A California Girl
by Edward Eldridge · English · Gutenberg #28528 · 478,394 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: A California Girl
Author: Edward Eldridge
Release date: April 7, 2009 [eBook #28528]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28528
Credits: Produced by Sarah Sammis, Jen Haines, Roger Frank and the
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CALIFORNIA GIRL ***
Produced by Sarah Sammis, Jen Haines, Roger Frank and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
A CALIFORNIA GIRL
BY EDWARD ELDRIDGE
The Abbey Press
PUBLISHERS
114 FIFTH AVENUE
NEW YORK
London Montreal
Copyright, 1902
by The Abbey Press
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
Prologue 5
I. Clara Lawton 7
II. Ranch Talk 9
III. The Marriage of Charles Herne 21
IV. Julia Hammond 25
V. Ben West 35
VI. Stella Wheelwright 39
VII. Penloe 43
VIII. Ben West's Experience in the Klondike 54
IX. An Arrival 63
X. Mrs. Marston 70
XI. Saunders' Customers 85
XII. Penloe's Sermon 88
XIII. Return of Ben West 104
XIV. Five Years After Marriage 113
XV. A Conversation on the Porch 116
XVI. Tiestan 124
XVII. Penloe's Original Address 143
XVIII. Letters Received by Penloe 163
XIX. Mrs. West Relates Her Dream 170
XX. In the Mountains 174
XXI. A Wedding in Orangeville 184
XXII. The Herne Party 201
XXIII. A Visit from Barker and Brookes 218
XXIV. Out of Bondage 233
Epilogue 248
PROLOGUE.
This book is not written for the specialist, but for that restless,
seething multitude known as "the masses." It is written for busy people,
for workers, such as the shop-girl, the factory-girl, the clerk, the
mechanic, the farmer, the merchant, and the busy housewife; but
ministers, lawyers, and doctors may find food for thought within its
covers.
My heart goes out to God's secular army, composed of those who have
neither time nor opportunity to go through learned treatises and
scholarly essays, yet whose natures are hungering for something better
than they see and hear about them. So I have tried to weave into this
story the best and latest thought that has been given to the world,
believing it to be what the workers most need in the performance of
their daily duties, and what will help them out of bondage.
People whose reading and observation have been limited may think that I
have drawn on my imagination altogether for most of the material in this
book. I can assure them that such is not the case; much of it is real.
In regard to Penloe, there have been men who had greater spiritual gifts
than he, and I call to mind one, still living, whose illuminated
countenance and remarkable personality are superior to his. In Penloe is
seen the interior life of the Hindu combined with the best practical
thought of the West.
Let a youth or maiden commence to live the life described by the man who
won the heart of the "Oriental Lady," related by Penloe in his
"Original Address," and he or she will then realize the facts which have
made the characters of Penloe and Stella.
To any sensitive, fastidious reader I would say, it becomes an author,
in order to be true to life, to present certain characters as they
really are, and put into their mouths the language they actually use.
Whatever there is of error in the book is the result of egoism; whatever
of truth and love is the work of Him who has brought me up out of the
marshes and lowlands, and caused me to drink at the crystal fountains of
the hills.
THE AUTHOR.
A CALIFORNIA GIRL.
CHAPTER I.
CLARA LAWTON.
"Well, dear," said Mrs. Lawton to her daughter Clara, "the home you will
enter to-morrow as a bride is very different from the home that I
entered as your father's bride. Our home was a log cabin in the Michigan
woods, with only an acre of clearing, where the growing season is only
about four months long and the winter eight. Snow lay on the ground six
months of the year, from one to three feet deep. In our cabin, we had
the bare necessaries and your father had to work very hard cutting
cord-wood for a living; but we were very happy, for we had love and
health; and need I say, dear, what a joy it was to us when you entered
our cabin as a passenger on the journey of life.
"My wish for you now is, that you may find as much happiness in the
companionship of Charles Herne as I have had in your father's, and as
much joy in the advent of a little one in your home as I did in you."
"You have always been one of the kindest and best mothers a girl ever
had," said Clara, warmly.
"I have tried to be," said Mrs. Lawton, simply.
Clara Lawton was twenty-two years of age, prepossessing in appearance,
with a bright, happy expression. Her nature was deep and affectionate,
her tastes domestic and social. When she was twenty, Mr. and Mrs. Lawton
had moved to California and settled in the pretty little city of
Roseland, which nestled in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas.
At a camping party Clara had first met Charles Herne, and the outcome of
that meeting was that to-morrow would be Clara's wedding day.
Who can describe the thoughts that filled the mind of Clara the night
previous to her marriage? Who, indeed, can describe the thoughts that
fill the mind of any maiden as she lays her head on her pillow the night
previous to her marriage?
All her life she had been taught to consider this the most important
event of her life, the acme of happiness, the end and aim of her
womanhood. The thought of her own little world and the decrees of the
great world at large alike hold her to that belief. That she is a soul
in process of development; that marriage is only one step towards
something higher; that the true union is the joining of hands to work
for humanity, are doctrines which would sound strange in her ears. She
feels that great change that is coming into her life, and her thoughts
are in accordance with her character and circumstances. One bride may be
filled with the sadness of unwilling acquiescence, another with the joy
of complete absorption, a third with the excitement incident upon an
entire change of environment. Clara Lawton's sweet nature prompted only
tender thoughts of the parents she was leaving, strong love for the man
who was to be her husband and the desire to be a true wife and make
their union a happy one.
CHAPTER II.
RANCH TALK.
The road going north from the beautiful little city of Roseland to the
mountains is known as the Walnut road. Six miles from Roseland, on the
Walnut road, is "Treelawn," the home of Charles Herne. A modern
two-story house is built well back from the road, and between the house
and road are lawns decorated with flower-beds, some tall oleanders,
several banana plants, and choice varieties of roses, vines, and
shrubbery. On one side of the house there is a thriving orange and lemon
orchard; on the other fig, almond, and walnut trees; while back of the
house are other extensive orchards of the finest fruits. The house is
very comfortably furnished, much better than most houses in the country;
its arrangement being very convenient and modern.
Charles Herne, the owner of this property was, at the time our story
opens, a young man of twenty-eight, tall, well built, with a pleasant
open countenance which was a true index of his character. He always
looked closely after his business interests, but at the same time
allowed his generous, kindly spirit full scope.
When Charles was eighteen his father thought it would be well for him to
go out to work a year or so on other ranches, that he might gain more by
experience, get more ideas and know what it was to depend on himself and
make his own way in the world. After an absence of two years, came the
welcome summons home. On the evening of his return, when Charles and Mr.
Herne were seated comfortably on the porch, the father said:
"Well, Charles, relate some of your experiences while working on
different ranches."
"Though I did not speak of it in my letters, father," said Charles, "I
have had a pretty tough time of it since I left home."
"I thought so," said his father, "and I wish you had written
particulars."
"I should have done so," replied Charles, "but I wanted to see if there
was any sand in me and what staying qualities I possessed. Well, the
first job I struck was at the Funson ranch, driving a six-mule team
plowing. The leaders were the most contrary animals that ever had
harness on, the swings never would keep in their places, and the near
wheeler was so ugly that Pete, the man who had been driving the team,
said, 'the Devil couldn't hold a candle to him for pure meanness.' He
told me he used to swear at them all day and then lie awake nights
cursing himself for being such a fool as to drive them. He said, one
morning he took the team out to work, and after he had been working them
about an hour, the off mule began to cut up, backing, bucking, and
refusing to pull with the near one. At last Pete lost his temper and
began laying the whip on him, saying he would 'whale the stuffing out of
him'; then the mule got mad, broke the harness and the whole team became
unmanageable and got away from him. He let them go and started toward
the house, pouring out a steady stream of oaths as he went. Just at the
gate he met the boss and greeted him with, 'I'll see that team in Hell
before I'll ever draw another line over their backs.' Funson asked him
what was the trouble, and Pete said, 'that off mule has been raising
hell, and the Devil has got into 'em all, breaking the harness and
running away.' The boss told Pete not to make a fool of himself, but to
go back to the field and get his team together. Pete said, 'I'll see you
in Hell before I'll ever touch that team again. You haven't a well broke
team on the ranch for a man to handle. You buy a lot of half-broken,
bucking, balky teams because you can get 'em cheap. You don't care how
much hell it gives a man to drive 'em.' Funson told him to go and hunt
up some cattle, and sent another man to drive the mules. It's an actual
fact, father, that if a man had told the boss in polite and correct
language what had happened to the team, he would have stared in utter
astonishment and surprise."
"Quite true, my son, quite true," said the old gentleman.
"The man that took Pete's place," continued Charles, "drove the team two
days and that let him out. Then I came along and got the job. Didn't
Pete laugh when he came through the field with a bunch of cattle and saw
me trying to take the contrariness out of the leaders. He called out,
'Give 'em hell, give 'em hell!'
"When I came up to the barn at night, Pete was there putting up his
broncho, and he greeted me with, 'Well, Charles, how do you like your
job?'
"I said I wasn't stuck on it.
"'It's hell, ain't it?' said he; then added, 'the only way you can ever
get that team to pull steady is to get right in and cuss 'em good; they
are broke to cussing.'
"After supper the boys got together in the barn and played cards for two
hours. When they were tired of card-playing, they interested each other
by telling yarns about experiences with women, each striving to make his
story more thrilling than the last, and this entertainment continued
until they were ready to spread out their blankets and sleep.
"It is pretty cold sleeping in a barn December nights, even in our
California climate; but, as you know, there are few ranches where the
men are allowed to sleep in the house.
"I had to be up before it was light in the mornings and clean off those
mules, feed and harness them, and then have my breakfast. After
breakfast, just as it was getting light, we started to work. The
mornings were very cold. About dark I would bring my team in and by the
time I had unharnessed them, fed them, and had my supper, I was ready
for bed.
"After a man has put all his energy into a long, hard, tedious day's
work, he feels more like a worn-out old plug than a man. He has no
surplus force left to expend in elevating mental pursuits, for it has
been all exhausted in severe physical labor.
"Such labor continually kept up, has a tendency to dull what few good
aspirations a man may have had to bring his animal nature under control.
Therefore, after such a day's work, if he has any desires, they are
those of the brute, and it is no wonder that men should want something
of a sensational, exciting nature at night to keep their minds off
themselves and relieve the monotony of their toil.
"Well, father, I did lots of thinking when night came, about such
subjects, and came to some very decisive conclusions; but to return to
my story.
"One night when I was taking the harness off him, the near leader kicked
me on the leg. The pain was so severe that I scarcely slept any that
night. They say a mule will be good and gentle in the barn three hundred
and sixty-four days in the year, for the sake of getting a chance to
kick a man on the three hundred and sixty-fifth day, and I believe it is
so.
"After dinner one day, we had just left the house when one of the men
said, 'Didn't the old woman give the boss hell, this noon? I tell you
she's got a temper.' 'Yes,' said Pete, 'but she's not very old, not
forty yet. She's always firing up about something; she keeps him in hell
most of the time. The trouble is,' continued he, 'he's got nothing broke
on his ranch; his mules are not broke, his broncho cows are not broke,
his wife is not broke, and the old cuss himself is not broke.'
"After enduring all the torment and petty aggravation that a man could
stand for three months, I left and went to work at the White Oak Ranch.
The boss there set me to grubbing out oaks, and I can assure you it was
a relief after driving those mules.
"The third night I was at this place, I was the last to join the men at
the barn, and when I got there I found the teamsters, George and Harry,
making the air blue with oaths. They were giving it to the boss because
he would not get new harnesses, the old ones being mended all over with
wire and baling rope and the lines rotten. Harry's leaders had broken
their lines twice that day, it seemed, and he had nearly lost control of
them in consequence. 'The old fool keeps a-promising and a-promising to
get new harness,' said George, 'but he never gets it; and he hasn't got
a harness on his whole darn ranch that's worth a whoop in hell.' 'My old
plugs broke their harness five times to-day,' said Harry. 'Since I've
been here, the teams have done more damage and lost more than would pay
for a new harness ten times over.'
"When I had been there about a month, the hot weather began to come on,
and the feed to dry up, and I had to help clean the ditches out, ready
for irrigating. It was a big job, so many willows to grub out, and it
took much longer to finish it because we were so constantly called away
to drive out cattle and hogs that had broken into the orchard and grain
fields. You see, the feed was getting scarce, there was more stock than
there was feed for, and the fences were very shaky. The boss kept
talking about new fences, but he never had them built, he was satisfied
with patching the old ones.
"Well, we got the ditches cleaned out and commenced to irrigate, using
all the water we could get. I was one to help irrigate and look after
the ditches. The work would have been really pleasant if we could only
have kept the band of hogs out. They would get in after the green feed
and break the ditches, causing the water to wash the soil away. That
band of hogs began to torment me as much as the mules had done. They
were so hungry you could not keep them out. I didn't blame them, poor,
lank, starved creatures, for getting in and getting something to eat. I
would have done the same in their case.
"At last the boss thought he would shut them up in the barnyard and feed
them. Well, he had forty starved hogs shut up, and he gave them about as
much food each day as ten hogs could eat. Of course, they became like a
pack of wolves, and it was all a man could do to get through the yard.
Forty hogs would come all around him, squealing and yelling as though
they were being butchered, and you had to keep moving lively or they
would bite your legs. Henderson, one of the men, told me they ate up
four cats and three kittens and more chickens than had been on the table
for a year.
"One Sunday morning, after breakfast, I commenced to wash my shirt and
overalls, when Henderson called to me, 'Cattle in the peach orchard!'
Now, at the further end of the peach orchard there were a hundred nice
young trees, covered with tender foliage, looking fine. It seems the
cattle got into the orchard in the night and ate all the growth off
them, so they looked just like sticks. It really was a shame to see such
fine trees damaged in that way, but the boss would not take time to
build a good fence around them. That afternoon I went to lie down in the
barn; it was hot, the mosquitoes and flies were getting in their best
licks at me. I was trying to sleep, and just as I was about succeeding
Henderson called out: 'Charles, get your shovel and come quick.' 'What's
the matter?' I asked. 'Why, the hogs have played the devil and broke the
ditches and the water is running all over Hell.' Mad as I felt about
being disturbed, I could not help smiling within at the thought of water
running all over hell, and I said to him: 'If those hogs can flood hell
with water they ought to be sent to a dime museum.' We went on in
silence till we reached the orchard gate, when Henderson said: 'Do you
know, I would rather take a licking than open that gate, for it's a
back-breaker. It hasn't got a hinge, and is as heavy as an elephant; you
have to lift it up and drag it along the ground. It takes more time to
hang a gate that way with a band of iron to a post or a bent stick in
the place of the iron, than it would to buy two pairs of hinges; and yet
that is the only kind he has on the place. It seems as if everything on
the place was devised to make work as hard, unhandy, and wrong-end-to as
possible.'
"That evening when we had gathered together as usual, Harry opened the
conversation by saying: 'What a racket there was to-night at supper! It
seems to me the whole family is raising hell all the time, but I don't
blame the old woman much for giving the boss a jawing about throwing his
old broken harness on her bedroom floor, when he came home in the light
rig this afternoon.' 'He is always doing such things,' said George. 'The
front room is more like an old store-room than anything else. He don't
deserve a house; that man ought to live in a barn.'
"Another of the men said: 'If ever there was any attraction between the
boss and his wife, it has long ago disappeared; and the children! What a
quarreling gang they are.' Then they proceeded to discuss at length each
member of the family, and I must say, father, that although I had become
accustomed to much of the roughness of the life of these ranches, I was
so shocked over some of the things they said that it took me a long time
to get over it. I was not surprised that the boys should be little
reprobates, because I didn't see how they could be otherwise, living
with such a crew of men around them all the time, but was shocked to
hear what they said about the girls. There were two of them: one fifteen
years old, the other eighteen. Rather pretty girls they were, too. I had
talked with them several times and they seemed modest and quite shy with
me. I hadn't seen them much with the other fellows. Well, father, when
those men had finished talking, they hadn't left those girls a shred of
what the world calls a reputation, and the worst of it was that their
stories were for the most part true, as I afterward ascertained. I could
scarcely speak to the girls for several days; for somehow one expects
more of a girl than of a boy, though I don't know why one should," he
added, thoughtfully. "I'm sure I'd want to be as pure as the girl I
married.
"Well, I studied over the thing a good deal, and I finally came to this
conclusion: Those girls were not bad; they were simply curious. They led
such narrow, cramped lives that there was nothing for their active
brains to feed on, so they naturally turned to the most interesting
thing at hand, themselves, their physical selves. A superabundance of
vitality overshadowed their small mental equipment. In the absence of
suitable entertainment the physical part of their being had fatally
asserted itself. Ignorant of consequences, they sinned innocently. I
felt sorry for them, and during the rest of my stay there, I tried to
give them some glimpses of a more intellectual life.
"Well," continued Charles, "I stayed in that hell over a year, then left
and went to the Lonsdale ranch. There we did not use the barn to sleep
in; each man had a bunk to himself in the bunk-house. The interior of
the bunk-house was decorated with several choice works of art, one
representing three young ladies, in abbreviated costumes, enjoying wine
and cigarettes; another showed several men lifting from the water the
nude form of a beautiful young woman who had committed suicide; while a
third was an exciting picture of a jealous woman, in a much torn
garment, holding a pistol to the head of her faithless lover. Some
pictures of Fitzsimmons, Jeffries, and Sharkey also adorned the walls.
Much time was spent in the evenings discussing the various merits and
demerits of the pugilists. I was often surprised at the able and
exhaustive manner in which they would handle the subject, and showed
some remarkable ability in treating of the qualities of the prize
fighting gentlemen. If the same amount of brain power had been turned in
other directions, how useful to their country those men might have
become. I do not wish to convey the idea that they were always handling
such great and momentous topics as the fighting qualities of those noted
gentlemen. Very often, by way of variation, they would talk of those
feminine types of beauty which appeared so conspicuously in the _Police
Gazette_ and the _Sporting Times_.
"It was astonishing the amount of information they displayed concerning
women, what retentive memories they had, and how very familiar they were
with the subject of woman, her ways, and her sex nature. Their mental
horizon was bounded on the north by the affairs of the ranch, on the
east by the boss and his domestic concerns, on the south by woman as
manifested by the various phases of her sexual nature, and on the west
by the gentry of the prize ring. Within these boundaries was their
mental world, their minds never reaching out and beyond these subjects.
"The reading matter on the table was the sensational weekly papers.
"I remember one Sunday to my surprise I saw one of the men reading a
book. On looking at the title, it read: 'The Life of Rattlesnake Pete,'
and another man had a book lying on his blankets, entitled 'The
Adventures of Coyote Bill.' Gambling was their favorite pastime. It was
one round of card playing nights and Sundays. When I first went to work
on the Lonsdale ranch, the boss put me to cutting oak wood. After I had
been at work awhile, he came along and told me that I did not hold the
handle of my axe right. The next day he found fault with me for the way
I used a cross-cut saw. A week later I was piling brush to burn, and the
way I laid the brush did not suit him. He was everlastingly blowing
about himself and telling how he did things. I did not seem to be able
to do anything right. One night after supper we had all assembled in the
bunk-house, when Parsons said: 'I tell you boys, hell went pop this
morning. Plaisted gave the boss hell because he commenced to growl at
him for the way he held the lines. Plaisted told him he was the greatest
old crank that ever run a ranch, and that the devil himself couldn't
suit him. He left the team right in the field and called for his money.
I tell you the boss's face was as red as a beet. He had to give Simmons
six dollars a month more to take the team.'
"Hendricks said, 'I gave the boss a piece of my mind this morning when I
tried to open the gate leading into the garden. It is a rod long, and as
heavy as hell; the whole weight was on the ground. I told him any man
that had such a gate as that on his ranch never ought to own a ranch. I
said, 'Why in the devil don't you get some hinges and hang your gates?'
Ambrose spoke up, and said, 'Sometimes the boss seems pleasant enough,
but he does like to find fault and tell you what big things he has
done. To hear him talk you would think that his ranch was the only ranch
that was worth anything. He told his visitors to-day that his place
would pay the interest on one hundred thousand dollars. You know, boys,
it wouldn't sell for twelve thousand.'
