Stories and Sketches
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Harriet S. Caswell >> Stories and Sketches
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9 STORIES AND SKETCHES
BY
H.S. CASWELL,
AUTHOR OF ERNEST HARWOOD, CLARA ROSCOM, OR
THE PATH OF DUTY, &C.
MONTREAL:
PRINTED BY JOHN LOVELL, ST. NICHOLAS STREET.
1872
CONTENTS.
TERRY DOLAN 5
THE FAITHFUL WIFE 15
EMMA ASHTON 24
THOUGHTS ON AUTUMN 47
WANDERING DAVY 50
LOOKING ON THE DARK SIDE 57
EDWARD BARTON 62
THE WEARY AT REST 71
THE RAINY AFTERNOON 75
THE STUDENT'S DREAM 85
UNCLE EPHRAIM 88
STORY OF A LOG CABIN 93
HAZEL-BROOK FARM 106
OLD RUFUS 127
THE DIAMOND RING 135
THE UNFORTUNATE MAN 146
THE OLD SCHOOLHOUSE 150
ARTHUR SINCLAIR 154
THE SNOW STORM 173
THE NEW YEAR 177
TERRY DOLAN.
Some years since circumstances caused me to spend the summer months in
a farming district, a few miles from the village of E., and it was there
I met with Terry Dolan. He had a short time previous come over from
Ireland, and was engaged as a sort of chore boy by Mr. L., in whose
family I resided during my stay in the neighborhood. This Terry was the
oddest being with whom I ever chanced to meet. Would that I could
describe him!--but most of us, I believe, occasionally meet with people,
whom we find to be indescribable, and Terry was one of those. He called
himself sixteen years of age; but, excepting that he was low of stature,
you would about as soon have taken him for sixty, as sixteen. His
countenance looked anything but youthful, and there was altogether a
sort of queer, ancient look about him which caused him to appear very
remarkable. When he first came to reside with Mr. L. the boys in the
neighborhood nicknamed him "The little Old Man," but they soon learned
by experience that their wisest plan was to place a safe distance
between Terry and themselves before applying that name to him, for the
implied taunt regarding his peculiar appearance enraged him beyond
measure. Whenever he entered the room, specially if he ventured a
remark--and no matter how serious you might have been a moment
before--the laugh would come, do your best to repress it. When I first
became an inmate with the family, I was too often inclined to laugh at
the oddities of Terry--and I believe a much graver person than I was at
that time would have done the same--but after a time, when I learned
something of his past life, I regarded him with a feeling of pity,
although to avoid laughing at him, at times, were next to impossible.
One evening in midsummer I found him seated alone upon the piazza, with
a most dejected countenance. Taking a seat by his side I enquired why he
looked so sad;--his eyes filled with tears as he replied--"its of ould
Ireland I'm thinkin' to-night, sure." I had never before seen Terry look
sober, and I felt a deep sympathy for the homesick boy. I asked him how
it happened that he left all his friends in Ireland and came to this
country alone. From his reply I learned that his mother died when he was
only ten years old, and, also, that his father soon after married a
second wife, who, to use Terry's own words, "bate him unmercifully."
"It's a wonder," said he, "that iver I lived to grow up, at all, at all,
wid all the batins I got from that cruel woman, and all the times she
sint me to bed widout iver a bite uv supper, bad luck to her and the
like uv her!" He did live, however, but he certainly did not grow up to
be very tall. "Times grew worse an' worse for me at home," continued he,
"and a quare time I had of it till I was fourteen years of age, when one
day says I to mesilf, 'flesh and blood can bear it no longer,' and I ran
away to the city uv Dublin where an aunt by me mother's side lived. Me
aunt was a poor woman, but she gave a warm welcim to her sister's
motherless boy; she trated me kindly and allowed me to share her home,
although she could ill afford it, till I got a place as sarvant in a
gintleman's family. As for my father, he niver throubled his head about
me any more; indade I think he was glad to be rid uv me, an' all by
manes of that wicked woman. It was near two years afther I lift home
that I took the notion of going to Ameriky; me aunt advised me against
going, but, whin she saw that me mind was set on it, she consinted, and
did her best, poor woman, to sind me away lookin' dacent and
respectable. I niver saw me father or me stepmother agin. I had no wish
to see her; but, although I knew me father no longer loved me, I had
still some natral-like feelin's for him; but, as I had runaway from
home, I durst not go back, an' so I lift Ireland widout a sight uv him.
