrick thet stood leanin' ag'in the wall. I fell, an' as I picked myself up, I thought thet if I could climb up the derrick I'd stan' a good chance to beat 'em. My sailor experience was wuth havin'. I clim' up one side of the derrick an' hed straddled the cross- 182 RICHARD BAXTER piece at the top, w'en the watch, followed by the crowd, reached the aUey. 'He turned in here, Bill. Two of ye run round to t'other end an' head 'im off.' The watch sprang their rattles f er help, an' passed d'rectly under me, an' up the alley in the dark. They come back much slower than they went in, an' I heerd 'em say, 'He's a slick un. He's got away sure. He's mos' likely made down to one o' the wharves an' '11 hide 'board some vessel. I know whar to look fer sich fellers.' They hurried down Ann street, an' turned toward the wharves. "It soon got quiet, but I didn't dast to come down. Must 'ave stayed up on thet cross-bar more nor two hour, not able to make up my min' what to do. As I was 'bout to come down, I heerd somebody comin'. It turned out to be a man staggerin' drunk. He turned into the alley, an' sunk down on the ground. I lis- tened a few minutes, then slid down one side o' the derrick, an' run out o' the alley. "I didn't git more'n ten fathoms afore I bed an idee, an' I run back into the alley an' stooped down to feel o' the critter. He was dead-drunk sure 'nuff. I took off all 'is clothes, an' then pulled off my togs an' got him into 'em, an' put on hissen. I foun' four an' sixpence in my pockets, an' thet was all the swag the robbers bed lef me out o' three months' wages. I tuk my belt an' sheath knife, thinkin' it mought be handy in helpin' a murderer to git away. I started down Ann street, not feelin' very comfort'ble in my new togs. I felt suthin' in the pockets, an' at the fust light looked over what I'd got, an' foun' I bed a HE TURNED IN HERE, BILL. A DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH 183 leather purse an' in it was some gold, an' thar was a gold watch in the waistcoat pocket. "Fer 'bout two minits I was as happy 's ef I'd foun' a gold mine. Then I hed a set-to with Si Slocum. 'Yer a thief, are ye. Si Slocum? Ye hed to swap clothes 'cause yer neck 'ud be stretched ef they ketched ye. Now, Si Slocum, ye killed a man 'cause ye had to. Ye swapped clothes 'cause ye hed to to save yer neck, but the time hain't come w'en ye hed to steal, an' ye ain't a-goin' to.' 'Yes, thet's all very well, but ef I don't take this swag, someone else will afore mornin', sure.' 'Wall, p'raps they will an' p'raps they won't, but more'n likely yer right, an' some thief '11 come 'long an' rob the poor drunken cuss, but you ain't a-goin' to do it, Si Slocum.' Wall, Mr. Richard, arter this argument I went back to the alley, an' put the watch an' the purse into the man's pockets." "Thank God!" ejaculated Richard. "I'm glad you didn't rob the man." "An' I've ben glad ever sence. I've ben orful hard up, many a time, but I never longed fer thet money. "I saw a barber's pole in a cellarway an' went down. " 'Bress de Lawd ! Bress de Lawd ! ! Bress de Lawd!!!' said a coal-black nigger. " 'W'at's the matter with you.'" " 'W'y, honey, I'se ben prayin' foh ye to come foh more'n two hours, foh I needs de money. Hain't ben a man in heah all de day long.' " 'WaU, I'm here now. Cut my hair an' shave me, quick.' "He begun a-clippin' with 'is shears. Stoppin' all 184i RICHARD BAXTER at onct, he looked at a wooden clock thet stud on a shelf. 'Twas ten minutes of twelve. " 'Can't do it in dat time,' said he, an' turned the han's back to half -pas' 'leven. "'Wat's thet fer?' I axed 'im. 'WeH, boss, I'll 'splain. I'se a perfessed, I is, an' I can't work on de Lawd's day.' "I knew thet my only chance fer escape was to git out o' Boston quick's I could. I went up Ann street, through Dock Square, up Washington street, an' over the neck to Roxbury, out on to the Dedham road. I knowed by the f eelin' thet my clothes was finer nor I'd ben used to, an' w'en it got light I seed thet I was togged like a gentleman, an' anybody 'ud see in a minute thet the rig wam't mine. "I seed a little ways oiF a farm house, an' a big barn. I was mos' starved, an' tired. W'y, Mr. Rich- ard, ef I'd a ben puUin' on the mainsail fer a week I couldn't a ben more tired. Thar was more'n twenty cows in the linter. I foun' a milkin'-stool an' sot down aside a leetle heifer, got breakfas' a,s I use to at ole Jinkins'. 