"Parsons said: 'The boss has been growling at me ever since I have been
with him, but I pay no attention to him. He thinks if you don't do a
thing as he does, you don't do it right, and any idea that does not
originate in his brain is not worth anything. To hear him talking to
that lady visiting here to-day you would think he was a perfect man
living on a model ranch.' I will never forget how mad Hendricks was with
the boss one Saturday evening. We had just come from supper when
Hendricks lit his pipe and gave vent to his feelings, as follows: 'If I
had had a four-year-old club at the supper table to-night, I felt so
boiling mad that I would have knocked hell out of him. To hear him go on
a nagging and fault-finding with that little woman of his. There she has
been a-working hard all day, set three good meals, doing the churning
and all the housework besides; and all she gets for her patient labor is
a growl.' 'Yes,' said another man, 'she has been working like a slave
all the week and to-morrow is Sunday, and it will be to her just the
same as any other day.' Hendricks said: 'The boss thinks more of his old
plugs than he does of his wife. See what care he takes of his horses.
One lot is resting while the other lot is working; then those that have
been working are put in the pasture, and those that have been resting
are put to work. But he never seems to think that poor worn-out woman of
his needs a rest and change.'
"Parsons added: 'That is not the worst of it. His wife is a cook-stove
slave, and a wash and butter-making machine. It does not matter how
tired she is or otherwise physically unfit, he demands his marital
privileges as a right, regardless of her wishes or protests. I know it
is a fact, for he brags about it.' Parsons continued: 'When a boy I
used to hear preachers talk about hell, and I could not see what was the
use of sending millions and billions of people to eternal torments, so I
thought there ought to be no such place as hell; but if there is a hell,
then I think the boss deserves to go there.'
"An intelligent young man from the East by the name of Travers joined in
the conversation by saying: 'When I was a boy I remember how serious my
good father felt because he thought a neighbor had died without his sins
being forgiven, and had gone to hell. At that time the word _hell_ used
to have some meaning on the minds of the people, and produced on my mind
a feeling of fear and awe. But how different it is now. If a minister
was to preach now about all wicked people going to hell, it would
produce no more effect on their minds than water on a duck's back, for
the word hell is now a spent thunderbolt, used uselessly by the mouths
of so many. It may be well for theologians to know (if any of them
believe in hell as preached) whether or not they have got through
discussing hell; their views have no weight whatever on the minds of the
masses, for they are all the time making light, fun, and sport of the
word _hell_.' 'That's so,' joined in the men, and they all laughed.
"I had been at the Lonsdale ranch about three or four months when I
received your letter asking me to return home."
"Well, Charles," said the old man Herne, "if I had not worked out for
several years on ranches, I should think your stories slightly colored,
but from my own experience I should say the half has not been told."
"That is so, father," said Charles. "I have not stated what I have seen
and heard half strongly enough."
The father said: "When I bought this ranch, the first thing I did was to
build solid fences, raise lots of feed and hang gates on hinges so that
a child could open them with its finger. I always make my plans so that
I have more feed than stock. I did not set out an orchard till the
fences were finished, so that nothing could get in. I made it a point
to avoid losing a lot of work through bad management. My hired men have
always had a good house to sleep in, each man having a room to himself.
The house is cool in the summer through having double porches all round
it, and warm in winter because it is well furnished. Men and teams never
go out to work in the winter till the sun is up. Every man sits down to
supper at six, during the summer months, and they have two hours'
nooning. What is the result? I have always had the best men to work for
me, and they never want to leave. Each man is put upon his honor, and
takes as much interest in doing his best for me as if the place belonged
to him. Everything goes on the same at the ranch when I am away as when
I am there. No man has used anything but the most respectful language to
me. I have heard no swearing at teams. In fact, I have heard no swearing
or low stories at all. I never would allow it. Every day the work is
done well and without friction."
"Yes," said his son, "I used to think your place was heaven while I was
away."
Two years from the time this conversation took place, the father died,
leaving the property and some money to his son, Charles, and seven
thousand dollars to his daughter Lena.
Charles Herne was not a student of political economy nor a reader of
sociology, but what he did was done through an innate sense of justice,
with a spirit of generosity, and the munificent treatment of his men was
the manifestation of his noble, free spirit. To-morrow will be the
greatest event so far in the life of Charles Herne, for he brings to his
home his bride.
CHAPTER III.
THE MARRIAGE OF CHARLES HERNE.
Two miles from the Herne ranch, toward Roseland, lived the Holbrooke
family.
On the afternoon of the day which was of such importance in the lives of
two of our characters, Mr. Holbrooke returned from a survey of his
orchard, to be met by his wife with a face full of mysterious
importance.
"I've got some news, James," she said. "Now guess what it is--
"Sophia has heard from one of her old beaux," said her husband
immediately.
"Get a pail of water and throw it over your dad, Sophia," said Mrs.
Holbrooke. "He's always joking you about your beaux. Well," she added,
"I see I'll have to tell you, you'll never guess. Charles Herne has just
gone by here with a bran-new suit of clothes, a bran-new matched team, a
bran-new harness, a bran-new buggy, and a bran-new wife. There! What do
you think of that?"
"Why," said her husband, "I think you may see them go by here some day
with a brand-new baby."
"The idea of your talking that way before Sophia; that's the way with
you men, your mind is always run on such things."
"Well," said her husband, "I don't think such a subject is very foreign
to your mind or Sophia's either."
"Sophy, let's you and I take your dad and throw him. We can do it," said
Mrs. Holbrooke.
Since the newly-married couple that caused so much interest in the
Holbrooke family had gone by, Sophia had laid down her novel, "The
Banker's Daughter," and was gazing dreamily out of the window. The young
lady being of a rather romantic turn of mind, had just been saying to
herself, "What a perfect day to be married. Will everything be as
beautiful on my wedding day, I wonder?"
"Well," said Mrs. Holbrooke, "whoever the lady may be, she has got a
good man and a lovely home."
"Yes," said her husband, "a good job was done when Charles Herne came
into the world."
"Don't talk so rough, James. I never saw a man like you in all my life,"
said his wife.
"The old man Herne had a long head on him when he sent Charles out into
the world to cut his own fodder," added Holbrooke, reflectively.
"Yes," said his wife, "those hired men of his wouldn't be acting like
gentlemen the way they are now if Charles had not gone out and rustled."
"Two years ago," he continued, "he devoted the entire proceeds from his
orchard for one year, after paying expenses, to fixing up the cottage
for his men. He had it painted and papered; had good carpets laid down
on the floors; large mirrors and pictures on the walls; put in two large
bathrooms with hot and cold water; a billiard table, lots of small
games, all the leading papers and magazines. Bought them a fine piano,
also an organ, and a lot of music, sacred and sentimental. He also
bought a fine matched team with a two-seated buggy, and said: 'Boys, I
want you to keep this team for your own riding out evenings, Saturday
afternoons and Sundays. Take care of it among yourselves, and I hope you
all may have many pleasant rides. There isn't a team in the country gets
more grooming than those colts, and not a man has been known to
overdrive them. I never see anything like it, those hired men at Herne's
live and act as if they were members of some gentlemen's club. They
always wash their hands in warm water in the winter, and are particular
about keeping their finger-nails clean. On Sundays to see those men
dressed up, you would think they had never seen dirt. You don't see
Herne's men on a Sunday morning spending their time in washing overalls,
shirts, and socks. Herne keeps a Chinaman to do that in the week day.
Why, if I was to go and offer one of those men a steady job at ten
dollars a month more than Herne pays, he would turn his nose up at me.
You can't get a man to leave; they stick to him closer than a brother.
He has ten standing applicants to fill the next vacancy he may have. And
did you ever see a place where men worked so orderly, harmoniously, and
thoroughly as they do on the Herne ranch? You don't see any of the trees
in his orchard barked through having careless, mad teamsters while
harrowing and cultivating. Herne's horses, harness, and machinery look
better and last more than twice as long, because the men take great
interest in caring for them. It's not all go out of pocket with Herne in
what he does for his men. Some pretty big returns come back."
"Yes," said Mrs. Holbrooke, "Lena Herne told me that her brother and
herself were sitting on the porch one evening, and she was talking to
Charles about the men and what he had done for them, when he said,
'Lena, I would not give up the love and respect which these men have for
me, and I for them, and the quiet, peaceful understanding that exists
between us, for all the ranches in the county.' She said that she and
her brother very often spent their evenings with the men in games,
singing and a general social time, and there are lots of young people in
the neighborhood that call on them to play croquet and lawn-tennis of a
Saturday afternoon or to spend a pleasant evening. Just think,"
continued Mrs. Holbrooke, "those men at Herne's only work five and a
half days in the week, and those days are short ones. I tell you,
Holbrooke, those men have a far better time than you do, though you own
a ranch and they don't; you are a slave compared to them."
"Some of the men say that Herne don't talk Christianity to them, but he
puts some mighty big Christian principles in practice," said her
husband.
It was as Sophia had mentally said, "A perfect day to be married on."
The newly married couple, as they journeyed from Roseland to Treelawn,
found the sun just warm enough to be pleasant, for it was in the early
part of March. The road was in fine condition, for there was neither mud
nor dust. A gentle breeze wafted the sweet scented odors from the
flower-decked fields, with their carpets of green. All nature seemed
smiling, for was it not its mating season? What was all the chattering
going on in the trees and the songs in the bushes, but the feathery
tribe making love to each other. It seemed as if on this day all Nature
was singing one grand anthem with a hallelujah chorus.
As the happy pair looked at the scene, they forgot for the moment their
own happiness in the contemplation of Nature's grandeur.
Before them rose the variegated hills of the Sierras, the sun bringing
out the brilliant coloring of the rocks; higher behind these the
glittering snow-covered peaks, and above all the matchless blue of the
heavens.
To them the world seemed indeed all joy and beauty, and a home together,
a paradise. And so they entered upon the new life.
CHAPTER IV.
JULIA HAMMOND.
The settlement in which Treelawn was located was called Orangeville, and
covered a large area of country. It had a general store--post-office,
church, school-house, hall, blacksmith-shop, and two saloons.
For reasons best known to himself, Charles Herne had kept his wedding a
secret from all his neighbors, and it was really more by intuition than
by actual knowledge that Mrs. Holbrooke came into possession of the
fact.
On the morning after the wedding, Sam Gilmore, like a good husband, had
quietly risen and dressed himself, leaving his spouse to finish her nap.
After seeing that the fire in the kitchen stove was burning brightly and
the tea-kettle set on, he went to the barn. After a short time he
returned to the house, and putting his head into the bedroom, said with
some excitement, "Sarah, I've got some news for you. Charles Herne has
got him a wife."
When Sarah Gilmore received that piece of astounding intelligence, the
mental shock seemed to produce paralysis, for the garment she was about
to put on remained suspended in the air as she exclaimed: "Well, I swan!
I thought he was married to his hired pets. How did you hear the news,
Sam?"
"Nettleton told me. He was over to see if I would let him have the bays
to-day."
"Did you let them go?" asked his wife.
"No, I told him I was going to use them on the ranch to-day," said Sam,
closing the door and going back to the barn.
As Sam went out of the bedroom door the paralysis went, too, for no
woman ever moved more quickly in putting on the rest of her garments
than did Sarah Gilmore that morning.
There was a very good breakfast waiting for Sam when he came in from the
barn, and above all Sarah had made him a plate of light, rich
batter-cakes, which he always relished very much. They were set a little
way into the oven with the door open, to keep warm, his good wife having
buttered and sugared them, all ready for Sam to pour rich cream over
them.
After breakfast, as Sam was on his way to the barn, he said to himself,
"My! Sarah is a fine cook. I would be willing to bet ten dollars she can
knock the spots out of Charles Herne's wife in cooking; and she is so
cheerful while getting up good meals, and don't make any fuss about it,
either."
Sam and the bays worked well that morning in doing a little light work.
Sarah lost no time in putting the breakfast dishes into the dish-pan,
but instead of washing them immediately, as was her way, she was seen
going over a well-beaten trail toward a house where smoke was coming out
of the chimney. When she opened the door, she found Mrs. Green just
wiping a mush-bowl which had been used at breakfast.
"Well, Carrie," said Sarah Gilmore to Mrs. Green, "what do you think has
happened? Charles Herne has come home with a bride."
"There, now, Sarah, you surprise me," said Mrs. Green.
"I guess every body is surprised," said Mrs. Gilmore.
After a few minutes' more conversation, she hurried back to wash her
dishes and get dinner.
When Sam came to dinner he found his wife in the best of spirits, with a
big dinner for him to enjoy. Sam's alimentive faculty being in a state
of great activity, he ate heartily, finishing up with two pieces of
Sarah's extra rich peach cobbler. After dinner Sam went to the
fire-place where he sat rocking himself, and soon was enjoying a smoke.
He had been smoking about five minutes when his wife said: "I really
like the smell of the tobacco you smoke, but if you were to smoke such
stinking stuff as Horace does, I would get up and leave you. But yours
does smell real sweet."
"Horace Green is too stingy to smoke good tobacco," said Sam, after
which remark he brought his hand to the side of his leg each time he let
the smoke curl out of his mouth, feeling well satisfied with himself and
all the world beside.
Did you ever have the experience of passing through a large barnyard,
and going from one end to the other with a lean, hungry hog after you,
yelling and squealing, trying to eat you up by snapping first at one of
your legs and then at the other? You kick at him with first one foot,
saying, "Sooy, sooy;" then you, with the other foot, kick backwards,
saying, "Sooy, sooy." And after going through this performance many,
many times, you reach the gate and shut it between yourself and the hog,
leaving him on the inside, amidst deafening noise made by his hungry
squeals. After you have left, he does his best to tear down the fence,
so strong are the pangs of hunger in him.
A few minutes after that you take him a pail of rich buttermilk, then a
large pail of fresh ripe figs, and two dozen ears of sweet corn. You go
out in that barnyard an hour afterwards and you don't hear any hog
noise. You don't see a hog even moving, for he is lying down in the
greatest state of quiet. He will let you do just what you have a mind to
do to him. You can scratch him and you will find him good-natured and he
seems to enjoy your attentions. He is in such a contented, happy state,
that you can roll him or do anything you wish to him.
So it is with some men. By making love to them through their stomachs,
you will find them in as happy a frame of mind as Sam Gilmore was as he
finished his pipe. His wife saw that he was taking his last puffs, so
she said, "Sam, can I have the bays to go over to the Henshaws' this
afternoon?"
"Well," replied Sam, "I was going to haul wood, but I guess I can let
that go. What time do you want them?"
"Two o'clock," said his wife.
Sarah said that Sam brought the bays around to the front door and was as
lively round her and the team as he was twenty years ago when she was a
maiden and he came courting her at her father's.
Talk about the diplomacy of Bismarck, d'Israeli, and the Russian
Ambassador in settling the Eastern question at the close of the
Russo-Turkish war; why there are women in Orangeville who can give them
pointers on diplomacy.
The bays thought that either a peddler or minister was driving them that
afternoon, they made so many short calls. There was one thing
certain--Sarah Gilmore was not to blame if the people of Orangeville did
not know Charles Herne was married.
When Green entered the house his wife said: "Horace, what do you think?
Charles Herne has brought home a bride."
"A what?" said her husband.
"A bride," said his wife. "May be it's so long since you saw a bride,
you have entirely forgotten how one looks. You had better hustle round
and pony up that seventy-five dollars you are owing him. He will need it
to buy silks, satins and laces for the bride."
"Hell's to pay," said Green.
Early the same morning Henry Storms entered the "Crow's Nest" saloon in
Orangeville, where two men were talking over the bar to the
saloon-keeper. Storms, walking up to where they were, saluted them by
saying: "Hell's broke loose."
"What's up now?" said one of the men.
"Why," said Storms, "Charles Herne has got a running mate."
"Drinks for four," called out another man.
When the drinks were ready four men raised their glasses, one saying,
"Drink hearty to Charles Herne and his partner."
At the conclusion of the toast four glasses of whiskey were emptied down
four men's throats.
A man went down from his house to the road where his mailbox was nailed
to a redwood post. The stage was just coming in.
"Any news?" asked the man of the stage-driver as he took his mail.
"News!" said the driver. "I should say there was. They tell me that
Charles Herne has been, and gone, and done it."
Saunders, the merchant of Orangeville, told his customers that day that
"Charles Herne had got spliced."
Tim Collins took a span of kicking mules to Pierce, the blacksmith, to
be shod.
"Well, Tim, I got some news for you," said Pierce.
"What is it?" said Tim.
"Charles Herne has got hitched up."
Now one could not discern any perceptible change in Charles Herne, if it
were true that he had done all the many and varied things which his
neighbors stated he had; such as "Brought home a brand-new wife," "Got
him a woman," "Got a bride," "Got a running mate," "Been, gone, and done
it," "Got spliced," "Got hitched up," and so on.
The waves of ether in the atmosphere of Orangeville were pregnant with
all these sayings and produced such an effect on a number of ladies as
to make them call at different times at the Treelawn home.
When some of the ladies had made a call and had seen Mrs. Herne, and
these ladies saw some others in Orangeville who had not seen Mrs. Herne,
conversation did not drag. And as for speculation. Why the amount of
speculative genius displayed by certain ladies of that locality would
eclipse all speculative talent of Kant, Spencer and Mill. Listen to some
of the inquiries: "Is she proud?" "Is she pretty?" "Has she much style
about her?" "Do you think they will get along well together?" "Is she
fond of children?" "Will they have any babies?" "Is she fond of dress?"
"Is she a society lady?" "Do you think she will get lonesome?" "Can she
do housework?" "Is she much account with a needle?" "Is she close and
saving?" "Is she extravagant?" "Do you think she will put her foot down
on Charles Herne furnishing his men with so many luxuries?" "Is she
happy?" "Is she a scold?" "Will she wear the breeches?" and numerous
other questions which, like problems concerning the Universe, will take
time to solve.
Clara Herne was very happy in her new home as the wife of Charles Herne.
She found her duties light and pleasant. Everything in the house and
about the house was order and system, no friction, all harmony. She
remarked to her husband one evening: "It pays to have good help. Every
one here takes an interest in what he has to do and does it the very
best he knows how, cheerfully and willingly."
She respected her husband exceedingly for the generous way in which he
treated his men, and she helped him to still further their comforts.
On retiring one night after they had both spent the evening with their
men, which they often did, she said to her husband: "How good it is to
have love and respect between employers and employed. Every one speaks
in such a kind way; so considerate for the feelings and interests of
each one."
"Yes," said her husband, "it makes life worth living to treat your hired
help not as if they were merely machines for the use of getting so much
work out of them, but to live and act towards them as if they were men.
Better still to realize the thought always, that they are our brothers."
Charles and Clara Herne were very happy as man and wife, because they
were a social unit. They were one in their domestic and social natures;
they were fond of going out to parties, suppers and dances, and enjoyed
entertaining company; they were strictly moral, though not religious,
and occasionally attended church.
One evening about a year after they had been married, they were sitting
in front of the open fire, interesting themselves in talking about some
of the people in Orangeville who were at the party they had attended the
evening previous.
"I think last night's party was one of the best we have attended," said
Mrs. Herne.
"Yes," said her husband, "the Hammonds are great entertainers. They
always make it interesting and pleasant for every one who comes."
"Of course, their daughter Julia has a tact for receiving company and
making delicacies for a party," added Clara. "What taste she displayed
in the arrangement of the table. Then she herself is personally a great
attraction to the young men. I consider her the belle of Orangeville.
Her age I think is about twenty-one."
"Yes, but she has a most unusual development for that age. She has such
a commanding form, so erect; there is something very fascinating about
her expression; and those black eyes of hers denote a powerful
magnetism. No wonder she attracts men so strongly."
"She seemed to pay more attention to that young Webber, I thought, than
to any one else. Certainly, she smiled very sweetly upon him."
"You don't know Julia," said Mr. Herne, decidedly. "She is like a cat,
as meek as Moses or as full of deviltry as Judas Iscariot. She is just
playing with Webber and he is too vain and foolish to see it. Why, Julia
Hammond would not marry Webber if he were the last man in Orangeville.