But I _could_ not lave it foriver, as it might be, widout one more sight
uv me mother's grave. I rached the small village where me father lived
about nightfall, and lodged in the house uv a kind neighbor who
befrinded me, an he promised, at my earnest wish, to say nothing to any
one uv my visit. Early in the morning, before any one was astir in the
village, I stole away to the churchyard where they buried me mother. I
knelt down, I did, an' kissed the sods which covered her grave, an'
prayed that the blessin' which she pronounced before she died, wid her
hand restin' on me head, might follow me wheriver I might go." The boy
took from his pocket a small parcel, carefully inclosed in a paper,
which he handed to me, saying: "I gathered these shamrocks from off me
mothers grave, before I lift it forever."
My own eyes; grew moist as I gazed upon the now withered shamrock leaves
which the poor boy prized so highly. Would that they had proved as a
talisman to guard him from evil! I listened with much interest to
Terry's story till our conversation was suddenly interrupted by Mr. ----
calling him, in no very gentle tones, to go and drive home the cows from
the far pasture. To reach this pasture he must needs pass through about
a quarter of a mile of thick woods. He had a great dread of walking
alone in the woods, which his imagination filled with wild animals. When
he returned that evening he seemed very much terrified, and, when
questioned as to the cause, he replied that he "had met a wild baste in
the woods, and was kilt entirely wid the fright uv it."
We endeavoured to gain from him a description of the animal he had seen,
but for some time were unable. "What color was the animal?" enquired
Mrs. ----, "Indade Ma'am an' its jist the color uv a dog he was,"
answered Terry. This reply was greeted with a burst of laughter from all
present, at which he was highly offended. In order to pacify him I said,
"we would not laugh at you, Terry, only that dogs are of so many
different colors that we are as much in the dark as ever regarding the
color of the animal you saw." "Well thin," replied he, "if you must
know, he was a dirthy brown, the varmint, that he was." From what we
could learn from him we were led to suppose that he had met with one of
those harmless little creatures, called the "Woodchuck," which his
nervous terror aided by the deepening twilight, had magnified into a
formidable wild beast.
A few evenings after, two or three friends of the family chanced to
call; and in course of conversation some one mentioned an encampment of
Indians, who had recently located themselves in our vicinity, for the
purpose of gathering material for the manufacture of baskets, and other
works of Indian handicraft. Terry had never seen an Indian, and
curiosity, not unmixed with fear, was excited in his mind, when he
learned that a number of those dark people were within three miles of
us. He asked many questions regarding their personal appearance, habits,
&c. It was evident that he entertained some very comical ideas upon the
subject. After sitting for a time silent, he suddenly enquired, "Do they
ate pratees like other people?" A lady, present, in order to impose upon
his credulity, replied, "Indeed Terry they not only eat potates, but
they sometimes eat people." His countenance expressed much alarm, as he
replied, "Faix thin, but I'll kape out o'their way." After a short time
he began to suspect they were making game of him, and applied to me for
information, saying, "Tell me, sir, if what Mrs ---- says is true?" "Do
not be alarmed, Terry," I replied, "for if you live till the Indians eat
you, you will look even older than you now do."
This allusion to his ancient appearance was very mischievous on my part,
and I regretted it a moment after; but he was so much pleased to learn
that he had nothing to fear from the Indians that he readily forgave me
for alluding to a subject upon which he was usually very sensitive. I
remember taking a walk one afternoon during the haymaking season to the
field where Terry was at work. Mr. ---- had driven to the village with
the farm horses, leaving Terry to draw in hay with a rheumatic old
animal that was well nigh unfit for use. But as the hay was in good
condition for getting in, and the sky betokened rain, he told Terry,
upon leaving home, to accomplish as much as possible, during his
absence, and he would, if the rain kept off, draw in the remainder upon
his return. As I drew nigh I spied Terry perched upon the top of a load
of hay holding the reins, and urging forward the horse, in the ascent of
a very steep hill. First, he tried coaxing, and as that proved of little
avail, he next tried the effect of a few vigorous strokes with a long
switch which he carried in his hand. When the poor old horse had dragged
the heavy load about half way up the hill, he seemed incapable of
further exertion, and horse, cart, Terry and all began a rapid backward
descent down the hill.
Here the boy's patience gave way entirely. "Musha thin, bad luck to ye
for one harse," said he as he applied the switch with renewed energy.
Just then I arrived within speaking distance and said, "Do you think,
Terry, you would be any better off if you had two of them." "Not if they
were both like this one," answered he. I advised Terry to come down from
his elevated position, and not add his weight to the load drawn by the
overburdened animal. He followed my advice, and when with some
difficulty we had checked the descending motion of the cart-wheels, we
took a fair start, and the summit of the hill was finally gained.