'Twas sunrise by this time an' I heerd voices, which made it necessary fer me to hide quick's I could. What scart me more'n anything else was a dog barkin', an' I heerd a man say, 'Wat's the mat- ter. Skip.'' Ben some chicken thieves round here, eh.'" "On one side of the barn floor was a fixed ladder runnin' up on to the scaffold, w'ich was full o' hay. Standin' on the floor an' leanin' 'gainst the ladder was some rakes an' forks. On 'em was some bags a-hangin' to dry. I was keerful not to tip over these A DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH 185 things, but dim' up the ladder quick, into the hay- mow, an' crawled over the hay, clear to the end o' the barn' an' hid under the hay. The dog gin short barks, as ef f ollerin' my tracks. I could hear the man a-talkin' to the dog. *0h, he got into thet winder, did he? Thar, go fin' 'im.' I thought thet he h'isted the dog into the winder, as I heerd barkin' in the barn below. 'Ah, he milked this heifer. Thar's the stool whar he left it. Go fer 'im. Skip. Oh, yer fooled thar. He didn't go up the ladder, fer thar's the bags jest whar I hung 'em las' night. Come outside. Skip, an' see ef we kin track 'im.' "I slep' in the hay tiU long arter noon, an' was 'woke up by the cacklin' of a hen thet hed jes' laid an egg in a stolen nest. I felt hungry an' hunted the nest an' foun' a half-dozen eggs, an' sucked 'em. "Soon's 'twas dark I started on the road. I was 'fraid my clothes 'ud gin me away, so I didn't dast to travel in the daytime. I passed a farm house an' saw a man undress an' go to bed. He laid 'is clothes on a cheer right side the open winder. Here's 'nuther chance to change my clothes, I thought. I waited fer an hour fer ev'rything to git still, then I sneaked up to the winder, an' without makin' any noise, pulled the clothes out. It tuk but a minute to slip mine off an' put hissen on. I laid mine on the cheer, an' arter git-; tin' some vittles out of a pantry winder, I went on. "Toward mornin' I crep' inter 'nuther barn an' stayed all day. At night I started ag'in, an' toward mornin' I overtuk a circus on the way to Taunton. I j'ined thet comp'ny an' stayed with 'em nigh three 186 RICHARD BAXTER year. I was helper to the hoss doctor, an' thet's how, Mr. Richard, I got my hoss I'arnin'. We travelled all over the country, down south in the winter an' up north in the summer. It's the wuss life ever a man lived an' I don't b'lieve thet I was real sober three times in the hull three years, thet is, I mean, got the rum all out of me. Thar was a big fight with the perlice down in New Orleans an' I hed to skip. "Wall, Squire, I'm a-spinnin' this into a yarn, but I'll hurry up an' tell ye how I happened to hev an on- settled account with the ole Squire, yer father. 'Twas this way. I staggered into Mendon one night. I'd never ben here afore. I was on a long drunk. In wand'rin' 'bout I happened to set down on the ole Squire's front doorsteps, an' fell asleep, er stupid drunk, I guess, an' the Squire come hum an' foun' me thar. He tuk me, drunk an' sick, into the house, an' it was three weeks afore I was well 'nufF to git about, an' the only question he ever axed me was, 'Wat's yer name?' He never axed me whar I come from, ner no other questions thet I wouldn't liked to hev answered. When I was well 'nuff to work, he got the tavern- keeper to give me a job round the barn. " 'Bout six weeks arter I went to work, 'long come a deputy sheriff from Cass County an' tuk me fer hoss stealin', an' ole Squire Abraham went bail fer me, an' he went over to Cass County an' testified thar thet I was in his house sick at the time the hoss was stole. "An' asides. Squire Richard, you hes alius treated me like as I was a human critter, an' never throwed any airs at me. An' Squire Richard, thet's why I A DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH 187 went into court to-day an' put up a thousan' dollars, all the money I've got, to keep you from layin' in jail till yer trial comes on." Richard took Si by the hand, and started to thank him, beginning, "Mr. Slocum," when Si interrupted him with : "None o' your misterin' me. I'm Si Slocum." "Well, then. Si, I am deeply grateful to you, and thankful to find that I have one friend in this town. But how do you know that I'll not give you the slip and run away ; and then you would lose your money." "Thar's two reasons why I don't think you'll skip over into Canady. Fust is, I don't think ye ever writ thet sat'sfaction piece, an' second, ye ain't the run- away kin', ain't built thet way; an' asides. Squire Richard, ef ye air guilty, thet's jes' what I wants ye to do, an' thet won't no more'n pay my debt to yer father." "No, I am not guilty ; I will not run away." And again taking Si by the hand, "You are a good fellow. What a pity that some of those folks who profess so much are not like you." The following from the Boston Courier of the time, as connected with Si Slocum's narrative, are of interest : 188 RICHARD BAXTER nntry?" '"Yes." hgt. 