The man she wants is Ben West, and she scarcely spoke to him during the
evening; in fact, did not pay him as much attention as she would have
paid to the merest stranger. In most girls such an action would be the
result of shyness and the desire to avoid observation; in Julia, I think
it arises from an inborn, stubborn pride which prevents her from
yielding even to such an uncontrollable feeling. She has an iron will
and though she knows she must yield eventually, she holds herself
defiantly as long as she can."
"I don't blame her for wanting Ben West, for he is the finest looking
and most popular young man in Orangeville," said Clara.
"He is, indeed," replied her husband. "Almost any girl in Orangeville
would be glad to marry him, but Julia wants him and she will get him. He
has not lost his heart so far, but Julia has not played her cards yet.
She knows her power and loves to use it. She would do anything to gain
her end."
"Why, dear, you seem to be well posted on Julia's disposition," said his
wife.
"You see," he replied, "I have known her ever since she has lived in
Orangeville, which has been twelve years. And now I am going to tell you
something that will surprise you. I got it straight from Hammond
himself, and he and I are close friends, as I have helped him
financially out of some hard places. Several times he has made me a
confidant. Only one or two in Orangeville know what I am going to tell
you.
"It seems that about four years after Mr. and Mrs. Hammond were married,
Mrs. Hammond received a letter from her cousin, Mrs. Featherstone,
saying that Nat Harrison, a mutual friend, had been shot dead in a
dispute over a faro game. He was under the influence of liquor at the
time of the trouble. He left a wife and a girl baby eighteen months old,
without any means of support, the mother being incompetent to take care
of either herself or the child, and the letter asked would Mrs. Hammond
like to adopt the baby. If so, Mrs. Featherstone was coming to San Diego
in about a month's time and would bring the child (the Hammonds lived at
San Diego then). The mother would make her home with her aunt.
"Mrs. Hammond said, after reading the letter, 'Poor Annie Harrison. Only
think. I sat beside her at the graduating exercises of Nat Harrison's
class, and remember how pleased she was at the applause which greeted
the oration delivered by Nat, "American Commerce." So many
congratulated him on his talent and thought he would become a rising
member of the bar, and his voice would be heard in the halls of
legislation of the nation.
"'Annie looked so pretty and sweet that day, you could not have bought
her prospects in life for a million dollars. She thought she had a jewel
of a lover, poor thing, she was so innocent of the nature of men. She
knew nothing of the world, for her mother always treated her as a baby,
never teaching her any self-reliance, and had kept her as a hot-house
plant. She grew up with no higher ideal in life for herself than to be
some rich man's toy and pet, under marriage. She was more adapted to be
a flower in the "Garden of Eden" than to fight the battle of life in the
present state of society.'
"Nat Harrison had money and was doing well when he married Annie, but
being a man of strong passions and appetites, Annie's freshness and
bloom soon wilted. Then he sought other pastures for his carnal
pleasures, and with that came drinking and gambling. When his estate was
settled up after his death they found he was in debt.
"Mr. and Mrs. Hammond talked the matter over and decided to adopt the
child. They were both much pleased when they received the baby from Mrs.
Featherstone and saw what a fine child she was. They have loved her and
done everything that parents could do for a child of their own to make
her happy. Julia brought lots of sunshine into their home, and
everything went all right and they took a great deal of comfort with her
till she got to be about fourteen and then she seemed to become
stubborn, grew inattentive to her studies, seemed to care less for her
girl companions, but was always with the boys. All she appeared to care
for was to be in their company. She took less interest in things in the
house, did not care about helping her mother, and would have odd spells.
Sometimes she took a notion to do up the work, and it was then done
quickly and well. Then for quite a time it would be like pulling teeth
to get her to do anything. She has the ability if she would only use
it. The last four years she has given Mr. and Mrs. Hammond many an
anxious thought, and they have wished that Ben West or some other such
man would marry her. They see the older she grows the more the hot blood
of her father shows in her. Hammond told me last night at the party that
Julia was great on dress parade, but was not there when it came to doing
the common every day duties of life with no excitement."
"Why, Charles, the narrative concerning Julia's life is very
interesting. Some of the people around us would be just as good material
for a novel as those we read about in fiction."
CHAPTER V.
BEN WEST.
About a week after Mr. Herne had told his wife the history of Julia
Hammond, Mr. Hammond, on going to the store for some trifle, was saluted
by Saunders, the merchant, with, "Heard the news, Hammond?"
Hammond said: "No. What is it?"
"Why, Ben West is going to the Klondike," said Saunders.
"Going to the Klondike!" said Hammond. "Why, I don't see what he has to
go there for. He is the only child, his father owns a fine ranch, and he
is always getting big jobs on roads and ditches, making three to four
dollars a day, because he can go ahead and knows just what to do and how
to do it. He has great muscular strength and can lift about twice as
much as any ordinary man."
"Oh, he wants to make a stake," said Saunders. "He is ambitious."
Wescott spoke up and said: "Ben is a rustler; he will get there every
time."
Hammond said: "He has lots of vim and pluck; has got sand and backbone
to him."
"Yes, he is a hummer," said Saunders.
"I tell you he has got some ambition and grit," said Stearns,
admiringly.
It was not long before the news spread all over Orangeville, that Ben
West was going to the Klondike, and the abilities which he possessed as
a worker and money maker, and an all round good fellow were the theme of
conversation in many a household and on many a ranch.
When the news reached the ears of the young ladies of Orangeville, most
of them felt a shade of disappointment, because Ben had been good to
them.
Not having shown any decided preference for one, he devoted his
attentions to many, and having a good fast team he was able to give the
young ladies many a pleasant ride to dances, parties and church, so he
was a great favorite with them all.
Just previous to Ben West's leaving Orangeville, a great farewell supper
and dance was given him. The attendance was very large. The young ladies
appeared in their best toilets. Julia looked superb and was very
graceful in her deportment. This evening she "played her cards" with
evident success, and the result was that as Ben West went home the
feeling that had been flickering for some time had now broken out into a
flame that fired his blood. Julia did indeed know her power and how to
use it, and she intended that some one else should be restless and
disturbed as well as herself. So that night there were two persons in
Orangeville who tried to sleep but could not. Ben West realized that
night that he had become a willing slave. Sometimes the thought seemed
pleasant, then again it would be galling in the extreme.
A few of the boys went to Roseland to see Ben off, and they had a time
"all to themselves" as they called it in Roseland, the night previous to
his departure. Ben West left with the best wishes and prayers for good
luck following him from all his friends.
When a rising, popular young man leaves his home and neighborhood for
the purpose of making his fortune, he is full of great expectations, and
this thought is shared by all his friends. He departs with the best
wishes following him, for his companions say: "If a man can strike it
rich he can." There does not seem the least doubt in their minds
regarding his success, for they have unbounded confidence in him. Now
the young man leaving is exceedingly alive to the expressions and
sentiments of his friends, and he feels that he must succeed or die in
the attempt. His attachment to name and fame and his personal self is so
strong, and he is so susceptible and negative to the good opinion of
those around him, that he feels he will never want to come back and show
himself among his friends unless he has struck it rich, for he knows
there is nothing that succeeds like success.
Talk about the idolatry of the heathen! Is there any idolatry in the
world that is stronger than that which is found in the so-called
"Christian" world in the year 1900? Where do you find any greater
idolatry than that which is bestowed on money and on woman? There are
more devotees at these two shrines than are to be found worshipping the
Divine. Look at a young man fortunate in the financial world. The first
year in speculations he makes fifty thousand dollars. The second year he
is worth two hundred thousand dollars. The third year he has made half a
million. The fourth year he has become a millionaire. Now listen to the
eulogies and encomiums passed upon him. He is the lion of the hour, the
hero of the day, for he has won the victory that to win fifty thousand
other men had tried and failed. He has attained the great end for which
most men think they were born, money making. What a number of young
ladies see so many excellent qualities in the rising young millionaire,
the "Napoleon of Finance." Note how his faults are all glossed over by
their mammas, who are ready to act as if they had received a retaining
fee as his attorneys, so ready are they to defend him at all times to
their daughters and friends. It seems to matter little about his
intellectual gifts or moral character. His financial success covers a
multitude of sins and weaknesses. Should a young lady raise one or two
slight objections in regard to the young millionaire's character, her
mother says: "Why, dear, all young men must sow their wild oats. You
must not expect to find a pure young man. All young men are fast more or
less. It would be hard to find an unmarried man that is moral. After
they are married they get steady and settle down."
Should a young lady of moderate means marry a young man who has made a
million dollars, there is more rejoicing by the members of her family
than if she had become a saint or a great angel of light. She thinks she
has attained the great end of her existence in marrying a millionaire
and making for herself name and fame and family position.
Should the young millionaire be a little liberal to a few of his
friends, he becomes more to them than the Lord himself. Other young men,
seeing and knowing all this, are putting forth every effort and
straining every nerve to be successful financiers. They realize that the
power of money is so great to-day in the eyes of many, that unless they
are successful money getters, they are no good to themselves or their
friends. They parody the verse in Proverbs something like this: "With
all thy getting, get money; get it honestly if you can, _but get it
anyway_."
Such is the gospel that is acted out in the commercial world to-day. All
good intentions, all right convictions, all wise counsels of religious
teachers, are side-tracked and become as a dead letter if they stand in
the way to successful money making.
Ben West knew what the sentiment of the people of Orangeville was
towards himself, and it fired his ambition to think of the expressions
conveyed to him by his friends, and his heart was fired still more when
he thought of the possibility of possessing the fine form of Julia
Hammond. He made up his mind that he would be willing to endure all
hardships, that he would leave no stone unturned in order to be
successful; for he saw before him the chance of getting a fortune and
the praise, adoration and admiration of the people of Orangeville.
The form of Julia Hammond seemed to float before the eyes of his mind
day and night; and when he saw, in his imagination, that face with its
sparkling black eyes, and the finely poised head, with its wavy black
hair, her well-rounded bust, and the handsome figure, it made him feel
like removing a mountain of dirt or penetrating the bowels of the earth,
to get the shiny metal which was to open for him the gates of his
earthly paradise.
CHAPTER VI.
STELLA WHEELWRIGHT.
One afternoon two men were digging post-holes and setting in redwood
posts on the side of one of the main roads in Orangeville. Everything
had been exceedingly quiet, not a team was seen since dinner. Nothing in
the way of excitement had happened to relieve the monotony of their
work. They were interested and delighted when they heard a noise, and,
looking down the road, saw a vehicle coming, but it was not near enough
to tell whose it was. When it got a little nearer one of the men said:
"Why, Alfred, it is the old man Wheelwright and his girl Stella."
Alfred replied to James, the man who has just spoken: "Stella was to
school at San Jose, and her father has been to Roseland to meet the
train which arrived this morning and bring her home."
"How she has grown," remarked James, "since she went away. She has
improved in her looks very much."
"Yes," said Alfred, "I think she will make a fine woman, for she has a
bright, intelligent eye, and they say she is real smart in her studies,
away ahead of most of the girls round here. She seems so different to
them. She comes of good stock; her mother is the brightest and best
woman in Orangeville, and her father is a well-posted man."
"You must be kind of stuck on her and her folks," replied his companion.
"I don't go so much myself on girls who have their heads in books all
the time. What does a fellow want with such a girl as that? She may be
all right to be a school marm, or woman's rights talker, but I don't
want any of them. I say to hell with book women. Give me a girl like
Nance Slater. She is round and plump, don't care much for books or
papers, but is bright and laughing all the day. She is the girl to have
lots of fun with, and when it comes to making a man a good wife, why,
she is the best cook in Orangeville. I was over to Slater's on an errand
the other morning about ten o'clock, and Nance was looking as pretty as
a picture; her cheeks had the blush of the peach on them; her eyes were
sparkling bright, her lips red, and when she laughed, her teeth looked
like the best and whitest ivory you ever saw. She had on such a pretty,
light, calico wrapper, and a white apron with a bib, and was busy taking
out of the oven some mince pies and just putting in some apple pies. She
had a kettle of doughnuts a frying, and a whole lot of cookie paste
ready to cut out and bake. She said: 'James, you must sample my
doughnuts. Mother, give James a cup of coffee to go with them; there is
some hot on the stove.' Nance is a trump. She is straight goods. The
trouble with those Wheelwrights is they live awful close, and instead of
cooking good meals, spend their time in reading books. They starve in
the kitchen to sit in the parlor. The devil take the books, I say. I
wouldn't give a book girl barn room for all the good she would be to
me."
Alfred replied: "That's all right; every fellow to his own girl, I say.
It would not do for all to be after the same one. As for me, I like
Stella. She has some stability of character. There is something
interesting about a girl like that, and if she don't care about doing
all the cooking, why, I can help her, if she will only let me enjoy her
company."
The sun went down and the men went each to his own home, being content
in their mind that each man should have his own choice.
Stella was the only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Wheelwright, she being the
only child they ever had had. At the time she returned from school she
was sixteen and would have one year more in school. She was very
precocious, a thorough student, and would allow nothing to divert her
from her studies. She was at that age when the intellectual part of her
nature predominated, though the spiritual was just beginning to tinge
her mind with its coloring. She possessed a strong individuality; she
was a born investigator; would accept no statements without examining
them, and rebelled against a great many of the customs and usages of
society. She did her own thinking, and nothing seemed to please her more
than to take her investigating axe and cut away some of the roots which
held her free spirit in bondage. Problems seemed to be crowding on her
mind thick and fast, and she could not take the time from her studies to
do the necessary amount of reading and thinking to resolve them, and she
was looking forward to the time when her last year would expire. During
this vacation she took much physical exercise, for she did not believe
in developing one side of her nature at the expense of the other. She
rode horseback and climbed the sides of steep mountains, mixed with the
young people in their recreations, such as camping parties, picnics, and
social entertainments. In company she was bright, witty, and
entertaining. She had no fear; was full of confidence, and was better
balanced than her companions in that she was not carried away by
pleasures and the company of the opposite sex.
When she was not away from home on camping or picnic excursions, she
would find time to visit the cabin of an old man who lived alone, and
had sore eyes so that he could not see to read. She would read to him
whatever he liked, cheer him up by her bright, happy talk, and when she
left the old man often thought to himself that her comings were like
angels' visits, for she seemed to lift him up completely out of himself
into a new world. When she laid her head on her pillow at night, after
having spent the evening with old Andrews, she thought how much greater
a satisfaction she derived from hearing that old man say, on her leaving
him: "God bless you, Stella, you always bring sunshine to me," than she
did from even the most enjoyable pleasure excursion.
She bestowed the attractions and charm of her social and intellectual
nature less on those outside than those inside her home. You saw her at
her best when talking to her father and mother.
Some parents let their children outgrow them intellectually, so that
there is a great gulf fixed between parents and children, the latter
having nothing in common with the former. Mr. and Mrs. Wheelwright tried
as much as possible to keep themselves in advance of their daughter's
intellectual growth, so that they might always command her respect for
their opinions, and that she might realize that in them she found two
interesting, intelligent companions, whom she could love and confide in.
The relationship between many parents and their grown children is very
unsatisfactory; for being on the material plane, there is nothing very
permanent in their relationship. The grown son and his father have only
in common business and social interests; that is their world; outside of
that neither one has any life that he realizes.
It is the same with the grown daughters and their mother. Their life is
mainly in the social and domestic world. Outside of that they apparently
have no existence; but the true ideal parents and children are those
whose life is in the intellectual and spiritual world. They cease to
exist in each other's minds as parents and children, and realize a
stronger and more permanent tie, and intellectual and spiritual union,
which is blessed, glorious, and eternal. They realize daily that "In Him
they live, and breathe, and have their being"; that they are immersed in
an ocean of Divine love, and that Divine love permeates them all through
and through; and that it is in that ocean of Divine love that they
realize that they are one. They feel a blessed nearness and dearness and
oneness to each other, though separated by oceans and continents, for
they have realized through sweet experience that the same intelligent
spiritual thought and love pulses through them all as if they were one
organism.
CHAPTER VII.
PENLOE.
One afternoon Mrs. Herne received a caller. It was Mrs. Cullom. She had
met Mrs. Herne twice at parties and promised to call on her each time,
but for various reasons she had not been able to fulfil her promise.
After the usual introductory talk, Mrs. Cullom said:
"Did you ever see Penloe or his mother, Mrs. Lanair?"
"No," said Mrs. Herne, "who are they?"
Mrs. Cullom replied: "They live up about a mile above where I do. It's
rather lonesome where I live, but it is a very lonesome place where they
live. It is not a good road over there. I don't suppose you were ever on
that road were you?"
"No," said Mrs. Herne, "I have never been over there. Charles said it
was out of the way and a poor road, being muddy in winter and very dusty
in summer."
"Well," said Mrs. Cullom, "Mrs. Lenair has been on that place about two
years. She seems pleasant, but so different from most women. The second
time I called on her, I got there about two o'clock, and I thought I
would have a nice afternoon chat. So I began talking to her about my
work, and telling her how I worked my butter, and talking to her about
my cooking, and I tried to get her to talk, but she would only say a few
words about such things. About five minutes was as long as I could get
her to talk about her butter and cooking. Why, some women would talk by
the hour on such subjects. Now, she did not appear stuck up or proud,
she seemed so pleasant, her face being very bright and pleasing; and
there seemed to be such a feeling of restfulness about her that I liked
to be with her; but she seems to have so little to say about matters we
are all so much interested in. I could not get her to talk about
herself, so I asked about Penloe, if he was at home. She said, yes, he
had returned from San Francisco last week; that he had been away three
months. That surprised me, Mrs. Herne, because I did not think they were
people who had money to spend in visiting and seeing the sights of a
great city. Why, look at their place, it is not much; she sold the fruit
on the trees for two hundred dollars, and outside of the orchard they
have only pasture enough for four head of stock. Their house has four
rooms, the kitchen is the only room I have been in, but it is kept very
neat. I said to her: 'Does Penloe have much business in San Francisco?'
She smiled and said he had business as long as he washed dishes in a
restaurant. That just took my breath away, for to see Penloe you would
think he would be the last man in the world to do work like that. I
cannot tell you how he looks, but he looks so different from the young
men about here; nothing like them at all. He has a face that I like, but
I don't know him enough to say much to him.
"Well, after they had been on that place about eighteen months or so, I
said to Dan one morning after breakfast, that I did not feel like going
out to-day, but I wanted some one here to talk to, and I wished him to
hitch up Puss and Bess and go right up and get Mrs. Lenair to come down
and spend the day with me, and to tell her that when she wished to go
home I would take her back. 'Now, if you don't get a move on you, Dan,'
I said, 'you will come home and find a cold stove and no dinner and your
cook gone.' Dan moved round like a cat on hot bricks. That kind of talk
fetches men to time. I did not have to cook much for dinner because the
day before was Dan's birthday. Dan had killed a veal two days previous
and I made two kinds of rich cake, two kinds of pies, and some cream
puffs. They were very rich. Dan is fond of high living, and he ate very
heartily of it all. I laughed at him, and said I never saw a man that
liked to dig his grave with his teeth so well as he did. So you see I
could get up a good dinner for Mrs. Lenair without having to cook much.
It was not long after Dan left before Mrs. Lenair was with me. Well,
after she had taken off her things and we chatted awhile, I thought I
would tell her the news, as she never goes out anywhere. So I said: 'Did
you hear what a hard time Mrs. Dunn had in confinement? The doctor
thought he would have to take the child with instruments;' but Mrs.
Lenair kept looking out of the window, and all she said was, 'Is that
so?' So I said: 'I suppose you have heard about Mrs. Warmstey's case.
She had a doctor from Orangeville and two from Roseland.' Just as I said
that, she rose from her chair and said so sweetly: 'Mrs. Cullom, I do
want to go out and look at your flowers; they look beautiful from the
window.'