'of calls ^ im ItQves •^ Court ot tl' ol Wll- of New f.WnsU- r«Uce lairs ed: as chief. taw teibovlng He applies^ *dr ompel tbs ctvU York to cer- oU, as chlet oay hira his >~Appeal3 Devery. Ins this ^on of lonaT- ■ded DRUNKEN BRAWL AND MURDER. Another of those disgraceful scenes that have become so frequent of late took place last night in a groggery under the sailors' boarding house of one John Mondy, who also is pro- prietor of the rum hole where the tragedy took place. It seems that about 9 o'clock a party of drunken sailors led by one Si Slocum came into the bar room where there were some fifteen or twenty other sailors and longshore- men all of whom were pretty full. Si Slocuiti invited everybod/ to take a drink but Mondy refused to set out the liquor until the money, was put up. Slocum told Mondy to take if out of his money which Mondy had robbed him of. There was much angry discussion which culminated in a fight .between Slocum and Mondy, Slocum gave Mondy ablow under the ear and he fell dead. In the excitement Slocum ran out and down Ann street; soon followed however by the crowd leading two of the watch, who always have a habit of get- ting there a little too late. Slocum had a good start but could be seen by his followers as he passed under the street lights. All at once he disappeared up one of the dark alleys so fre- quent on Ann Street. Diligent but unsuccess- ful search was made for him. It is quite possible that he secreted himself on some vessel and more likely than not is now well out at sea. Another murder and another escape is added to the long list charged to the inefficiency of our watch. LATER. Fortunately, we were about to write unfor- tunately, Slocum's blow was not fatal. Had it been the city would have been well rid of one of its worst characters. nni nm Was Or{^ or HARR! s^-Ivanla-* tho clecti Phlladelr, Senate at ton of P.h House. Tho attendant • crowd lA having d' alf mat* lied In Ijotb t list o'^ hold Gov! ■/'' for 1 orn(j Mat kat.i an A or;-" CLIPPING FROM BOSTON COURIER A DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH 189 loTCn .:r tfttcs. lA tipuse on jseil ftnil will iasD:u9. •rty street spratn- '«iu1_fs_ unable to a rctun>ed flrom place, at Oii F. " Mis - CiiHtaji TsJie Is Improv- V one hour, * "Wednesday ■^nferred. 'srfns liavs Vny after \ter, Mrs. Lesterslilre W fipencer, Mte, who were day at Cam- Unton, Friday, tnlatlons from y will be "at Vents, Mr and utb Exchanse ^ observed week. Mrs. M. -•taking a couti.._.,ui> > start to finish. Prices, M, 20 ana SO c«ntB. Matinee. 10 and 20 cents. Seats. How on salsw. fii to A MYSTERY. a 1 _ ' As two of the watch, Bill Sykesand Joe Manley, the same men from whom the sailor got away, were coming up Ann Street this morning Bill said "Let's go over to Back Alley and see if we can find how that sailor got away from us last night." As they turned into |the alley they saw as. they supposed the sailor lying on the ground. "There he is now." They turned the man who was lying face down and found to their great surpnse that it was not the sailor but Col. Atherton of Beacon Street, in a state of stupor. As they raised him he recovered somewhat and exclaimed "where am I?" and then looking at the clothes that he had on, "'Who in the devil am I ? these duds don't belong to me They have changed every- thing but my boots. Lucky they left them or jlcoulditot identify myself." It was evident that the sailor had changed clothing with the Colonel. In the trousers' pocket was found the Colonel's purse containing more than one hun- dred dollars in gold, and in the jacket his gold chronometer watch. This showed that the sailor only wanted the Colonel's clothing to aid in his escape and would not rob his victim. ' The Colonel's explanation was as follows. "I. had some friends who were to sail on the Rob Roy lying at T wharf, for Liverpool this morn- ing, and they went aboard last night, as the ship was to pull out at about midnight, and sail with the tide this morning. I went aboard last night to give them a good send off and must have got pretty full as the last I remember was leaving the ship and coming up T wharf to Sea street." COUNT Y CLERK'S OFFIOE "'t* following deeds haye been »"->or*- County Cler''' ca Wr c< c Ts a: tb CLIPPING FROM BOSTON COURIER CHAPTER XXXIV " Go Slow, Ole Pal " THE election of Si Slocum to the office of justice of the peace took place the day after Richard Baxter's arrest for forgery. His qualifying as bondsman for Richard in his hour of need, and the relation of his life-story to him, in- spired not only a feeling of obligation, but of respect. He thought that he saw in Slocum's character some traits of an entirely different nature than had yet been developed, and he said to Si: "Now is your opportunity. Why not cut loose from your present associates, take a new departure, and make a man of yourself. 