"Well, I was clean took off my feet, because I was just beginning to
tell the most interesting part of Mrs. Warmstey's case. I said: 'Why,
yes, Mrs. Lenair,' and I went out with her. She began to be so chatty I
thought she was some one else for awhile. She appeared delighted with my
flowers, and called them such crack-jaw names, and told me all about
their families, and what relation they were to each other. Why, to hear
her talk, you would think flowers had babies, she went on so about male
and female plants. Then she told me that flowers breathed, and told me
all about their coloring, and how they attracted the bee and dusted
themselves on him, and much more I cannot remember. She talked to and
petted them as if they were alive. You would have thought she had been a
flower herself, the way she went on. She said something about the
pencilings and colorings of the Almighty being in the tulips.
"When we returned to the house my back was feeling kind of lame, and
gave me one or two of those twister pains. I said: 'Oh, my back! It has
got one of its spells on.' Mrs. Lenair said it would soon go away, and,
to my surprise, it did. Only had it about half an hour, and generally
those spells last me all day. I said: 'Mrs. Lenair, do you have any
ailments? I never hear you complain, if you do.' She said she had not
an ache nor pain in her body for a number of years. I threw my hands up
in astonishment, and said: 'You don't say so?' 'That is the truth,' she
said. And I believe her, for she looks ten years younger than she really
is. 'Why,' I said, 'how different you are from the girls and women
around here. Most all the girls not married are ailing more or less, and
about every married woman has her aches and pains. I can't make you
out.'
"Mrs. Lenair laughed, and said: 'If I were like other women I should be
ailing as they are.' Well, I got up just as good a dinner as I knew how.
I put on the table fried ham and eggs, baked veal, potatoes, peas,
canned tomatoes, red currant jelly, fig preserve, canned nectarines,
cream puffs, grape pie, lemon pie, plain cake, and frosted cake; and we
had coffee, chocolate, and milk to drink. I did want her to make out a
good meal, because I thought she never cooked much at home. Well, what
do you think? I could not get her to eat any meat. 'Why,' I said, 'I
would starve if I did not have meat two or three times a day with my
meals.' She said she had not eaten meat for seventeen years, and was
much better without it. She just ate a little potatoes, one egg, some
nectarines, bread and butter, and drank a little milk. I told her she
must try my cream puffs if she would not eat any cake or pie. At last I
did get her to eat a cream puff. That woman don't eat much more than
would keep a mouse alive, and yet she is so hearty and well. I told her
as she ate so little, Dan and I would have to make up for her. And we
did, for we ate as if it were a Thanksgiving dinner. Dan and I say it is
our religion not to die in debt to our stomachs. After dinner I felt
more like sleep than anything else, and I said, 'Mrs. Lenair, let you
and me take a nap.' That seemed to please her, so she laid down on the
lounge and I went and laid on my bed. About an hour later I returned to
the room where I had left Mrs. Lenair.
"'Well,' I said, 'I have just had the boss sleep and feel so much
better. I hope you had a good nap.'
"Mrs. Lenair said, 'I have had a pleasant time lying here, though I did
not sleep any.'
"'Why,' I said, 'I could not lie that way. If I was not sleeping I would
be nervous, and want to be sitting up or moving about.'
"Then I said to her: 'I should think you must get terribly lonesome up
at your place, your son having been away so much, and you all alone with
no one to talk to.'
"She said: 'I haven't known what it was to be lonesome since I have
lived on the place.'
"'Why,' I said, 'I would not live like you do for ten dollars a day.'
She smiled, and said, 'You could not.'
"'I don't see how you can stand it,' I said, 'for it is all I can do to
keep from being lonesome here with Dan, and a team to take me anywhere.
I have more callers in a week than you have in a year. I am fond of
company and so is Dan.'
"Mrs. Lenair said: 'All you have just said, Mrs. Cullom, shows your
life, your world; we all have different worlds,' she added.
"I could hardly understand just what she meant, so I changed the subject
and thought I would talk to her about Penloe.
"'Is he home now,' I asked.
"She said, 'Yes,' he had got through his work and would be at home most
of the time.
"I said: 'Did he ever do any of the kind of work he has been doing at
the different places he worked at before he came to Orangeville? For he
don't look to me,' I said, 'as if he had worked on a ranch or done road
work much.'
"She said, 'He never had done hard work till we came to Orangeville,
having only returned to this country from India about a month before
coming here, and when we were in India, Penloe went to the University of
Calcutta as soon as he was ready to enter as a student. I lived in that
city nineteen years.'
"'Why, have you lived in India,' I said.
"Yes,' she answered. 'I left New York a year after I was married. My
husband represented a New York company in India. He died six years ago,
but we continued to reside there until Penloe finished his University
course.'
"I was clean taken back by what she said. I said, 'It's none of my
business, Mrs. Lenair, but I don't see why a fine looking young man like
Penloe, with the education you say he has had, don't get light, pleasant
work, if he has to work out, instead of working at such hard places with
the toughest crowds of men.'
"All she said was: 'That is his work.'
"Why, Mrs. Herne, do you know that he worked on the streets of the city
of Chicago, and for three months with a gang of a thousand men on the
Coast Railroad between Los Angeles and San Francisco! Then he was at the
Oakdale cattle ranch, cowboying it, with that fast gang of boys that
they keep there. Then he worked for awhile at the Simmons ranch, which
is four miles from Roseland, and Simmons always keeps the hardest crew
of men on his place. They go to Roseland every other night or so and
dance at those low dancing-houses with bad women. They get drunk, fight,
and swear all the time. Simmons' ranch has got the name of being the
toughest place to work anywhere round here.
"One day when Dan was in Roseland, he saw a man he knew from the Simmons
ranch, so he thought he would hear what the fellow had to say about
Penloe, as we both are curious to find out all we can about that
singular young man.
"Dan said: 'Is Penloe working on the Simmons ranch?'
"The man said: 'Yes.'
"Dan said: 'How does he get along?'
"'Get along!' the man said. 'All I have to say is I wish I could get
along as well.'
"Dan said: 'What kind of a chap is he, anyway? I kind of want to know,
as he is a neighbor of mine.'
"'Well,' the man said, 'I will tell you, and then you can judge for
yourself. I never heard him swear or knew of his telling a lie; he don't
drink or tell smutty yarns, or have anything to do with bad women. The
boss says he works well, and when he is not at work he never joins the
boys in their foolish talk. He is by himself a great deal, praying, I
reckon, but he is very sociable if any one will talk sense. Let me tell
you what he did which will show you what kind of a man he is. One cold,
chilly night in December, when we were all sleeping in the barn, each
man having his own blankets, the boys had just turned in when a tramp
came in and asked if he could sleep in the barn. One of the boys said,
'Yes.' The fellow lay down on the hay without any blankets, and as soon
as he was laid down his teeth began to chatter and he shook all over,
for he had a chill. Penloe instantly got up and lit a lantern, took his
blankets over to the tramp and said: 'Here, brother, you have got a
chill. Take my blankets and roll yourself up in them; you will be better
in the morning.' From where I lay I could just see the tramp's face, for
Penloe was holding the lantern so the light went on his face. The fellow
looked up at Penloe thunderstruck. I guess he never had a man speak to
him that way before. He said: 'Well, stranger, you are mighty kind.' So
Penloe helped him to roll the blankets round him, and then he went and
lay down on the hay himself without any covering. The boys did a heap of
thinking that night, but said nothing. The next morning Penloe asked the
tramp how he was, and he said he slept pretty well, but he looked real
miserable, as though he had not had a good square meal for a month and
was weak from chills. Penloe said to the tramp: 'You stay here till I
come back,' and he went to see the boss and told him there was a sick
tramp in the barn, and would he let him stay there and eat at the same
table with us till he got well and strong, and that the boss should take
the tramp's board out of his wages. The boss asked a few questions,
studied awhile, then said, all right, he didn't care. Penloe went back
to the tramp and told him he had seen the boss and he could stay there
till he got well and strong, and to eat his meals with them and it would
not cost him a cent. Tears came in the tramp's eyes, and he tried to
say, 'Thank you, stranger.'
"During the day one of the men told the boss what Penloe had done last
night; about giving his blankets up to a tramp and laying all night
himself without any covering. After supper the boss called Penloe and
told him there was a bed for him in the house, and he wanted him to
sleep in it as long as the tramp was here, and as for the tramp, he
would let the fellow stay here and board till he got a job in the
neighborhood. He would not charge a cent for his board to Penloe. He
himself had no work for the tramp.
"When the boys heard what Simmons said and did in regard to the tramp
and Penloe, one of them said he was more taken back than if he had seen
the devil come out of hell.
"'For you know, Dan,' the man said, 'Old Simmons is a hard nut and as
close-fisted as he can be. Some of the boys think now he has got the
Penloe fever. I think he got a straight look into Penloe's eyes and saw
and felt something he never had seen and felt before. Penloe is a power
when you know him.
"The tramp stayed three days and got well. We thought it would be a
month before he would be well enough to go to work, but it is that
Penloe's doings, I know. He must have some power for healing like they
say Christ had. Penloe is never sick. Heat or cold, dry or wet, seem
just the same to him.
"'The boss got the tramp a job at Kent's ranch. When he left he gave
Penloe his hand, seemed to tremble a moment, tried to speak, but walked
away without uttering a word. Penloe told the boss that the way the
tramp bid him good-bye and thanked him was eloquently touching and
powerful. The boss is very much changed; he is not so close and hard,
and you now see a few smiles on his wife's face, where before you only
saw lines of sadness; and the children, instead of being scared, as they
used to be when they heard his footsteps coming, now run to meet him and
hang around him.
"'Simmons says Penloe was the making of him and family. Simmons has a
high-priced fancy mare that the boys always have said he thought more of
than he did of his family, and no one ever drove her but himself. He
would not loan her out to any one for a day for fifty dollars, yet now
the boys say 'he would let Penloe have the mare to go to hell and back.'
"'Some of the boys also seem to have caught the fever, and it has made a
great change in their lives. Penloe will leave the Simmons ranch soon,
but his influence is there to stay. The man said, 'If you have any more
men like Penloe in Orangeville, send them down this way, for these God
forsaken ranches need men like him!'
"Dan says Penloe is like his mother in regard to tramps. Why, that woman
was all alone, and a tramp called at her house to get a job of work. He
said work was scarce and he had no money and needed some food; that he
was hungry. He told Dan some time afterwards that before she replied she
gave him a close look all over. He said her eye seemed to penetrate him,
and after scrutinizing him very closely, she said: 'Come in, friend, you
can stay here till you can find work.' She set before him plenty of
good, hearty food, put a napkin to his plate, and talked to him
interestingly about matters which seemed to make him feel that he was a
better man. What do you think Mrs. Lenair had him do, Mrs. Herne? Why,
he was shown into the bathroom, and given one of Penloe's night-gowns,
and after he had taken his bath she had him sleep in her spare bedroom.
'Why,' I said to Mrs. Lenair, 'how could you do such a thing? I would no
more have done it than I would have slept in a room with a rattlesnake.'
"She said, 'Mrs. Cullom, that man is my brother, and I treated him as
such, and that thought was so impressed on his mind that it touched his
better nature, and he could only think of me with the best and purest of
feelings. I know that it was impossible for that man to hurt me. I fear
no human being in this world.' The tramp stayed at her house for five
days, and at the end of that time he got a chance at harvesting on the
Thornton ranch. When he came to take leave of Mrs. Lenair, she said to
him: 'You have put in five good full days' work, and here is five
dollars for you'--handing him a five-dollar gold piece. He said: 'You
did not hire me to work, and for what little I have done you have paid
me a thousand times more than it is worth, in your conduct towards me.
You took me, a poor, miserable, worthless, homeless tramp into your
home, as if I had been your own brother, and you acted the true sister
towards me. Now I wish to play the brother's part by giving you my work.
It is the only thing I can do to show you how I appreciate your sisterly
kindness toward me. I can earn all the money I need now at the Thornton
ranch. I shall never forget you, because you are the only woman I ever
met that received me and treated me as a sister would her brother; and
if you ever need any work done on your place, and you have not the money
to pay for its being done, remember I am your brother, and will do it
gladly; more so than if you paid me two dollars a day.' She thanked him
and said he had better take the five dollars, and laid it down on the
table for him to take. He said he never would take it, and left it
there. His last words to her were, 'I am going to be a new man.'
"Dan was on an errand to her place while the tramp was there. He saw him
working in the orchard as if he was trying to do two days' work in one.
Dan said he couldn't hire a man to work as he was working.
"I was rather amused at Dan," continued Mrs. Cullom. "When I returned
from having taken Mrs. Lenair home in the evening (on the day that I
told you that Dan went and brought her in the morning to spend the day),
Dan came and took the team. 'Caroline,' he said, 'if you send me after
Mrs. Lenair many times more I shall be falling in love with her, for I
think she is real good, as well as being smart and bright.' 'What! Dan
Cullom,' I said. 'She wouldn't have an awful talking man like you, even
if you had a diamond on the end of every hair on your head.'"
When Mrs. Cullom was about to leave, Mrs. Herne said: "I have enjoyed
your visit so much, Mrs. Cullom. You have got me interested in Penloe
and his mother. I do so want to see them."
That evening Mrs. Herne related part of Mrs. Cullom's conversation to
her husband and asked him if he knew Penloe or his mother.
"Penloe I have seen a few times, but his mother I have never seen,"
replied he.
"What kind of a man is he?" asked his wife.
"Well," said Charles, "I hardly know him. He is certainly a remarkable
appearing young man. He is so different in his looks and expression from
any man I have ever met or seen; so different from the kind that I have
always associated with, that I could be no judge of such a man any more
than I could be a judge of millinery or silks and satins, for I have had
just about as much to do with one as I have with the other."
"Well," said his wife, "I want you to arrange in some way so we can meet
them, for I am all worked up over them after what Mrs. Cullom has told
me, and am very curious to see them."
"Something will happen in some way, so that we will meet them," he
replied.
CHAPTER VIII.
BEN WEST'S EXPERIENCE IN THE KLONDIKE.
At the time Ben West went to the Klondike, a long tedious journey on a
trail had to be made. He realized that whatever ability he possessed for
making his way in that country, he lacked experience as a miner. So he
was on the lookout to see if he could find one or two men of experience.
He met many men on his journey, some of them having had most remarkable
experience in mining and everything else. He met a man by the name of
Adams that he thought would fill the bill; for he said he had mined in
Colorado, Idaho, Arizona, and Nevada. From the talk Ben West had with
different men, he knew now that he was in a country where men had no
known reputations to back them; where every man was looked upon by every
other man as being "on the make," without any scruples of conscience;
where you would be laughed at if you took in all men said about
themselves; where a man's word was worth very little and the only thing
that counted was "something was in sight."
Adams told Ben West if he wished to secure his services, he would have
to pay his expenses to Dawson City and give him five hundred dollars in
cash before leaving Dawson City to go prospecting, and furnish him all
supplies, and he, in return, would give Ben West half of whatever he
found. Ben West, having several thousand dollars with him, was willing
to take chances, and hired Adams. He also met another man in his travels
who had had some experience, but was "dead broke." His name was Dickey,
and he told Ben West if he would grub and stake him and give him one
hundred dollars in cash when in Dawson City, he would give him half of
what he found. Ben West agreed to Dickey's proposition, and the three
men traveled together to Dawson City.
Their journey was of a most tedious, trying character, the weather being
disagreeable in the extreme. It rained more or less every day, making
the travel exceedingly slow and difficult; it being so muddy and
slippery, you seemed as if you went two steps backward to every one you
went forward. The trail in many places was washed out and had to be
repaired before they could proceed. In some places land-slides had
blocked the trail, and it involved a great amount of labor to clear them
off. Everything around Ben West was of a most discouraging nature. What
with being cold and wet all day; leg weary in the extreme when night
came; bill of fare very meagre, consisting of bread, beans, bacon, and
coffee, the men he hired sometimes felt like throwing up the sponge. For
they met many returning who said the country was hell and no good; many
were sick lying along the side of the trail; some were dying, and they
saw some dead; also a good many dead pack animals were seen. His
surroundings were certainly blue.
One morning he awoke very early, long before it was time to rise. It was
raining hard, and the thought came to him, another long tedious wet
day's journey; how much longer would this fearful traveling last? Would
they ever reach Dawson City, or would they, like many others, die on the
road? Then he thought, why was he here? He could not help contrasting
the difference between his environments here and those in Orangeville.
Here all around him was black, barren, cold, wet, and dismal; with
nearly every one cursing the country and calling it hell; and some felt
like calling for some small boy to kick them because they were fools
enough to come here.
Then he thought of his parents in Orangeville with every comfort inside,
and a perfect paradise of fruits and flowers outside. He thought of
California's lovely skies, its balmy, invigorating breezes, and its
many, many sunny days. He said, what would the people who are
journeying along here think if they had a climate like that in
Orangeville, which is matchless this side of heaven? He continued
interrogating himself. Why did I come here? Did I not always have more
of the very best and greatest variety of food than I could eat? Yes. Did
I not always have more fine clothes than I could wear? Yes. Did I not
always have more money than I needed to spend? Yes. Could a man be more
popular than I was in Orangeville? No. In short, could a man have a much
better all round time anywhere than I had in Orangeville? No. Then why
am I here in this strange country, away from friends and loved ones? A
small voice whispered to Ben West, and said: "It is because of your love
for popularity, your greed, and because you are a slave to Julia
Hammond." It was the name of Julia Hammond that roused Ben West from his
reverie, that caused him to be restless, to rise, to proceed on his
journey, and bring his iron will to bear, to overcome all obstacles.
After enduring over thirty days of disagreeable, rainy, muddy weather,
it changed to cold, freezing weather, with snow falling. Many more
hardships the party endured before reaching Dawson City.
When they arrived at Dawson City they felt very rocky and completely
played out. The first week they were in Dawson City, they just rested
and took care of themselves and got well and recuperated. Then Adams
said to Ben West he wanted his money. So Ben gave him his five hundred
dollars, and he also paid Dickey one hundred.
So, after Adams got his money, he said: "Come West, let's see the
sights."
Ben said: "I am here to make money, not to fool it away."
Adams said: "Why, West, we have had hell enough in getting here; let's
have some fun to-night. Come, West, and see the show and take in the
elephant."
Ben West said: "Adams, I know now where most of your money goes that
you have made mining; but women and whiskey will not get mine."
"Go slow, West, these girls are not respectable according to rules and
regulations of society, and I don't say they are, but look out and see
_that some one woman_ does not get away with your money. She may be
considered respectable as the world goes, but there may not be a great
difference between the one woman and these girls. I have seen the world,
West, and men like you before."
Adams' remark had the effect of taking the sails out of Ben West's
self-righteous spirit, and he said nothing more.
It was agreed among the three that they would remain in Dawson City
another week and then they would go prospecting.
The day before starting to go, Ben West thought he had better get his
men, so he went round to the saloons, dives and dance-houses. After
searching about all such places, he found Adams in a dance-house, and
Dickey in the corner of a saloon. Both men were busted and seemed glad
to have Ben come and take care of them. By the next day he got both men
straightened out, and they proceeded on their prospecting tour. Ben West
was determined to learn from Adams all he could in the way of mining.
After they had been out about a week, Ben sent Dickey in one direction
while he and Adams went in another. He watched Adams very closely and
learned lots from him. When they had been together about a month, Ben
West was getting tired of Adams for several reasons. One day he was
prospecting about a quarter of a mile from Adams, when he found
something rich. He brought a few samples to camp at night and showed
them to Adams. When Adams looked at the samples, he said: "West, you
have struck it." So the next day Adams went with Ben to see the mine,
and by doing more work it proved to be all that Ben West had expected.
Now that a mine had been found, Adams wanted to get a settlement with
Ben West, as he had been away some time and wanted to get back to Dawson
City. Ben West did not think he owed Adams anything, as Adams had not
found the mine, but for some reason Adams thought he ought to have an
interest in what West found; so they had some wordy trouble. After many
hot words, Ben West agreed to give Adams two thousand dollars, which
offer Adams accepted and then returned to Dawson City to see and enjoy
more fun as he called it. Two weeks later an agent representing the
North American Mining Syndicate bought Ben West's claim for fifty
thousand dollars, giving him a draft for forty thousand and ten thousand
in gold coin.
For a few weeks afterwards Ben West felt rich, then, strange to relate,
a feeling came over him that he was poor, and must make at least half a
million. About a month after he had sold his claim, he met three men
from his native State, California. He was glad to see men from his
State, and they were glad to see him, when they heard him say that he
had sold a claim, as they had very little money and might need some
financial help. Ben West found their company very entertaining and liked
to be with them. After awhile it was decided that all of them should go
in as partners. When they had been out prospecting a few weeks as
partners, it is singular to have to state that there was trouble over
every little show of a claim, and many other matters caused
unpleasantness, though before they became partners they were all great
friends. But the partnership business seemed to make them all at outs
with each other. After they had been out awhile prospecting, Ben West
found out that two of his partners were tender-footed men, never having
had any experience as miners, though they at first tried to make Ben
think they had.
"I have got through with partners," said Ben West, "and from this time
on I will prospect alone; then what I find will belong to me, and no
second party can claim a share and growl because he can't have it all.
Besides, this partnership is a failure after all. There is more or less
trouble all the time about cooking, packing, getting the fuel for fire,
cleaning up, and putting the things away afterwards. Then how will it
be if a good prospect is found? I shall have all the work to do and only
get half." This resolve was made after a long hard journey of several
days, over a rough slippery trail with now and then deep snow to wade
through, and also over rocky points that one is almost sure to find in
the mountains.
The two tender-footed men were good fellows, but, like too many others,
when the novelty of the enterprise began to develop into a stern
reality, and there was manual labor to be performed, and hardships to be
endured, and some personal sacrifices to be made, they began to lose
heart, get homesick and weary, and to shirk their part; also to be surly
and disagreeable. "We won't quarrel," said Ben West, "but when we get to
Antelope Springs we will divide our stores and then each one will 'shift
for himself,' as the saying is."
In a few days they arrived at the Springs and at once divided the
supplies. After a couple of days' stay, Ben West started out again
prospecting, and slow tedious work he found it. He toiled day after day,
tired and weary at night, but blessed with a night of sweet sound sleep
so that in the morning he was fresh and ready for another day's work.
Things went on in this way for awhile, then he came to a place that had
been tried but abandoned. Here he worked for about two days and found
what he was looking for. But it was not rich, though his hopes seemed to
revive once more. Here he brought his camping outfit and went to work in
good earnest for about ten days. He took out from fifteen to thirty
dollars per day, and the prospect looked favorable. A party offered him
twenty thousand dollars for his claim, but he refused it, and after some
bargaining he sold it for thirty thousand dollars.
He decided now to not only prospect himself but to stake others for a
half interest in what they found. Amongst them was a young fellow by the
name of Lane, of doubtful reputation, and his partner Bruce. Ben West
gave them a six weeks' outfit to go to a part of the country that had
not been looked over at all. After they had been gone about four weeks
Bruce, Lane's partner, came into camp and wanted Ben West. He was out in
the hills looking for another claim, but Bruce went after him to get him
to go with him to where Lane was, for they had found a good prospect
that was very rich. After getting together the few necessary things that
they needed, off the two men went, and sure enough it was a rich mine,
one that was paying three to six hundred dollars per day. "Now," said
Ben West, "I am opposed to any partnership business, and will sell or
buy. Just one half of this claim is mine. I will take twenty-five
thousand dollars or agree to give you the same amount for your half; and
would like an answer at once or as soon as you can decide."
Lane and Bruce talked the matter over and finally concluded to sell. "It
is a bargain," said Ben West, "and we will now go back to town and I
will give you your money."
It looked stormy before bedtime and next morning the snow was quite
deep. Though the snow was still falling, they were anxious to get to
town; so they started on the tedious journey of sixty miles through the
snow, then over a foot deep. Their progress was slow and they did not
make half the distance; being exhausted, they stopped for food and rest.
After eating a cold lunch, they fixed a place and spread their slender
allowance of bedding and turned in for the night. It was bitter cold,
but they were tired; so it was not long before they were all soundly
sleeping. When they awoke in the morning they realized that a very hard
day's travel was before them, having about forty miles to make before
supper.
When Ben West got up he did not feel quite right, for one of his feet
felt kind of odd. It did not take Lane long to find out the foot had
been slightly frozen. So to work they went and thawed it out, wrapped it
up well and started. It did not snow now, but it was cold. Their
progress was slow. When they had traveled about ten miles, Bruce said:
"I will push ahead and get a sled and some of the boys to come and meet
you, so make all the distance you can."
"All right," said West, "send four men with a sled and something to eat.
I will pay the bill and the men for coming."
Bruce arrived in town some time after dark, but though very tired and
hungry he did not eat until he had started four good stout men after his
comrades, whom they met some nine or ten miles out. Poor Ben West could
go no further, for his foot was quite painful, and he and Lane both
waited and watched for relief, which came at last. It was almost
midnight when the relief party arrived. They brought a fine lunch and a
bottle of wine, which both enjoyed very much. After the lunch was eaten
all hands started for the town, where they arrived just as the day was
breaking. The frozen foot proved to be worse than at first supposed to
be. It would keep the owner an invalid for at least two weeks. Ben West
said: "Here is a pretty mess. My fortune just at my fingers' end and a
frozen foot tied up for half a month, when I have so much to do. Why did
I not take better care of myself?"
At this time Bruce came to see how Ben West was getting along. He found
him nervous and a little feverish. "Just be quiet," said Bruce, "it is
the best medicine you can have." After Ben West had paid Lane and Bruce
for their claim, Bruce said to West: "If you like I will go with another
man, that you may name, and work in your mine until you come to us. For
my pay I want fourteen dollars per day and I'll furnish my own grub."
The bargain was made. Bruce and the man started the next day, and just
sixteen days after Ben West was at his mine.
They had a large pile of pay dirt ready for a clean-up; it was
exceedingly rich and several claim buyers had heard about the rich mine
and were on the ground to buy it from West. After a great deal of talk
West said: "The mine is worth a million, but I want to get out of this
country, and the man that pays me five hundred and fifty thousand
dollars gets the mine."
An hour afterwards the agent for an English syndicate purchased the
mine. Ben West having now made his pile determined to lose no time in
getting back to Orangeville, but he intended to stay in San Francisco
till he was thoroughly recuperated before going home.
CHAPTER IX.
AN ARRIVAL.
George Combe has said, "Mankind love their young and take charge of them
with common accord, yet the love of offspring is much more intense in
the female than in the male, and this difference is manifested from
earliest infancy. The boy wants his whip, horse, drum, top or sword, but
observe the little girl occupied with her doll. She decks it in fine
clothes, prepares for it night linen, puts it into the cradle, rocks it,
takes it up, feeds it, scolds it, and tells it stories. When she grows
older she takes charge of her younger brothers and sisters. Nothing
possesses, in her estimation, greater charms than babies. When she has
grown to maturity and become herself a mother, with what sweet emotion
and gushing tenderness does she caress her little ones."
While the love of offspring is more or less strong in all, yet it does
not manifest itself if there are other tendencies predominant in the
character. Take a woman in whom the love of dress and society is most
active; she will not care for offspring, if her circumstances are such
that it would debar her from enjoying style or society; or if the
artistic inclination is the strongest in her character she would not
want offspring; or if great intellectual tastes are very strong and love
of children only moderate, she would not want offspring; or where
persons have consecrated themselves fully and unreservedly to a
spiritual life in order to become spiritual parents to many, to them
offspring would be a hindrance in their work. But where the domestic
faculties are the strongest, the home is lonesome without children. In
some the maternal instinct is exceedingly strong, for it manifests
itself to such an extent as to become the ruling passion; nothing else
but offspring can satisfy them. And this maternal passion is expressed
in matchless language by Mr. Stephen Phillips:[1] "Lucrezia's sudden
outburst of grief and rage against her lonely fate is, poetically
speaking, one of the finest passages in the play:"
[Footnote 1: Literary Digest, Dec., 1899.]
GIOVANNI.
Lucrezia! this is that old bitterness.
LUCREZIA.
Bitterness--am I bitter? strange, oh strange!
How else? My husband dead and childless left.
My thwarted woman--thoughts have inward turned,
And that vain milk like acid in me eats.
Have I not in my thought trained little feet
To venture, and taught little lips to move
Until they shaped the wonder of a word?
I am long practiced. Oh, those children, mine,
Mine, doubly mine; and yet I cannot touch them.
I cannot see them, hear them--Does great God
Expect I shall clasp air and kiss the wind
Forever, and the budding cometh on?
The burgeoning, the cruel flowering;
At night the quickening splash of rain, at dawn
That muffled call of babes how like to birds;
And I amid these sights and sounds must starve
I with so much to give perish of thrift!
Omitted by His casual dew!
GIOVANNI.
Well, well,
You are spared much; children can wring the heart.
LUCREZIA.
Spared! to be spared what was I born to have,
I am a woman, and this very flesh
Demands its natural pangs, its rightful throes,
And I implore with vehemence these pains.
I know that children wound us, and surprise
Even to utter death, till we at last
Turn from a face to flowers; but this my heart
Was ready for these pangs, and had foreseen
Oh! but I grudge the mother her last look
Upon the coffined form--that pang is rich--
Envy the shivering cry when gravel falls
And all these maimed wants and thwarted thoughts,
Eternal yearning, answered by the wind,
Have dried in me belief and love and fear.
I am become a danger and a menace,
A wandering fire, a disappointed force,
A peril--do you hear, Giovanni? Oh,
It is such souls as mine that go to swell
The childless cavern cry of the barren sea,
Or make that human ending to night wind.
In Mrs. Charles Herne, this feeling was not quite as strong as that
expressed in the play, but after they had been married two years, she
did some quiet thinking in that line. She would sit alone at times, and
let her imagination be active in the thought, what delight it would give
her if when her husband came in the room where she was, she could take
him over to a little crib and turn back the corner of a fancy worked
cover and show him such a sweet, wee, little face nestled on the pillow,
and what joy it would give her, when her husband came in from his work
to put a little one into his arms and see how delighted he would be to
take the child, and then see him sit down and hear him use language
which belongs to baby talk. Again she thought what pleasure it would
give her to start a little toddling form down the pathway to meet her
husband, and to see the little one stand still when it met its father,
and raise its little arms to be taken up. All these thoughts and many
more passed through the mind of Mrs. Herne, for she now knew for a
certainty that such joys would be hers, and many a pleasant laugh and
joke she and her husband had over the coming of a little tot.
One day a little later there was started in the most sacred room in the
house a vibration by the doctor which reached the auditory nerve of the
nurse conveying to the brain a most joyous statement, "It is a boy." The
nurse carried it to the kitchen, "It is a boy." The Chinaman cook
carried it to the Jap chore boy, "It is a boy." The Jap chore boy
carried it to the teamsters, "It is a boy." The teamsters carried it to
the men on the ditches, "It is a boy." The ditch men carried it to the
men in the orchard, "It is a boy." The prune trees took up the glad news
and whispered it to the apricot trees, "It is a boy." The apricot trees
whispered it to the peach trees, "It is a boy." The peach trees
whispered it to all the other fruit trees, "It is a boy."
When Pet, Bell, Blanche and Daisy, with their large udders full of rich
lacteal fluid, heard the news, "It is a boy," they gave forth an extra
flow of milk that night. When the frisky mules in the barn lot heard the
joyful tidings, "It is a boy," they just cut up and threw their hind
feet higher than ever. You could not see them for the dust they made.
The roosters crowed, "It is a boy," and the hens cackled, "It is a boy."
The orioles in the mulberry trees warbled out the song, "It is a boy."
The dogs, Dash and Rover, in their play that evening barked at each
other, "It is a boy." The cats Tom and Malty purred, "It is a boy." It
seemed as if the vibrations in all the buildings and all over the ranch
rang out the glad tidings, "It is a boy."
In the evening when all Mr. Herne's men congregated in their fine
quarters to have some music, Osborn sat down to the piano and played
while all the men sang, that old negro song:
"Give 'em more children, Lord,
Give 'em more children;
Give 'em more children, Lord,
Give 'em more children."
Osborn said to the boys when retiring, "What a feeling of joy the advent
of a little boy has brought to us all on the ranch. Mr. and Mrs. Herne
have got their wish now, for they both wanted a son."
Barnes said: "What a fine time we will have with the little fellow, when
he is old enough to toddle. We will have him over here most of the
time."
One day after dinner when the baby was about a month old, a man standing
six feet three inches and weighing two hundred and twenty-five pounds,
came on the porch where Mrs. Herne was sitting with the baby, and said:
"Mrs. Herne, the boys want me to take the baby to them. They are all
sitting under the mulberry trees."
Mrs. Herne said: "All right, Frank." But the nurse seemed to be alarmed
lest he might hurt the infant, as he was so large and awkward, not used
to handling a baby four weeks old, so she followed Frank and the baby to
where the boys were. Frank said: "Here boys, each one of you can hold
him just long enough to pass your opinion upon him." The men seemed to
take as much pride and interest in the child as if he were their own.
After the boy had been in each of the men's arms and they had passed
their judgment on him, the nurse wanted to take the child back, but tall
Frank said: "No, I took the baby from Mrs. Herne and I am going to see
the child in her arms safe again." When putting the baby in her lap he
said: "The boys all think he is the brightest baby they ever saw."
After he was gone the nurse said: "You ought to see how gentle those
great men handled that baby."
Every day the men always inquired and talked about the baby, and were
eager to watch its growth.
If you entered the house of an evening about the time the baby was put
to bed, you would hear a very sweet, soft voice singing:
"Hush! my child, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed.
Heavenly blessings without number
Cluster round thy sacred head."
There is great talk made among many persons about catching different
kinds of disease and sickness, but how seldom you hear people talk about
the contagious qualities of hope, joy and love. Supposing on a ranch the
owner gets up in the morning and starts the vibrations going, "That All
is life, All is love, All is joy, and All is God," and there is a hearty
response by his wife who takes up the invocation, "All is life, All is
love, All is joy, and All is God." And carrying them into the kitchen,
she adds to them by singing this song:
"The thorns that pester and vex my life
Have changed to the flowers in June,
All sounds, disorders, pain and strife
Have rounded into tune."
From the kitchen the chore boy takes up the sayings to the teamsters,
"All is life, All is love, All is joy, All is God." The teamsters take
up those life-giving words, and instead of swearing at their teams all
day, and talking about hell, their thoughts and talk is, "All is life,
All is love, All is joy, All is God." The men on the ditches and in the
orchards echo the glad thought, "All is life, All is love, All is joy,
All is God." And the birds in the trees sing with gladness, "All is
life, All is love, All is joy, All is God," and that very interesting
ring-neck bird, the kildee, as it runs along the ditches and moist
places in the orchards, speaks in its peculiar way that, "All is life,
All is love, All is joy, All is God." And the music of the waters as it
flows along, rippling in the ditches, sings "All is life, All is love,
All is joy, All is God." The winds talk it to the trees, "All is life,
All is love, All is joy, All is God." The trees whisper it to each
other, "All is life, All is love, All is joy, All is God," and the music
of the insects say the same thing, "All is life, All is love, All is
joy, and All is God." When the God of day, with his effulgent
brightness, rises over the hills in the morning and scatters his
luminous rays on the ranch, and writes in lights and shadows his
hieroglyphics that "All is life, All is love, All is joy, All is God."
And the one grand anthem that is being sung in the hearts and lives of
all on the ranch is, "All is life, All is love, All is joy, All is God."
With an aspiration like that on the ranch, all cursing and swearing
would disappear; smallness, meanness, jealousy, covetousness and greed
could not live in that atmosphere. That spiritual air in circulation
would kill out all lustful thoughts, pride, vanity, love of strong
liquors, and of coarse animal food. Everything would manifest the fruits
of the Spirit, which are peace, joy and love. All sickness and disease
would disappear, because those life-giving, purifying thoughts would
become incorporated and assimilated in the mind, nerve force, and enter
into the blood, flowing through its veins and arteries all over the
whole system, making the entire organism sound and pure, a fit temple
for the dwelling of the Eternal One.
CHAPTER X.
MRS. MARSTON.
In the last three years the beautiful little city of Roseland with its
avenues of palms and magnolias had a boom. Large substantial brick and
granite blocks were erected. Very many new and handsome residences were
built, besides putting a new appearance on some of the old buildings.
The commercial, professional and mechanical classes were all doing well,
and living in expectation of doing still better.
Among those who had prospered by the rise in real estate was a Mrs.
Marston, who owned one of the finest residences in Roseland. At the time
that she enters our story her age was about forty and she had a son who
was twenty years old, a month before he left for Paris, and he had been
gone away four months. Why he had gone to Paris, the stories concerning
his mission to that gay city did not quite harmonize. His father came to
the conclusion ten years ago that his mother was too much like himself,
in being a positive, dominant character; that she was a little too
masculine in her makeup, and he thought he would prefer a lady for a
wife who did not weigh quite as much, and one that was a little sweeter
in disposition, and more playful. When he reflected that he was worth
one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, he thought that some of the joys
of having a sweet wife should be his, and particularly when he had seen
Josephine Stearns, whom he thought would more than meet his most
sanguine expectations, for to his mind, she seemed to possess all those
very desirable qualities of disposition which he so much admired. In a
very indirect way he made his mind known to Mrs. Marston, who pretended
she did not like such a proposition, but if he would give her fifty
thousand dollars and let her have the boy, she would consent to a
divorce. Her husband thought it over in this way. He said, "I am not
happy in living with my wife, don't like my home at all, and what good
does it do a man to be worth one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, if
he is not enjoying some of the greatest pleasures in life. Better have
only a hundred thousand dollars with a pretty sweet young lady like
Josephine, than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars with my present
wife." Next morning he scratched his head, and said in a slow kind of a
way, "I think fifty thousand dollars rather steep, but I do not wish to
have any fuss or quibbling, and you can have the boy, and I will give
you twenty-five thousand dollars in cash, and twenty-five thousand in
real estate," which she accepted. To look at her you could not tell what
her feelings were, but way down deep in her heart she was overflowing
with gladness to think she was free.
The rise in real estate made her worth in all as much as her husband was
when he left her. She was known in Roseland as being a lady that was
fond of young people's company, and she was great on entertaining. She
was one of those ladies who are proud, fond of dress and style, very
particular about moving in the upper circles of society, but she had no
interest or sympathy with plain, poor people. She loved to dress young
for her years, was fond of going with young ladies and gentlemen bicycle
riding. She generally had as guests one or two very pretty young ladies,
and another of her fads was to make pets of a few sons of rich men. As
she had a fine large house and loved to entertain, the leading young men
in Roseland, and some of the prettiest and most stylish young ladies,
were very often seen in her parlors and on her well-kept lawn. The
lunches and suppers she served to her guests were the talk of the town.
She had a sister who lived in Orangeville, but who was so different in
her tastes and circumstances that there was nothing in common between
them.
One day she was out driving, and her eyes caught the sight at a little
distance of two persons walking on the sidewalk. She made the team walk
slow when she saw them. They did not see her, but she took in at a
glance what a clear complexion, bright eyes, and lovely form the young
lady had. She said to herself, "How beautiful Stella has grown, but what
plain clothes she has on." She reined the team towards the sidewalk and
said, "Why, Stella, I did not know you had returned from school. Good
morning, David," she said to her sister's husband. "Wont you both come
to the house?" David said that Stella had just come in on the train and
they had been doing a few errands and were expected back by Bertha at a
certain time and could not stop now.
Mrs. Marston said to Stella, "I want you to come and make me a long
visit. I will be out to-morrow at your house and arrange with your
mother for your coming to visit me." She thanked her aunt for her
invitation and said she would tell her mother.
Mrs. Marston had remarked on more than one occasion to her sister
Bertha, that she would die if she had to stay in a place like
Orangeville over night. As that lady did not feel she was ready to quit
her material form with all its attachments and desires, she decided to
leave Roseland at eight in the morning and that would give her ample
time to have a long chat with her sister, and she could then be home by
five in the evening in time to dress for dinner and receive whoever
might call. She telephoned to her caterer to have ready next morning at
eight, one quart of orange sherbet and one quart of vanilla ice cream,
put into two nice dishes and packed in a box with ice, then put two wet
sacks over the box and set it in another box with a cover. She
telephoned to the livery stable to have her span of handsome chestnuts
brought to her house next morning at eight. The next morning she was up
bright and early and put on just a good plain dress, and was ready to
take the lines promptly at eight from the man who had brought her team.