'Tis true you lack edu- cation, but that can be largely overcome by a strenu- ous effort on your part. As justice of the peace, you will need an office. You are welcome to come here with me, and I will gladly do all I can to assist you." SI sat and thought for a few moments in silence; then grasping Richard by the hand, said: "Thank ye. Them's the fust encouragin' words ever spoke to me. My life hes ben a fight all alone by myself, with ev'rybody ag'in me. Now I've got one friend, I'll start new, an' so help me God I'll make a man of myself ! Jest as much of a man as He'll let me," he added. That was the reason why Si Slocum hitched up his trotter and took a spin up the pike, in- 19S "GO SLOW, OLE PAL" 191 stead of joining in the festivities arranged to celebrate his election. A neat little sign, bearing the legend : "Josiah Slocum, Justice of the Peace," made its appearance at the foot of the stairs leading to Richard Baxter's office, the next morning. Early in the day the constable brought in one of the "committee," charged with being drunk and dis- orderly, and beating his wife. He pleaded not guilty, and with a leer and a wink at the justice, said: "Go slow, ole pal." The squire heard the evidence, and then remarked: "Ef it hed only ben a plain drunk, Joe, Fd a let ye off, bein' as how it's the fust offense, so fer as the rec- ords of this court shows ; but wif e-beatin' don't git no encouragement in this shop, so I fine ye ten dollars er ten days in jail." If Joe Bunker had seen the ghost of his great- grandfather, he couldn't have been more astonished. He was really dumbfounded, but said nothing. "Pay up?" interrogated the justice. "Hain't got no money," said Joe. The squire then made out the commitment and handed it to the constable, who had not recovered from his surprise. He took his prisoner to jail and locked him up. Thus ended the first session of Squire Slo- cum's court. ,193 RICHARD BAXTER "Court's adjourned," announced Si, although there was no one but himself in the room. He put on his hat and went down to Joe Bunker's house to see how matters were, and found Joe's wife, with five small children, without an ounce of any kind of food. As he turned up the road toward town, he might have been heard to say : "Thank God, I'm a bachelor, an' hain't got sich re- spons'bil'ties on my shoulders." He went into the Emporium and said: "Mr. Palmer, Joe Bunker's in jail, an' his fam'ly hain't got no vittles. Send 'em 'round suthin' to eat." "Yes, yes," said Mr. Palmer. "But ye see, Joe's credit ain't very good." "Wall, all right, I'll pay it." "Yes, yes, but I dunno's your credit's any better." "P'raps not," answered Si. "Thar's two dollars fer ye. An' by the way, I think I've a complaint ag'in ye fer lettin' yer cows run in the highway, ag'in the statutes made an' pervided, an' yer hereby sum- moned to appear afore Squire Si Slocum, justice of the peace, at his office, to-morrow mornin' at nine o'clock. Hereof fail not, under due penalty of the law, so made an' pervided." Deacon Palmer laughed contemptuously as Si went out. "Thet's what comes o' puttin' a beggar on hoss- back," he muttered. The deacon paid no attention the next morning to Squire Slocum's verbal summons. The squire waited half an hour and then sent the constable with a war- rant, who returned, saying that Deacon Palmer said "GO SLOW, OLE PAL" ,193 tliat he was busy and would come over in a day or two. This was too much for the dignity of the court, and Squire Slocum arose in his wrath. He had had in several places a little police-court experience, al- though it was not on the bench, had learned a little something about the dignity of the court, and that it need not permit itself to be trifled with. "Mister Constable," he said, "you bring the body of Deacon Palmer, dead er alive, afore this court at once, er I'll hev ye afore the grand jury fer the dis- ruption of the statutes." This settled the question for the constable, and he again started for Deacon Palmer's, as he did not dare to face so serious a charge as "disruption of the stat- utes." It wasn't more than ten minutes before he returned, and this time he brought the deacon, who at once sat down. "The pris'ner will stan' up." The deacon hesitated a moment, then stood up, and began to say something about not understanding such ridiculous proceedings, when he was interrupted) ibjf the squire, who said: ,»n-ii/ojhB "The constable will take off the pris'ner's.iHiti'ir The squire announced