She drove round to the caterer's and got her box, then she went to the
meat market and told the man to put up six pounds of steak, she called
at the bakery and had the man put in her buggy one frosted fruit cake,
one plain cake, one lemon pie, and a peach cobbler, and one dozen fresh
baked Astor House rolls. After she had got a little way out from
Roseland she stopped at a Chinaman's garden and purchased a few early
vegetables. When she reached her sister's home it was about ten, and
after a few minutes' chat she said to her sister, "Bertha, I have come
out to have a visit with you and Stella, and I did not want you to be
giving yourselves a lot of work in the way of getting up a big dinner,
so I bought a few things on my way out, and all they need is to set them
on the table, except the vegetables and meat, and I will attend to the
vegetables; the pies and rolls may need just a little warming."
Mrs. Marston was one of those ladies of skill and ability who could do
anything in the kitchen equal to any hired help when she wished, and
this morning she seemed to be so different to what she generally was,
that her sister Bertha thought she either had improved greatly, or she
had not judged her rightly. She seemed this morning so kind and
thoughtful and so sisterly in her conversation and so ready to assist in
getting dinner. Bertha said to Mrs. Marston, "Why, Helen, you have more
steak here than we can eat in a week." To which Mrs. Marston replied,
that she had brought lots of ice to keep it.
When David was called to dinner, it certainly did his eyes and stomach
good to see on the table such a spread of luxuries and dainties, which
were so seldom partaken of by the Wheelwright family, as they lived very
simply. All enjoyed the new bill of fare very much, and the repast was
seasoned by a very pleasant family conversation. David seemed to open
his eyes several times at the turn things were taking, because there had
been times when his wife and her sister did not harmonize at all.
During the morning when not observed, Mrs. Marston feasted her eyes on
Stella's beautiful form in her new cut wrapper, and mentally said to
herself, "When I get some new stylish gowns on that handsome figure, and
that beautiful face under a becoming hat wont those Roseland dudes just
go wild over her?" She laughed to herself and thought what fun she would
have with her pets.
After dinner was through they sat at the table resting and talking, when
David said he would like to have Stella come out and help him a few
minutes.
Mrs. Marston spoke up and said, "Yes, dear; you go out and help your
father. Your mother and I will wash the dishes."
Mrs. Marston thought now is the time to speak to Bertha about Stella
making me a visit. She opened the conversation by saying: "Bertha, I
have seen so little of Stella for several years, that I do wish you
would let her come next week and make me a visit. Not having a daughter,
I feel as if I would like to do something for Stella, that is to give
her a good chance. She is a bright girl and has an exceedingly fine
form, and about all she has ever seen of society are cow-boys and ranch
men, and may be a few ordinary respectable fellows; but I want to
introduce her to bankers' sons, young lawyers, and rich merchants' sons,
and give the girl a show. You see, she is going on eighteen, and if ever
she is going to have an opportunity now is the time. After a young lady
gets past twenty, her chances with the young bloods are not so good."
"Well," said her sister, "you are very kind, Helen, and I don't know but
what it might be a chance that she needs. You have my consent for her to
make you a visit, and when you give her the invitation you can tell her
what I say."
"There is one matter, Bertha, that you will pardon me for speaking to
you about, and I hope you will let me do as I wish, and that is in the
matter of fixing up Stella's wardrobe."
Bertha said: "Helen, she is your girl while she is with you, and you can
do whatever you think best."
So when Stella came in from helping her father, Mrs. Marston said:
"Stella, I have been talking to your mother about your coming to make me
a visit next week, and she has given her consent and I do hope you will
come and be my daughter for awhile. We will have a fine time, I can
assure you. Only bring the clothes you come in. I will rig you out from
head to foot."
Stella in her own mind felt this way: that she never had any personal
experience of the circle that her aunt was a prominent figure in, and
all she knew about the young men and young ladies connected with the
swim, was only what she had heard and read. She felt that by personally
coming in contact with those of different environments, it would widen
her experience and give her a better knowledge of the world. So she very
kindly thanked her aunt and it was decided that she would come on
Thursday of the following week.
When she arrived Stella was warmly welcomed into the elegantly furnished
home of Mrs. Marston. Her aunt kissed her and seemed delighted to have
her niece with her. The bedroom that her aunt said would be hers was a
gem of beauty, being furnished with one of those fine enameled brass
bedsteads, a fine dresser with a long bevel plate French mirror, and on
the dresser was an elegant toilet set. The curtains, carpets and
draperies matched the tints of the ceiling and walls. Fine costly
pictures hung on the walls representing mostly scenes of festivities in
baronial halls and castles, also in modern Fifth Avenue palaces; showing
up so well the gay brilliant throng of ladies and gentlemen in the
height of their enjoyment. The decorations and furnishings of the room
were well in keeping with the lovely figure that was to occupy it.
Mrs. Marston had a great deal of personal pride, and she did not care
about taking Stella out till her wardrobe had been replenished. After
breakfast next morning the door-bell rang and a minute or two afterwards
Mrs. Rogers, the dressmaker, was announced by the servant to Mrs.
Marston. When Mrs. Marston went in to see her she said: "Good morning,
Mrs. Rogers; my niece is here and I would like you to see her so you can
help me to select what you think would be suitable in the way of dresses
and other garments for her."
Mrs. Marston called Stella in and introduced her to Mrs. Rogers and
said: "Mrs. Rogers will go with me to do some shopping, and we want you
to leave entirely to us the matter of selecting your dresses. I am sure
you will be pleased when we get through."
Stella laughed and said: "If you show as much good taste in selecting my
dresses as you have in the furnishing and decorating of my very pretty
room, I am sure I shall be more than pleased." Her aunt was delighted
with the compliment.
Mrs. Marston said to Mrs. Rogers: "Did you come over on your bicycle?"
"Yes," said that lady.
"Well," said Mrs. Marston, "I will get mine and we will go now and do
the shopping."
At the Marston mansion towards evening several large packages arrived.
Mrs. Marston opened two large ones, looked them over, then said: "Here,
Stella, these are for you."
After Stella had looked at them she said: "Why, aunt, dear, they are
beautiful, but I am not going to be married now; they are pretty enough
for the most charming bride in Roseland."
While handling the fancy worked underskirts and nightdresses, the fine
silk underwear and costly fancy silk hosiery, she remarked: "It is very
kind of you, aunt, to get all these fine things." Then a box was opened
and there was a great assortment of the best shoes, so that Stella might
select several pair from it. She was quite pleased with the different
materials her aunt had selected for her dresses, and Mrs. Rogers would
be up next morning to take her measurement. She was going to put on a
force of assistants for completing them as soon as possible.
Stella was about the same as a prisoner in her aunt's house for a week.
But she had a most enjoyable time in reading some very costly
illustrated books of travel which her aunt had purchased more for style
and appearance than for anything else.
Her aunt said one day, she did not get any time to look at books, but
she was glad Stella could amuse herself in that way so that she might
not find the time long.
"No, indeed, aunt," said Stella, "I have enjoyed every minute of the
time I have been with you."
The week that Stella was a prisoner her aunt had so arranged matters
that there were few callers and Stella did not see them. And she herself
was out most of the time. Stella was not the least sensitive in regard
to the matter of not going out with her aunt till her new dresses were
made, because she saw that she would be a very conspicuous figure among
the well-dressed young ladies of her aunt's circle. She would look like
a speckled bird among a flock of white pigeons.
After the dress-making was completed Mrs. Rogers went with Mrs. Marston
to the milliner's and purchased a pretty hat, Mrs. Marston saying she
would bring Stella and let her select what more she might need in the
line of millinery.
The week following was one of excitement for Stella, for every day she
was out riding once or twice with her aunt, and meeting so many young
ladies, and the well-dressed young men were very particular when bowing
to Mrs. Marston to recognize the pretty young face at her side. Towards
the end of the week Mrs. Marston gave a swell reception in honor of her
niece. The very elite of Roseland were there, also a few from other
places who were on a visit to friends in Roseland, and all made a very
gay and brilliant party. But if any young lady that evening looked
attractive, bewitching, fascinating, and possessed the power of making
the blood in some of the dudes present tingle from the roots of their
hair to the end of their toes, it was that fresh young girl from the
country, with her sparkling eye, her ready wit; with resources that
seemed inexhaustible for sustaining interesting conversation together
with a manner so simple, so unconscious in all she said and did and so
unassuming, which added much to the charm of her personality. All these
characteristics were manifested in fine well rounded form. Is it any
wonder that some young gentlemen saw a certain form floating before
them after they had put their heads to their pillows that night, and
their brains were active in planning for further acquaintance with that
young lady?
Some of Mrs. Marston's pets lost no time in availing themselves of the
standing invitation to call any time. Other parties were soon given by
young ladies in Roseland, at which Stella had very pressing invitations
to be present. The young ladies liked her very much; she was so natural,
so sweet, so unaffected; they observed she was not what is called
"fellow-struck;" while she seemed to enjoy and be perfectly at home in
the society of young gentlemen, the young ladies saw no signs of her
flirting with any of them. There is that peculiarity in the character of
a certain class of young ladies, that while they may think it is their
privilege to flirt and carry on with the young men they know, yet when a
strange young lady is introduced into their circle of gentlemen friends,
they have more respect for her if she shows some originality and does
not behave just exactly as they do.
Mrs. Marston was delighted at the impression Stella made on her circle
of acquaintances, and now the dudes of Roseland paid Mrs. Marston extra
attention and politeness since they had the pleasure of meeting her
niece.
Young Ryland, the banker's son, said to Barker, the rising young
attorney at the Arlington Hotel, "Say, Barker, what do you think of that
new flower which Mrs. Marston has put into our garden?"
"I think," said Barker, "she is the prettiest and most fragrant bud I
have seen; a very rare specimen."
Ryland said: "She is quite a study; the more you see of her, the more
interesting she grows."
After Stella had been at her aunt's about a month she was seen less in
her aunt's company riding out, but more in the company of the most
stylish men in the city. Her aunt encouraged her in going out with these
young gentlemen. She talked very much to her about how rich young
Ryland's father, the banker, was; and she expected Barker to become one
of the most brilliant lights at the bar. To-day he was worth twenty-five
thousand dollars in his own name. Then there was young Westbrooke, son
of the leading merchant in Roseland, the only son. He was home from
college, with bright prospects. There was young Brookes, who owned fifty
thousand dollars in real estate, and had traveled in Europe and seen
lots of the world. He was a very great catch, her aunt said. These four
young men, who always dressed with great taste, were Mrs. Marston's
favorite pets. For a while Stella favored each one of these young men
with her company, in buggy riding, but towards the end of the second
month Westbrooke was the only one with whom she was seen riding.
She never took her aunt into her confidence by relating her experience
in going out with these various young gentlemen. She thought it policy
not to; but to be pleasant to each one of them, even if she had decided
not to keep company with some of them. She remembered she was her aunt's
guest, and should make herself agreeable to her aunt and her aunt's
friends. What she did not relate to her aunt she did to her mother, when
she returned home from her visit the week after the second month of her
stay in Roseland. In conversation with her mother, Stella said, "I am
really glad I went to Aunt Helen's, for I have lived in two months a
year of my life. I have seen so much of a world concerning which I
previously knew nothing only by hearsay. I feel it has done me good in
many ways. Aunt was kind to me, and made everything very pleasant, and
so did her friends. I do say I am glad that I have lived in her world
and tasted of its pleasures, because I don't go now on what I hear about
that world. I know from my own personal experience. It has given me much
to think about, and furnished a great deal of mental food for the study
of character, and I have learned more about my own self. I know better
now than I ever did before my strong points and weak ones." She told her
mother what fine piano players the Miller girls were, what sweet
singers Dr. Lacy's daughters were, and the male quartette was very fine.
Ryland and Westbrooke are members of it, and after relating a number of
other things which she heard and saw, she told her mother she could not
tell her all now, but would some other time.
So one afternoon, when they were alone, Stella said: "Well, mother, I
will relate to you now some of my funny experiences with some of the
swell young gentlemen of Roseland. They were all aunt's special pets. I
had been out riding with young Ryland, the banker's son, several times,
besides sometimes meeting him at parties. He is very dudish, and dresses
very extravagantly. He is labeled as catch number one, because his
father has said his son should take his place in the bank some day, and
on his wedding day he gets a gift from his father of twenty-five
thousand dollars, with the promise of the bulk of his father's fortune
when he dies. On the first few occasions when I met young Ryland he
seemed reserved and quiet, but the more I went out riding with him I
found he was getting rather soft. He did not seem to show any other
traits of character, and his company was dull, but he made it more
sickening each time with soft, slobbering talk. I only went out with him
to please aunt. The last time I rode out with him he plead so hard for
me to allow him to kiss my hand that I consented grudgingly just to
quiet him, but after he kissed it instead of his being quiet, as I
supposed he would be, it seemed to fire him all the more, so that he
wanted to kiss my cheek. You ought to have heard the way he talked; you
would think he was about to die, and the only remedy there was for him
was to kiss my cheek. If he could only kiss me on the cheek, life would
come back to him and he would feel a new man. In my own mind, I said to
myself, 'This is the last time I ride out with you.' The more I tried to
show how foolish he was to want to kiss a young lady that did not want
any such manifestation of affection, the more he persisted, and said, 'I
must kiss you.' I said, 'If I loved you, it would be a real pleasure to
receive a kiss from you, but instead of loving you I lose all the
respect I ever had for you because you try to force me to accept a kiss
from you when I don't want it.' But he persisted, and said, 'I must kiss
you, it will do me lots of good, and won't hurt you.' I said, 'Have you
no respect for me or yourself to act so senselessly?' He replied, 'It
may appear senseless to you, but I can assure you it would be bliss to
me.' I tried to turn the subject of kissing me to something else, and
did the best I could to entertain him in conversation on other subjects,
but no; he was more stubborn than ever to think of nothing and talk of
nothing but kissing me on the cheek. Not wishing to have any
unpleasantness with him on aunt's account, I said to myself, 'You are
nothing but a simple, little, contrary, foolish child, in a man's form,
and I shall have to humor you as I would a little boy, for you have only
the mind of one.' I told him if he, as a young gentleman of honor, would
never say one word more to me about kissing, he could kiss my cheek just
once, which he did and was quiet afterwards. He was very pleasant during
the remainder of our ride, and when I got out of the buggy I was glad he
did not ask if he could call again on me. When I think of him I cannot
keep from laughing, the foolish simpleton. I would not have him for all
the gold in California. I must tell you about another of aunt's pets I
went out riding with several times. There was more to him than there was
to Ryland; his name is Barker, and he is worth twenty-five thousand
dollars, and aunt says he will become one of the leading lights of the
legal profession. Well, he was full of humor and jokes disposed to be a
little gay in his talk, and from what he related concerning himself one
might infer he had been at times a little swift. One afternoon we were
out in the country riding and he became very animated in his
conversation about taste and style of young ladies' dresses, and from
that went on to say what a fad it was among young men to notice and
admire the bright hosiery which young ladies wore when bicycle riding,
and continued in that style of talk, saying what good taste I displayed
in my dress; he was sure that the pretty, bright hosiery, which he
supposed I wore, would do his eyes good to behold. Just as he was
apparently making a motion as if to inspect my hosiery, his nigh colt
shied at an old post that was leaning over at the side of the road. He
had all he could do to manage the horse. I laughed, and told him 'He had
better keep his mind on the team, and not think about such things as the
kind of hosiery I was wearing, that he must not look upon me as a
dry-goods window.' He acted kind of mad with the colt, and said no more
about ladies' hosiery. That was the last ride we had together.
"Well, one evening young Brookes, who was said to be worth fifty
thousand dollars in real estate, and had seen much of Europe in his
travels, called to take me to the theater. I had been out riding with
him several times, and met him at every party. After the play was over,
it being rather a warm night, he asked me if I would not like an
ice-cream, and I agreed; so we went into a cafe, and the waiter showed
us into one of the private boxes. After bringing ice-cream, cake and
soda-water, he drew the curtains. We had a very pleasant chat while
partaking of the refreshments.
"Brookes asked me if I had any objection to his enjoying a cigarette.
"I said 'No.'
"Then he asked me if I would have one with him.
"I laughed, and said I had not become fashionable enough for that yet. I
would have to live longer in the city.
"He said, 'Why, the Paris young ladies smoke.'
"'Yes,' I said, 'but I am not a Paris young lady.'
"In looking around the little compartment I observed some pictures on
the walls, but I perceived that the artist was not a Rubens or a
Raphael, and they belonged to that class of pictures that one would not
see on the walls of a Sunday-school room.
"I saw Mr. Brookes was looking at them, and then he started a
conversation about his travels in Europe, which was very interesting,
saying he was a great lover of art and speaking of works of art he saw
there. He said it was astonishing the genius that had been displayed in
marble and on canvas to represent the beautiful form of woman.
Continuing in that strain, and being free in his expressions, he
finished by saying how lovely must be the beautiful work of nature which
was covered up here, putting his hand on my shoulder. I smiled, and
said, 'This work of Nature is not on exhibition this evening; when it
is, I will send you a complimentary ticket.' He took the remark in good
part, and laughed. We got up and went out, and he saw me to aunt's door
in a very pleasant, gentlemanly way.
"Westbrooke, the merchant's son, was the most sensible young man I met.
He appeared greatly interested in his college studies, and we had lots
of good talks on school studies and other subjects.
"He asked me if he could come out to see me.
"I told him 'yes' for I should be pleased to see him.
"I want to tell you, mother, that when I was out and passing through
those funny experiences with the three different gentlemen, I never felt
in the least timid or scared. I felt just as calm and collected as I do
now. I felt this way about the matter: While I have long ago lost all
prudishness, yet I did not wish to stimulate their over-excited
imaginations of sensuous things."
Mrs. Wheelwright said: "Well, Stella, if you had not been well balanced,
I should have some doubt about it being best for you to go to your
aunt's. But I knew, dear, your tastes and inclinations were not on the
sense plane, and I thought the opportunity of living in another world
for a while would do you good, for it would be the means of giving you a
better knowledge of yourself than you could get in any other way."
Stella said: "Mother, the cow-boys and hired ranch hands have a hard
name. Now, I know this class of men well, and my experience with and
observation of them has taught me that any girl who behaves herself when
in their company will always be treated with respect. There is some
manhood about them in that way. But those fine city dudes have such a
polished, underhanded, deep, sly, foxy way of attaining their ends. Dr.
Lacy's girls told me that those fine, city young gentlemen loved nothing
better than to get acquainted with some pretty, young, green, innocent
girl and enjoy the fun of breaking her in. They are skilled in that
art."
CHAPTER XI.
SAUNDERS' CUSTOMERS.
One day, when business was very quiet in the store in Orangeville, the
following conversation took place: "Who is that young man of striking
appearance, talking to that old man in the road there?" said Hammond to
Saunders, the merchant.
"That young man," said Saunders, "why, his name is Penloe."
Hammond said: "Penloe, why that must be the fellow I have heard my wife
talk about. Has he any other name?"
"That is all," said Saunders. "He does not wish to be called anything
else but Penloe. All his mail comes addressed just 'Penloe, Orangeville,
California.' No. Mr., nor Esquire, nor Rev. nor Dr. nor Prof., nor
anything else. He and his mother are my best customers, in one way. Not
that they buy much, but they never ask my price for the purpose of
beating me down. Nor do they grumble about the quality of my goods. Why,
those two have bought more from this store to give away to those in poor
circumstances, than they have for themselves. And they keep very still
about what they do in giving. There is the Jones family, who have more
children than dollars; they live in that cabin under the hill, on the
Squirrel Creek road. All Jones has is what he knocks out by hard day's
work, and he don't always have work, either.
"Well, last winter, when his wife was in confinement and had a long sick
spell of two months, and Jones had typhoid fever about the same time,
they were about down to their last dollar and were in debt. When Penloe
and his mother heard about them, they both went down to Jones' house.