to the deacon, who/beganjto think matters were getting serious, that he wa&^-Biiied one dollar fer lettin' yer critters run in the higlnS^^ay ag'in the statute so made an' pervided. One dollar fer contempt of court in not appearin' accordin' to summons. One doUar fer contempt of court fer not comin' when sent fer; an' two dollars more fer con- tempt of court ag'in, in as how the constable bed to 194 BICHARD BAXTEB go an' fetch ye, which sum total makes jest about fiv dollars, 'cordin' to Daboll." "Sha'n't pay a cent!" thundered the outraged deacon. The news of what was going on in the justice's ofEce had spread through the village, the office was crowded full, and the audience were volubly express- ing surprise. "Hats off," said the squire, "an' be seated." This last was an impossibility, as there were only a half- dozen chairs for more than thirty people. As soon as order was restored. Squire Slocum very blandly asked : "Does the court understan' thet the pris'ner refuses to pay his fines.'"' The deacon answered, "I'll be dod-rotted afore I'll pay." "Very well," replied the squire. "Thar'U be 'nuther dollar fer commitment to jail. You are here- by an' hereon committed to jail in default of payment of six dollars, whar ye shall remain till the fine be paid. Constable, take yer pris'ner to jail. Court's adjourned." By this time the deacon began to realize that he was really in the clutches of the law, paid his fine, was released, and went away muttering vengeance. One of the spectators who had been "down to Bos- ton" and had seen the play of "Julius CjEsar," re- marked : "I wonder what kin' of meat they're a-f eedin to our Caesar, thet he's a-gittin' so fat.'"' CHAPTER XXXV FooKHOUSE Religion WHILE Mrs. Drisco was at the poorhouse, Parson Whiting came once a month to per- form, yes, that's just the word, to perform rehgious services, it being on his part simply a per- formance, for which the town authorities paid him one dollar. Mrs. Drisco was a member of his church and in by- gone days had been an active worker in the parish. That was in the days of prosperity, when the Driscos were esteemed to be well-to-do people. While the Driscos were prosperous, Parson Whiting was a frequent caller, and many a cup of Old Hyson tea and dish of crullers had Mrs. Drisco set before him, much to his enjoyment. Many a leg of lamb, loin of veal, and spare rib had found their way to the parsonage from the Drisco farm. As their fortunes waned, the visits of the parson fell off, and before the climax of their troubles, ceased entirely. Mrs. Drisco charitably excused this by saying, "The minister is getting old and his parish is increasing." Her self- esteem came to the aid of her charity, and she did not seriously sorrow ; Sam, who had no respect for Parson Whiting, was glad to have his visits cease. His deep regard and love for his mother often caused him to refrain from expressing his opinion, es- 195 196 RICHARD BAXTER pecially on religious matters, when it did not agree with hers, and always when there was a possibility of wounding her feeKngs. This restraint on his part often unintentionally deceived and led her to think that they agreed, when the opposite was the fact. Hence, Mrs. Drisco's ideas regarding Sam's religious beliefs were quite erroneous. As a matter of duty to his mother, he attended morning and evening prayer and reading of the Scriptures. Much to his satisfaction, she did the reading and praying. Some time after his father's death she said: "Sam, don't you think it would be more seemly if you were to invoke God's blessing at meals, as you are the head of the family.'' I wish you would do so, my son." "All right, mother, if it will please you." And from that time he had said the blessing. Once in haying season, with much hay down, when they could hardly spare the time for dinner, as the clouds were threatening thunder-showers, they ate quickly, and he hurriedly returned thanks, ending with "all of which we ask — for Christ's sake Orlando get the oxen," as he and the hired man hastened from the table. The first Sunday that Parson Whiting came to the poorhouse after the Driscos were domiciled there, was never forgotten by Mrs. Drisco ; for notwithstand- ing her prayers to forgive him, the remembrance al- ways aroused what she called an unchristian and un- forgiving spirit. The inmates of the poorhouse were POORHOUSE RELIGION 197 gathered In the large room, awaiting the arrival of the minister, whose turn it was to officiate on that day. Mrs. Drisco was seated near the door and distinctly heard the welcome greeting of Mrs. Carter and the response of Parson Whiting. Mrs. Carter said to him: "Mis' Drisco's right by the