Penloe cut some stove-wood and helped round, and his mother took care of
Mrs. Jones. Also, Penloe paid me $37.50 for merchandise, which I had
furnished them. The doctor had been to Jones' about twice before they
came to take care of him and his wife. They paid the doctor, and told
him (to his surprise, as both his patients were very sick) that he need
not come any more. And they cured them without any medicine. When Jones
got well, they told him he could work on their place till he got work
elsewhere. And they gave him his board and one dollar a day in cash for
a month, and then he went to work on the Kelly ranch.
"Jones and his wife have turned over a new leaf since Penloe and his
mother were with them. They look differently, act differently, and talk
differently. Penloe's mother gave them a little sound talk on family
matters. I feel a better man myself when they are round me.
"Penloe's mother is away now, and Penloe is not seen much about here; he
is home most of the time, since he quit going out to work."
"That is a very different story from what you can tell about most of the
young men in Orangeville," said Hammond. After which remark Hammond
walked out of the store, apparently in a deep study.
Yes, he had much to think about, for he had seen a young man about
twenty-two years of age giving himself, his labor, his money, and his
best thought to help a poor family; to heal them of their sicknesses, to
help them to become self-supporting and independent, by furnishing them
work, and, above, all, to lift them to a higher plane of life, thus
helping them to find within, the "kingdom of Heaven." Yes, he thought of
Penloe's age, it was twenty-two; the very age when most young men think
only of gratifying themselves in every little whim and fancy, of
catering to their pride and vanity, and spending all their time, all
their thought, and all their money on themselves; being lovers of
themselves more than lovers of God or any one else. Or they have become
absorbed in some girl, not because she touches their better nature and
does what she can to lift them to a higher plane, but because she
stimulates the activity of their sensual natures, causing them to live
in bondage to their lower selves. Deluding themselves with the idea that
they are enjoying life, they become so engrossed in the pursuit of
'sense-plane' pleasures that they realize no other life than the
animal-plane of their existence, seeming apparently to be dead to all
high motives, grand ideals and nobleness of purpose.
CHAPTER XII.
PENLOE'S SERMON.
The Rev. B.F. Holingsworth was the Congregational minister in Roseland,
but he used to come out every Sunday afternoon to Orangeville and hold
preaching service in the only church there. One Thursday he received
word that his sister, in Oakland, was very sick, and wanted him to come
and see her, and he would have to be away over the Sabbath; so he wished
to get a supply for the two churches, but could not find any one to fill
his place. In talking to the deacons of his Roseland church about the
matter, they told him they would conduct the services at their church if
he could find some one to fill his place at Orangeville.
It was customary for the Rev. B.F. Holingsworth to spend one day in the
week in visiting the good people of Orangeville. Among the pastoral
calls, he visited the home of Penloe and his mother. He was very much
impressed with the spiritual thought and talk of both, and while neither
were members of his congregation he well understood their position. He
saw that for a man like Penloe to come and listen to the sermons he gave
to the people of Orangeville would be like expecting a student in
Harvard College to attend a kindergarten school, with the expectation of
receiving instruction. The minister was broad-minded enough to perceive
that the spiritual food he gave to his flock was kindergarten talk to
Penloe; it was only milk, it was not meat; not the strong spiritual meat
that Penloe lived on. It was all right for babies, but it was not fit
for men who had attained divine realization in the universal Christ. The
Rev. B.F. Holingsworth was too liberal and charitable to think less of
Penloe for not attending his church. He was glad he had the courage of
his convictions instead of masquerading, as some do, with the appearance
of assent to all that is said and taught; but, being at the same time,
within, at variance and holding views entirely different; but for
policy, business interest, family peace, social position and standing,
love of name and fame or salary, acting the hypocrite because they are
arrant cowards.
When thinking of some suitable person to fill the Orangeville pulpit on
the Sunday afternoon of his absence, he could find no one so well
adapted by natural talents, education, experience, and deep spiritual
insight, combined with an irreproachable life, as Penloe. So he went out
to Orangeville to see him. Finding Penloe at home, he made known the
object of his visit. Penloe did not answer him at once, but was silent
for a few minutes; he was thinking that this was a call to a work which
was not of his own seeking, and, as the call to the work had come to
him, he decided to accept it and told the Rev. B.F. Holingsworth so.
The minister then went to Deacon Allen, of Orangeville, and explained
matters to him, telling him that Penloe would select one of the hymns to
sing before the sermon, but Penloe wished Deacon Allen to conduct all
the other parts of the service, including the reading of the hymns. The
minister desired the Deacon not to tell any one who was going to preach
next Sunday, but to explain to the congregation why he was absent, and
then to introduce Penloe. Deacon Allen had only seen Penloe once or
twice, and while he liked the appearance of the man yet he knew very
little about him. But, under the circumstances, he thought the minister
had done the best he could.
It so happened it was the time of year when there was a number of
visitors in Orangeville, which brought out an unusually large audience,
for it included not only the regular attendants and the visitors, but
those who seldom went to church but did so to-day because they had
company. Mr. and Mrs. Herne, who seldom went, attended to-day, and took
the baby with them, this being the first Sunday of the child being in
short clothes. Of course, some of Herne's hired men had to go, to see
how the baby behaved.
Stella was another irregular attendant at church, but young Mrs. Sexton,
whose husband was away, came round in her buggy and wanted Stella to go
for company's sake.
Stella, through being away at school so much and having gone to Roseland
for a while, had only heard about there being such a young man as Penloe
in Orangeville, but had never seen him; neither had her parents.
Penloe was about the first person at church that Sunday afternoon, and
took a seat in the front pew, next to the pulpit with his back to the
congregation, so, as the people assembled, they saw the back of some one
but did not know who it was. When it was time for the service to
commence the church was about full, but the people all seemed surprised
not to see the minister present. Deacon Allen came forward, and opened
service by giving out a hymn, which was followed by prayer. Then the
choir sang, sweetly, "Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy
laden, and I will give you rest." Then reading from the Scriptures,
which was followed by the singing of a hymn that Penloe had selected,
and Deacon Allen gave out. The hymn was as follows:
"See Israel's gentle shepherd stands
With all engaging charms,
Hark, how he calls his tender lambs,
And folds them in his arms.
"'Permit them to approach,' he cries,
Nor scorn their humble name,
For 'twas to bless such souls as these
The Lord of angels came."
After singing the hymn, Deacon Allen explained to the congregation the
cause of the minister's absence, and introduced Penloe, to the great
surprise of those present. Penloe, in a simple, unassuming manner,
stepped up to the desk and faced the audience. Casting his eyes over the
mass of upturned faces, he said, in a very pleasant, musical voice:
"Dear friends, I will speak to you from the following words, 'Suffer
little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the
Kingdom of Heaven.'"
The sermon was a most remarkable and original discourse. It held the
close attention of every one present, and at its end the congregation
sang:
"I think, when I read that sweet story of old,
When Jesus was here among men,
How he called little children as lambs to his fold,
I should like to have been with him then.
"I wish that his hands had been placed on my head,
That his arms had been thrown around me,
And that I might have seen his kind look when He said,
'Suffer the little ones to come unto me.'"
Penloe's sermon we will give, as told to her mother by Stella, and also
the version published in the Roseland _Weekly Gazette_.
When Stella arrived home from church her mother noticed that her
countenance was all animation, and her bright eyes seemed to glisten and
sparkle brighter than ever; but she said nothing, knowing Stella would
relate all she had seen and heard of any interest.
"Well, mother," said Stella, "I have had the greatest surprise and the
greatest pleasure I ever had in my life."
"Why, Stella," said her mother, "I am very pleased to see and hear that
something has delighted you so much."
"Who do you think I saw, and heard preach this afternoon?" said Stella.
"Why, I suppose the minister," said her mother, which was the same as
saying, "I don't know, but want you to tell me."
"Well, mother," said Stella, "it was Penloe. I do wish you had been
there to have seen and heard him. His face, when speaking, at times
looked angelic. His eyes are so clear and bright, his voice sweet and
musical, and he is so graceful in his movement, at the same time so
simple and unassuming in his manner. He is symmetrical in his build, and
as handsome as a picture."
"Is he really all that?" said her mother, with a smile.
"Yes," said Stella, "and there is something about him that is a thousand
times more than all that; for there is an earnestness and sincerity of
purpose and a power, such as I have never seen or felt before, in all he
says and does. I don't know how to describe it, for he is so different
to any man I ever met or saw; and, as for his subject, why, it was just
grand. But I cannot help laughing when I think of the feelings of
horror, and so much mocked modesty which I saw and heard expressed by
many who were there this afternoon."
"Well, whatever could his subject have been about, to cause those
feelings?" said her mother.
"It was this mother; he took for his text, 'Suffer little children to
come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the Kingdom of
Heaven.'
"He said it was not his purpose this afternoon to describe in detail the
circumstances which led Jesus to utter those words, nor to enter in full
into the history of those people at that time, nor to describe the way
in which they were raised by their parents in those days, nor how
children were treated in general at the time Jesus walked on the earth,
but to dwell on the thought more particularly about how to bring the
children to Jesus now, and how to help them find the Kingdom of Heaven
within. He said the subject was such a large one that he could only
dwell for a short time on one method for bringing the children to
Jesus, and that was how to bring them up pure and make pure men and pure
women of them. For purity of life and thought was one of the first steps
in coming to Jesus, and finding the Kingdom of Heaven within.
"Penloe said such an innovation introduced into our society would be a
God-send to us all, for it would bring about a change in so many ways
for the advancement of the race, as to make the mind almost bewildered
in the contemplation of the giant strides that humanity would make. I
cannot begin to tell you all he said, mother, and I don't think the
congregation took in the full sweep of his great thought.
"I will tell you one thing Penloe has done for me. He has cut what few
strings there were which kept me in bondage to my sexual nature. I am
free." And here the beautiful and intellectually bright girl laughed,
and shouted again, "I am free! Free from that awful superstition of
sexual bondage. Bless Penloe for helping me to my freedom," said Stella.
Mrs. Wheelwright said: "Stella, there have been millions of women who
have _died deaths of untold agony_ through being in bondage to their
sexual natures."
"Mother," said Stella, laughing again, "I give you notice that on and
after this I shall speak and act just the same when members of the other
sex are present as I would with my own sex, I don't care what they may
think. I will not be negative to their ideas, for I am free;" and here
she clapped her hands, and said, "I intend to have the courage of my
convictions under all circumstances.
"I must tell you, mother, there were a number there who were perfectly
disgusted that Penloe should have introduced such a subject. You just
ought to have seen the faces on some of the congregation.
"The dressmaker, Mrs. Hopkins, and her daughter, said they would not
have come to church if they had known the indecent talk that a strange
man was going to make. The two May girls, with their beaux, were there,
and after the service they acted as if they were afraid to speak to each
other. They went out of the church with their heads down and seemed
afraid to look anywhere; till they saw Deacon Tompkins' wife get in the
buggy, and then the Deacon got in and took the reins and started the
horse. But he had omitted untying the animal from the post, and they all
had a laugh, and that broke the strain they were under, and they were
seen talking to their beaux after that.
"After service I went up to the desk and gave Penloe my hand and thanked
him for the help he had given me in breaking my bondage. I told him he
had cut the last string of sex superstition for me. He smiled and
pressed my hand and said he was glad to hear it.
"Mother, I did not know that Orangeville had such a young man as that.
Why, just think of it! A fine Sanskrit scholar; he can read Bengali just
as well as I can English, and by his reference to the Old and New
Testament he shows he understood Hebrew and Greek. And think of it; he
is only twenty-two years of age! He is a fine orator, very eloquent, and
has such a command over himself and his audience.
"But, mother, great as his scholarship may be, he has a power that is
greater; it is seen in his eyes and in every feature of his handsome
countenance, and felt in the touch of his hand. Its source is not purely
intellectual. I perceive it intuitively, but cannot explain it.
"Why, mother, I never thought Penloe was the kind of man he is. From
what I had heard about him, I thought he was one of those quiet,
goody-goody men, but instead of that he is a scholar of the most
advanced school of thought."
Her mother said: "Stella, do you know why Penloe took the subject he did
to-day and spoke from it? I think I know; it was this: not that he liked
such subjects more than any others, and perhaps not so much; but he knew
that if such ideas were presented to the public, it had to be done by
those who were not in bondage to name and fame and salary. It had to be
done by those bold, fearless thinkers who will speak the truth
regardless of frowns and smiles. And Penloe did it because he knew there
was no one else that would do it. It was pioneer work."
Stella said: "I think so, mother, and he certainly seems well qualified
to do such noble pioneer work."
Mr. and Mrs. Herne, on their way home from church, talked the matter
over. Mr. Herne said: "Penloe is the most remarkable man I have seen; so
young and yet so gifted in every way. The secret of his power I do not
know anything about, but he possesses a power such as no other man I
have ever seen. I could not keep away from church if he was going to
speak every Sunday."
Mrs. Herne said: "He has the clearest and brightest eyes I ever saw. I
never get tired of looking into them. At times his face brightened so
much during his speaking it looked angelic."
They were both very much impressed with the sincerity and earnestness of
the man, but were not prepared to pass an opinion on the subject of his
discourse. They thought well of his ideas, but did not know how they
would work. It set them both to thinking, and it was their intention to
try if possible to cultivate the acquaintance of Penloe.
The Roseland _Gazette_, which was published every Saturday, had the
following:
"Last Monday and Tuesday strange stories began to be circulated through
this city by persons coming in from Orangeville, concerning what was
said in the Congregational Church there last Sunday. It seems that the
Rev. B.F. Holingsworth, of this city, was called away to see a sick
sister, and he got a man who goes by the name of Penloe to fill his
place. The stories that were put in circulation are of a wild and varied
character. Some started the rumor that Penloe preached that we all ought
to go naked. Another story was, that he said we all ought to bathe
together, regardless of sex, in a nude state. Then some said, he told
the people that all families ought to sleep in one large room, to appear
as much in a nude condition as possible, so as to satisfy all curiosity.
These and other like stories aroused so much interest among the people
of this city, that it has been the upper-most topic of conversation
among them, and led to the inquiry whether it was so, and was the man a
crazy crank or a fool, and how came such a man to be asked to preach.
"Our reporter went out to Orangeville to learn what he could concerning
the matter. He first of all went to see Penloe to get a certified
statement, but that gentleman could not be found anywhere. He had an
interview with Mr. Saunders, the merchant of Orangeville, who said he
was at church last Sunday and heard the sermon.
"When asked if the stories which were circulated in Roseland concerning
Penloe's sermon were correct, he replied that in part they were, and in
part they were not.
"When asked to state as near as he could remember just what was said:
"'Well,' said the merchant, 'I am not used to that kind of business,
but, as near as I can remember it now, it was something like this:
"'In order for children to come to Jesus, they must be pure; that purity
was the basis of all religious growth, and he thought the present mode
of maintaining purity had the very opposite effect to what it was
intended for.'
"Here Mr. Saunders stopped and told the reporter he had better go and
see Deacon Allen, who would give him a better account than he could.
"'But I tell you,' continued Mr. Saunders, 'there has been more talk
over this sermon this week in this store, by every one that has come in,
than all other talk put together. This is the first time in the twelve
years that I have kept store, that I ever heard any one talk about any
sermon they heard.'
"'Well, Mr. Saunders,' said the reporter, 'what seems to be the judgment
of the people about Penloe and the sermon? You have had an opportunity
of hearing all kinds of opinions.'
"'Well,' said Mr. Saunders, 'I heard the old lady Eastman say, that the
next time she sees her minister, she is going to lecture him for getting
that low-down, vulgar man in the pulpit. Why, his talk was awful. Mrs.
Reamy and Mrs. Roberts said they would have both got up in church and
walked out, only it would cause so much disturbance. Two girls came in
to get a spool of thread. While I was waiting on them one said to the
other, "My mother said this morning that she would never again go to
church, if that nasty talking man was going to preach." The other girl
said, "My father says he is the smartest man that ever spoke in
Orangeville or any other part of California. He wished he would preach
every Sunday. Then, I saw Miss Stella Wheelwright go up to Penloe at the
close of the service and give him her hand, and I was told she thanked
him for helping her to cut the last cords of bondage to sex
superstition. She seemed really delighted with his talk."
"'I cannot help laughing when I hear a number of persons who were not at
church last Sunday, say, "I wish I had been to meeting last Sunday and
heard the talk."
"The reporter next called on Deacon Allen and found that gentleman ready
to relate a portion of the sermon.
"In reply to a question put by the reporter, Deacon Allen said: 'Well,
there is one thing I liked about Penloe's sermon, instead of talking
about the sins of the wicked people in Chicago, New York, London or
Paris, he talked straight and square to the people he was facing, about
their own sins, which were keeping them out of the Kingdom of Heaven,
for it acted like a curtain over the windows of the soul so that one
could not see the Divine, and feel the sacred presence of his power
within. They had polluted the Temple of the Living God, and their eyes
became blinded so that they could not see that they were heirs to a
rich spiritual inheritance.'
"The reporter asked the Deacon what Penloe said in regard to the best
way of bringing about the new method of raising all children up, as if
they were one sex.
"The Deacon replied, saying: 'He said: "Character and environments are
so different that each must work from the plane he or she is on. Nothing
but the best judgment and experience will be able to grapple
successfully with the problem, but it can be done; it has been done. And
it will be comparatively easy for the next generation to put into
practice, if it is done by the present. Avoid all kinds of food and
drinks that stimulate the passions. And, above all, keep the mind
interested in pure, elevating thoughts and engage in hearty wholesome
recreations, so that the love for the pure and good in time will
predominate, and the angel rule the animal."
"'I shall never forget,' continued the Deacon, 'how Penloe's clear,
musical voice rang out through the church, how his brilliant eyes seemed
to penetrate through every one present as he looked them in the face and
put this serious question to them, "What victories have you gained over
yourselves?"
"The Deacon said: 'It makes me feel disgusted to hear some persons who
were at church on Sunday last talk about Penloe being low and vulgar,
when a purer or more spiritual man never walked in this country; while
their own characters are tarnished by being connected with numerous
scandals. While Penloe is not a member of the same church as I am, yet I
know a good man when I meet him and hear him talk.'
"Our reporter left Orangeville greatly regretting he did not have the
honor to meet so distinguished a man as Penloe."
Mrs. Trask, wife of Dr. Trask, of Roseland, called on Stella's aunt,
Mrs. Marston, and after a little general conversation, Mrs. Trask said:
"Mrs. Marston, have you heard or read anything about the horrid talk
that some crank preacher made in Orangeville last Sunday?"
"Why, no," said Mrs. Marston, "I have not looked at the _Gazette_ and I
have been out but little the past few days, for I have not felt very
well lately, having had a bilious attack."
Mrs. Trask said: "I know, Mrs. Marston, you will be perfectly shocked
when I tell you. Why, it's all the talk of the town; just think of it; a
man getting up in the pulpit and telling the people that boys and girls
should appear before each other naked, and that they all should be
brought up as if they were one sex."
Mrs. Marston said: "It's perfectly awful to think about such a thing.
Why, it would be dreadful. The preacher must have come from Paris with
French ideas. According to what my son writes me, I should say that is
just about what they do over there."
Mrs. Trask said that her husband said, speaking as a medical man, he
would consider it the greatest step towards the downfall of the human
race. Every one would become so corrupt and depraved sexually that the
race would become weak and puny, with no moral stamina.
After Mrs. Trask had gone, Mrs. Marston got the Roseland _Gazette_ to
see what it said about the matter. When she came to the part where it
stated that her niece had gone up to the desk and given her hand to the
preacher and thanked him for helping her out of sexual bondage, she was
completely overcome and just felt like having a fit. She would rather
have paid a thousand dollars than to have that appear in the paper.
"What a disgrace this is to me, after all I have done for her,
ungrateful hussy! She doesn't think about the shame she brings upon me
by her bold actions, with that vulgar crank." While she was smarting
from the effects of wounded pride, her door-bell rang and soon the
servant came in and told Mrs. Marston that Mr. Barker was in the parlor.
Mrs. Marston kept him waiting a few minutes, till she had composed
herself. Soon she came in, bright, smiling and cordially greeted the
rising young attorney who had manifested so much interest in Stella's
hosiery.
Mr. Barker was a perfect Chesterfield in dress and manners, and knew
exactly what part of Mrs. Marston's nature to touch to make her feel
good, and to raise himself one hundred per cent. in her estimation.
Mr. Barker felt as if he had a little grudge against Stella, ever since
the day his wish was not gratified, and now he thought this was his
opportunity to pay her back.
In course of conversation Mr. Barker said: "Mrs. Marston, have you been
to Orangeville lately?"
"No," said Mrs. Marston, "I have not been there since Stella returned
home."
"How is your niece, Mrs. Marston?" said Mr. Barker.
"The last I heard from her she was very well," said Mrs. Marston.
Mr. Barker said: "By the way, Mrs. Marston, is there another Miss Stella
Wheelwright in Orangeville besides your niece?"
"I have not heard of any other young lady by that name," replied Mrs.
Marston.
"Well," said Mr. Barker, "I was hoping there was, for I did not want to
think it was your niece that the _Gazette_ said went up and gave that
vulgar preacher her hand."
"I think it must be," replied Mrs. Marston. Continuing, she said: "Of
course, I am greatly shocked over the matter and feel that my niece has
hurt me by her foolish conduct. I blame her mother more than I do her,
for she has encouraged Stella in radical ideas."
Mr. Barker said: "I don't understand what the man can be thinking about
to talk such vulgar nonsense. He ought to be sent to Stockton Insane
Asylum."
Mrs. Marston said: "As for the subject he had under discussion, I could
not think of talking about it to a gentleman. I intend to go to
Orangeville to-morrow and see my sister about the matter. I do wish
Stella would come and live with me; where she would be in the company of
well-bred, well-behaved society people, who have common-sense ideas."
It was always customary for Mrs. Marston when she went to Orangeville to
take a great variety of table dainties, and never mention the real
purpose of her visit till after dinner. Mrs. Marston had been so well
disciplined in the art of concealment through living so much in
fashionable society, that she could put on a very pleasant exterior,
when really she was very much disturbed within.
So to-day when she visited her sister Bertha, everything was exceedingly
pleasant, and the topics under discussion were such that there was
perfect harmony in all that was said. Mrs. Marston presented the bright
side of everything in regard to Roseland when talking to Stella, telling
her how certain young gentlemen were continually inquiring after her,
and how her young lady friends were wishing she would return to Roseland
soon, for they did want her to come and visit them so much.
Stella was interested to hear about her friends in Roseland, and enjoyed
her Aunt Helen's talk.
After dinner was over and settled a little, Mrs. Marston took the
opportunity to say to her sister Bertha (while Stella and her father
were out for awhile): "Is it really true, Bertha, what the Roseland
_Gazette_ says in regard to Stella's going up to that crank preacher at
the close of the service and giving him her hand and saying a lot of
queer stuff about sexual bondage?"
"I was not there myself, Helen," said her sister, "but this I do know,
that when Stella returned home she told me herself she did such a
thing."
"Well," said Mrs. Marston, "I always knew Stella was a strange kind of
girl, but I never thought she would disgrace herself and her relatives
in that manner. Why," continued Mrs. Marston, "it's all the talk in
Roseland and among Stella's friends, about the disgrace she has brought
on me and herself in talking to such a vulgar man."
Stella's mother could not help smiling within herself at her sister
calling Penloe a vulgar man, when she thought of what her daughter
related to her in regard to her experience with some of the "upper ten"
gentlemen.
Continuing, Mrs. Marston said: "It will never do for Stella to associate
with such an indecent man, who preaches French ideas from the pulpit.
Why, Bertha, it will never do. You had better let Stella come and stay
with me till she is married. She is a great favorite with the young
people in Roseland and there are some splendid catches for her there."
"Well," said Bertha, "I have no control over her; she can go to Roseland
if she wishes."
"But," said Mrs. Marston, "it becomes your duty as her mother to show
her the danger of speaking to a man like Penloe. You should keep her
away from his influence and do what you can to encourage her to marry
well."
Bertha looked her sister Helen in the face and said: "Helen, I have
decided to let Stella choose her own path in life and select her own
mate. If she asks my advice I will give it. She has her own life to
lead, and it does not become me to mark it out for her. She must hew the
way. And, supposing I wanted to, do you think it would do any good?
Helen, you know better than that. Could you keep your son from getting
that waiter girl in trouble? And now the poor girl is homeless and
penniless, with a baby, in a hospital, without a friend to keep her,
while your son is walking the streets of Paris as a well dressed
gentleman." Here Mrs. Marston interrupted her and said: "Oh, my poor
boy! It makes my blood boil when I think how that nasty, dirty hussy got
my poor Henry into disgrace. Don't mention her, Bertha. It would have
served her right to have died before the child was born."
Bertha said: "Helen, you can invite Stella to Roseland, and if she
wishes to go it is just the same to me as if she stayed here, for I will
not be in Stella's way of exercising her freedom."
So when Stella came into the house her aunt said: "Stella, I do wish you
would come to Roseland and stay with me."
"Thank you, Aunt, you are very kind, but I have certain subjects I wish
to study and I want to be where I can be quiet; but, Aunt, dear, I will
return with you and stay a week, if you will bring me back home at the
end of that time."
"All right, Stella, get yourself ready and we will leave right away."
CHAPTER XIII.
RETURN OF BEN WEST.
About two months before Ben West returned to Orangeville, Mr. Hammond
took a letter out of the Orangeville post-office, which read as follows:
"_Kohn & Kohn, Bankers and Brokers, Stillman Block._
"SAN FRANCISCO, April 7, 1899.
"_Harrison Hammond, Esq.,
"Orangeville, Calif._
"DEAR SIR: We have been instructed by Benj. West, Esq.,
one of the leading capitalists of the Klondike, to send
you a draft for five hundred dollars, with a letter
from that gentleman to you, both of which we have
enclosed.
"Yours resp't'y,
"KOHN & KOHN."
The letter from Ben West to Mr. Hammond was as follows:
"DAWSON CITY, KLONDIKE, Feb. 12, 1899.
"_H. Hammond, Esq.,
"Orangeville, Cal._
"FRIEND HAMMOND: After sending Julia the jewelry, I
realized that I had got my foot in it, in this way: She
thinks she must have a costly bridal outfit to match
the jewelry. Now, I have written her that as we will be
married in Orangeville, she need not get anything very
extra fine; that what she thinks she may need in the
way of costly dresses, she can get in San Francisco
after we are married, but I realize she might like a
few good clothes, so I send you five hundred dollars to
buy her what she may need in that line, which I hope
you will accept, as I know the income from a ranch
cannot stand any such extravagance. You will receive
the money from my brokers, Kohn & Kohn. Please keep
this confidential and not let Julia know a word about
it.
"Your friend,
"BEN WEST."
After reading the letters Mr. Hammond had a good opportunity of talking
the matter over with his wife, as Julia had gone out for the day.
They both took a sensible view of the matter and thought that under the
circumstances it would be proper to accept the five hundred dollars, as
Julia would wear the clothes as Ben West's wife, and said it was very
thoughtful in him to send the money.
Mrs. Hammond said, as Julia was going to San Francisco as soon as she
was married, she thought it would be best to go to Fresno and select her
bridal trousseau there. Continuing, she said: "Julia knows you have
money in the bank, but how much she has no idea; therefore, she will not
suspect but you are paying for her bridal outfit yourself."
So Mrs. Hammond and Julia went to Fresno. On their return Julia seemed
more than pleased with her purchases. It is not to be expected that each
kind of garment that was bought will be mentioned here, neither will we
go into a minute description of the amount of lace, embroidery,
insertion and scallop work on the various garments.
In the four weeks previous to Julia's wedding day she had numerous
callers to see her jewelry and her bridal trousseau.
The amount of close inspection, quick observation, speculative thought
and general talk that was given to all articles pertaining to the
bride's wardrobe and jewelry, if devoted to some of the serious social
problems of the nation, would have settled them thoroughly for all time.
"Is it not strange," remarked Mr. Hammond one evening after some
callers had gone and Julia had retired, "the amount of interest and
thought people take in things that are really of so little consequence
to them; but things which are of the greatest importance to their own
welfare it is hard to get them to give two minutes' consideration to
them? They want excitement, and love it a great deal more than an
intelligent understanding of such issues as are to them of vital
importance. For instance, government ownership of railroads, telegraphs
and telephones to be operated at cost for the benefit of the people; the
issuing and loaning of money by the government to the people, instead of
by the banks to the people; also the adoption by the nation of the
Initiative and Referendum."
Some of the elderly ladies in Orangeville who had lived in the east many
years before coming to California, brought to Orangeville some of their
old sayings, and one of these sayings began to float through the
atmosphere of Orangeville and was whispered from one to another; namely,
that Julia Hammond had fallen into a tub of butter. Now, on first
hearing such a statement one would think a sad calamity had happened to
the young lady, especially when taking into consideration that in a few
weeks' time she expected to change her name. But upon making an
examination of her wearing apparel, one saw no sign of such an accident,
and when she appeared at the table in her elegant morning wrapper you
could not see any grease spots on her well-fitting garment, and when you
began to wonder what they could mean by saying that Julia Hammond had
fallen into a tub of butter, you resolve you will make a further and
closer scrutiny of that young lady's person. At last it begins to dawn
upon your mind, for you notice that when she puts her elbow on the table
and her hand up to the side of her face, your eyes are almost dazzled by
seeing something on her finger which are brilliant stones set in gold.
When Julia Hammond appeared at the ball the other night, the main talk
of the evening was about her diamond ring, her gold watch set with
diamonds, and her elegant diamond necklace, making that swan-like neck
simply superb.
As she drove her span of matched bays one morning she passed two young
men in a buggy. Then the following conversation took place between the
men:
Fred said to Henry, who was a stranger in Orangeville and was making him
a visit:
"Henry, just look at that in her back hair."
"That is just elegant," said Henry, as his eyes rested on a very rich
gold hairpin set with diamonds which were sparkling in their beauty, as
the rays of the sun brought out their brilliancy.
Fred said: "That's Julia Hammond, the bethrothed of Ben West, who went
to the Klondike and struck it rich, having made a little over half a
million dollars."
The last day Ben West was in Orangeville before leaving for the
Klondike, he had a private talk with Mr. Hammond concerning Julia. Mr.
Hammond gave his consent and wished him prosperity. So it was arranged
that, owing to the long and uncertain carrying of the mails out of the
Klondike country, he would write a letter to Julia as if he had made a
stake, and in the letter make her an offer of marriage, and give it to
Mr. Hammond to hand to Julia when Mr. Hammond received word from Ben by
telegram, saying, "Stake made, give the letter to Julia," and Mr.
Hammond was to wire Ben Julia's answer so he would not be kept long in a
state of suspense. This was all carried out to the letter, and Ben West
received a telegram which read: "Yes. Have written in full. Julia
Hammond."
Continuing, Fred said: "When Ben West was in San Francisco on his way to
the Klondike, he went into the store of Stein & Co., jewelers, and
selected the jewelry he might want, should he make a stake. So when he
received Julia's answer of acceptance he ordered by wire a diamond ring,
a gold watch set in diamonds, a diamond necklace, and a gold hairpin
set with diamonds. Stein & Co. sent them to Julia with Ben West's love.
He wired Kohn & Kohn, the bankers, to pay Stein & Co.
"Ben's mother said: 'Those jewels for that girl cost Ben twenty thousand
dollars.'"
Henry said: "Just think of that fellow's luck. Some men are born rich,
some acquire riches and some have riches thrust upon them."
Fred said: "Some men are lucky sure. There's Ben West, who is coming to
Orangeville in a week. All the people will just go wild over him and
lionize him. And won't Julia be sweet to him after giving her all that
jewelry. They say, 'If you want honey you must have money.' Ben has got
the money and now he is going to have the honey; and just think, in
three weeks' time he is going to be married, going to have that pretty,
handsome, fresh young girl all to himself. Isn't she a beauty! My! Ben
will be in clover; he will have a picnic sure."
Henry said: "If I could be in Ben West's shoes for just two months, I
would be willing to spend the balance of my life in hell. I would have
one comfort in thinking what a fine time I had had."
Fred said: "Ben West will be here to-morrow and he will take good care
to see that not you nor any other man will be in his shoes for two
months from the time he is married."
When Ben set his foot in Orangeville on his return from the Klondike,
the news flew all over the locality, as if the wind had made it its
mission to carry the intelligence all over the country into every home.
Those who knew him least were just as anxious to see him as those who
had always known him. They did want to see, to talk to and shake hands
with the lion of the day, the hero of the hour, the man whose name was
in every one's mouth. If a man had arrived in Orangeville who had saved
twenty persons from drowning, there would not have been half the desire
to see him or hear him talk on how the persons were saved. Why, Ben West
received nothing but one continued round of hearty hand-shaking and
warm greetings, and his ears heard nothing but eulogies and encomiums
and general admiration for the man who had made himself the owner of the
two great idols that are worshipped by the Western world.
Ben West had got what most men are seeking but few finding. If you were
in Orangeville you would be told that it was a Christian community; but
if you squared them by the command given by Jesus, "Seek ye first the
Kingdom of Heaven and its righteousness, and all these shall be added
unto you," you would find them sadly wanting, for the Kingdom of Heaven
is the last thing they want. It is, "These things which shall be added
unto you" is what they want. For they want their heaven to be in the
possession of things outside of themselves.
A great dance was given in honor of Orangeville's coming man.
Predictions were heard that it would not be long before he would be
Governor of California, with a good show for a seat in the United States
Senate.
Most of the people of Orangeville were great on dances. If they had a
sociable it had to close with a dance; if a political meeting was held,
they had a dance afterwards; a spelling bee wound up with a dance. If
you would let them, they would dance after Sabbath School and preaching.
If you want a big crowd at a meeting, just give out there will be a
dance at the close, and teams will come for miles from all over the
country. Dance; why they want to dance all the time. They simply become
intoxicated with dancing. There is no moderation about it. They leave
the dance hall about four or five o'clock in the morning. Does that kind
of recreation help them physically? How do they feel during the next
day? Does it help them intellectually? Does it help them spiritually?
Then why pursue a course of recreation _so immoderately_ as to be
detrimental to their highest interests?
When Mr. Hammond heard about the great dance that was coming off in
honor of Ben West, he said it did seem to him as if a dance was the only
thing the people of Orangeville could get up. He had never known them
as a community to get up anything else but a dance, and yet, he said,
there are some very fine people who attend these country dances. Persons
of noble character, who live lives of self-denial in their homes and
meet trials and misfortunes bravely and heroically, I am glad to say.
Julia did not attend the dance because it was too near her wedding day;
but Ben West had a very enjoyable time, for the leading young ladies in
Orangeville were delighted at having the opportunity of dancing once
more with their old friend. But now a new interest had centered in him,
in the fact of his being the rising man and soon to be married.
There was a very large crowd at the dance. A number came from Roseland;
in fact, there were more than the hall could accommodate. There were a
number of men wanting to see Ben West a few minutes on the side, to talk
with him about what show there would be for them at the Klondike, as
each of them wished to be successful like Ben West.
For three weeks previous to his being married, Ben did not know whether
he was afoot or on horseback. What with the joy his father and mother
manifested at having him back again in their home, and the real, sweet,
loving and delightful hours he spent with Julia, who was free in her
demonstrations of affection, he being so worthy of it.
At last that day which always seems so long in coming, but which always
comes, came to Ben West and Julia Hammond. They had a quiet wedding in
the morning; then came the wedding dinner, after which they went to
Roseland, taking in the theater in the evening and stopping at the
Arlington Hotel that night. The next day they took the Flyer for San
Francisco. On arriving in that city they went to the Clifton Hotel. In
the evening they attended the opera.
As Julia had never been to San Francisco, they decided to spend a week
in sight-seeing. The second week they spent in looking at elegant
houses. After looking round for six days they bought a mansion on Van
Ness avenue for eighty thousand dollars. It originally cost one hundred
and thirty thousand. Then, the third week they spent in selecting
furniture, which cost them twenty thousand dollars. The fourth week they
bought a fine matched team and a carriage, for which they paid fifteen
hundred dollars, and kept them at a livery stable. They also purchased
two bicycles and an automobile, and got three servants, a maid for
Julia, a woman to do the housework, and a Chinese cook. All laundry work
was done out of the house. The second month was spent in going to many
interesting places outside of San Francisco as well as taking in more of
the city. Everything so far had run very smoothly.
Then a conversation arose regarding what business Mr. West had better
turn his attention to to occupy himself. After a little talk, Julia
said: "You have now about four hundred thousand dollars. I do wish you
could make it a million. How proud I should be of you, Ben, to have a
millionaire for a husband. Just think what the people of Orangeville
will say when they hear you have become a millionaire. Why, dear, I
should just worship you to think that I had got a husband that was such
a successful man as to make a million dollars in so short a time. When
you become a millionaire, Ben, we will go to Europe in style, and what a
gay time we will have in Paris, dear."
What a power some women's soft words and smiles have on a man; he is
owned by them, and it was so in the case of Ben West.
Ben said: "Well, dear Julia, I suppose I will have to go to the Klondike
again to make my pile a million."
Julia pouted and looked her prettiest and said: "I do hate to have you
go to that cold and disagreeable country, Ben, and it will be so
lonesome for me without you, dear; but, Ben, make your pile quick and
come home."
Ben West did not express all he felt in having to go back to the
Klondike, but he had such a pretty, handsome woman for a wife, who
pleased him so much and he was so proud of her, and he loved her
admiration and approval of himself as much as he did his life. So he
decided to return to the Klondike in a month's time. That would give
him, in all, three months of honeymoon. Then he would leave for the cold
regions of the Klondike.
The last week Ben West was with his wife she seemed at times so sad
about his leaving, and would pet him and make so much of him, that she
became doubly dear to him. He said, "This is bliss, indeed."
At last the sad day for his parting came. They did the best they could
by cheering each other up, with the expectation of Ben's quick return
and coming back as a millionaire.
Now, when a handsome young bride is left with an eighty-thousand-dollar
house and twenty thousand dollars worth of furniture, three servants, a
carriage and a handsome span of horses, two bicycles and an automobile,
with a good fat bank account to draw on, she is not going to spend many
sad days in the house alone, longing for the return of her husband. Nor
will she be contented to remain at home and become fascinated in reading
Milton's "Paradise Lost" or Moody's sermons. No. She is going to have
company, and gay companions, and they will not be all of her own sex
either. About a month after Ben West had returned to the Klondike, Julia
had made new acquaintances of persons who had time, money, and elegant
leisure. Returning home from a swell party one evening, Julia said to
herself, "What freedom there is in being married. Your market is made,
and you can have lots of fun dancing, flirting, and so on; while a girl
that is unmarried has to be more careful of herself and her conduct,
because it might hinder her making a desirable match. It is fine to be
married to a good-natured man."
CHAPTER XIV.
FIVE YEARS AFTER MARRIAGE.
It was one of those lovely days in March when nature is decorated in her
best; for each day she adds to her wreath of glory new beauties in the
form of buds and flowers. The trees in the orchard were a sight to
behold in their beautiful and variegated colors. The soft, balmy air
coming up the canyon was full of the perfume of flowers. The birds were
warbling their sweetest notes in the mulberry and walnut trees, and the
hum of the bees were heard around the flowers. All Nature sang through
these various forms, that All is life, All is love, All is joy, and All
is God.
On this day two ladies were sitting out on the porch of the Herne
residence, one was a lady with gray hair, the other was her daughter.
Both were sitting in silence. The younger was thinking how very much
like this beautiful day was, to the one five years ago when she entered
her new home as the wife of Charles Herne. Many thoughts were crowding
upon her mind; she was thinking how perfectly, supremely happy she was
on that occasion. Every thing about her seemed to respond to the happy
thought within, and her cup of joy was overflowing. Then the thought
came to her why was it not so to-day? Nature seemed just as beautiful,
her home was more beautiful, and the returns from the sale of their
fruit each year h
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