door, ef ye want to speak to 'er." He replied, "All paupers are the same to me. I cannot make any distinction," and passed, without no- ticing her, to the table by the window and began the service. As soon as she could control her emotions she arose quietly, went to her own room, opened her Bible at the habitual twenty-third Psalm, and began to read: "The Lord is my Shepherd." In spite of all her efforts, "Old Hyson, crullers, all paupers are alike to me," would crowd every other thought from her mind, and once she burst forth, "I hate the old hypocrite." With all her efforts to be a Christian, she could not again enter that man's pres- ence. In this instance old Adam triumphed, and the human controlled the spiritual. She did not tell Sam of this incident, as she felt quite sure that she would get no comfort from him. CHAPTER XXXVI " The Prisoner, Your Honor, Is Dead " ON the morning of his trial. Squire Slocum went with Richard Baxter to the courthouse and surrendered him to the sheriff, and Rich- ard was once more a prisoner. The district attorney said to the sheriff that he had better put the prisoner in jail, as he was not ready to call the case. The sheriff, the same who had declined to dispossess Sam Drisco at the demand of John Manning, replied, "I know my business, and you are not my bondsman"; and turning to Richard, said, "I can trust you and have no desire to mortify you by needlessly putting you in jail." Richard replied, "You may rest assured I will make you no trouble by trying to escape." The case was called. Richard was escorted by the sheriff to the prisoner's box. He was conscious of his innocence and knew there could be no true testimony against him. Hav- ing no money, he was forced to act as his own counsel. The result again verified the old adage that he who is his own lawyer has a fool for a client. The district attorney opened the case with much flourish and bravado, saying in part: "Gentlemen of the jury, the prisoner at the bar, Richard Baxter, attorney-at-law, and a disgrace to 198 THE PRISONER, IS DEAD 199 the legal profession, is guilty of deliberate, long- planned, and most skilfully executed forgery. The annals of this court fail to furnish so criminal a case. "We will show you, gentlemen of the jury, that the prisoner at the bar had the abiHty to commit the for- gery. "We will show you, gentlemen of the jury, that there was abundance of motive to urge the commission of this, in his case especially, reprehensible crime. "These motives were to furnish the means of liv- ing, which he had not the ability to gain from the profession which he has so outrageously disgraced, and to help a life-long, intimate friend to recover his farm, which he had lost by the foreclosure of a mort- gage. "We win prove to you, gentlemen of the jury, by witnesses who are familiar with the signatures of Dan- iel Manning and Abraham Baxter, that those ap- pended to this satisfaction are forgeries. "This, gentlemen of the jury, we admit is to a cer- tain extent circumstantial evidence, but we will place on the witness-stand one who actually saw the defend- ant commit the crime. It was an attempt to rob a highly respected citizen of this town, a gentleman noted for integrity, liberality, generosity, and good citizenship, not only of his money, but of that which is far dearer to John Manning, Esq., his character, his good name. "With these facts, gentlemen of the jury, placed before you, there can be but one verdict." This outrageous arraignment by the district attor- 200 RICHARD BAXTER ney not only astonished Richard Baxter, it staggered and bewildered him. In this dazed condition, not really comprehending his situation, he listened as one who had no personal interest in the testimony. "First," said the district attorney, "we will show the ability of the prisoner to commit forgery. Clerk, call James Foster." "James Foster! James Foster!" A slim young man stepped out from the audience. "Take the stand. Hold up your right hand. You solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth in the evidence you will give in the case of the Commonwealth against Richard Baxter?" The district attorney put the usual questions as to name, age, residence, etc. He then asked: "Do you know the prisoner.''" "Yes, sir." "How long have you known him?" "Nearly twenty years." "Did you go to school with him?" "Yes, sir." "I desire to put in evidence this paper, which I will ask the clerk to mark for identification, exhibit A." To the witness, "Did you ever see that paper before?" "Yes, sir." "What is it?" "It's a copy of the names of the signers of the Dec- laration of Independence." "Is it your property?" "Yes, sir." fa u Q m Q g O I? o H