"Its often," said Terry, "that I've seen a horse draw a cart, but I
niver before saw a cart drawing a horse." There was one trait in the
character of the boy which pleased me much; he was very grateful for
any little act of kindness. He often got into difficulties with the
family, owing to his rashness and want of consideration, and I often
succeeded in smoothing down for him many rough places in his daily path;
and when he observed that I interested myself in his behalf, his
gratitude knew no bounds. I believe he would have made almost any
sacrifice to please me. He surprised me one day by saying suddenly,
"Don't I wish you'd only be tuck sick." "Why, Terry," replied I, "I am
surprised indeed, that you should wish evil to me." "Indade thin,"
answered he, "its not for evil that I wish it, but for your good, jist
to let ye see how tinderly I would take care uv ye." I thanked him for
his kind intentions, saying that I was very willing to take the will for
the deed in this case, and had no wish to test his kindness by a fit of
sickness.
He came in one evening fatigued with a hard day's work, and retired
early to bed. His sleeping apartment adjoined the sitting-room. I had
several letters to write which occupied me till a late hour; the family
had all retired. I finished writing just as the clock struck twelve. At
that moment, I was almost startled by Terry's voice singing in a very
high key. My first thought was that he had gone suddenly crazy. With a
light in my hand I stepped softly into the room, to find Terry sitting
up in bed and singing at the top of his voice, a song in the "Native
Irish Tongue." By this time he had roused every one in the house; and
others of the family entered the room. By the pauses which he made, we
knew when he reached the end of each verse. He sang several verses; at
the time I knew how many, but am unable now to recall the exact number.
He must surely have been a sound sleeper, or the loud laughter which
filled the room would have waked him, for the scene was ludicrous in the
extreme: Terry sitting up in bed, sound asleep, at the hour of midnight,
and singing, with a loud voice and very earnest manner, to an audience
who were unable to understand one word of the song. At the close of the
last verse he lay quietly down, all unconscious of the Musical
Entertainment he had given. The next morning some of the family began
teasing him about the song he had sung in his sleep. He was loth to
believe them, and as usual, enquired of me if they were telling him the
truth. "I'll believe whatever you say," said he, "for its you that niver
toult me a lie yet." "You may believe them this time," said I, "for you
certainly did sing a song. The air was very fine, and I have no doubt
the words were equally so, if we could only have understood them."
"Well thin," replied he, "but I niver heard more than that; and if I
raaly did sing, I may as well tell yee's how it happint. I dramed, ye
see, that I was at a ball in Ireland, an' I thought that about twelve
o'clock we got tired wid dancin and sated ourselves on the binches
which were ranged round the walls uv the room, and ache one was to sing
a song in their turn, an' its I that thought my turn had come for sure."
"Well Terry," said I, "you hit upon the time exact at any rate, for it
was just twelve o'clock when you favoured us with the song."
Soon after this time I left the neighborhood, and removed to some
distance. Terry remained for considerable time with the same family;
after a time I learned that he had obtained employment in a distant
village. The next tidings I heard of him was that he had been implicated
in a petty robbery, and had run away. His impulsive disposition rendered
him very easy of persuasion, for either good or evil; and he seldom
paused to consider the consequences of any act. From what I could learn
of the matter it seemed he had been enticed into the affair by some
designing fellows, who judged that, owing to his simplicity, he would be
well adapted to carry out their wicked plans; and, when suspicion was
excited, they managed in some way to throw all the blame upon Terry,
who, fearing an arrest, fled no one knew whither. Many years have passed
since I saw or heard of Terry Dolan, but often, as memory recalls past
scenes and those who participated in them, I think of him, and wonder if
he is yet among the living, and, if so, in what quarter of the world he
has fixed his abode.
THE FAITHFUL WIFE.
It was a mild and beautiful evening in the early autumn. Mrs. Harland
is alone in her home; she is seated by a table upon which burns a shaded
lamp, and is busily occupied with her needle. She has been five years a
wife; her countenance is still youthful, and might be termed beautiful,
but for the look of care and anxiety so plainly depicted thereon. She
had once been happy, but with her now happiness is but a memory of the
past. When quite young she had been united in marriage to William
Harland, and with him removed to the City of R., where they have since
resided. He was employed as bookkeeper in a large mercantile house, and
his salary was sufficient to afford them a comfortable support,--whence
then the change that has thus blighted their bright prospects, and
clouded the brow of that fair young wife with care? It is an unpleasant
truth, but it must be told. Her husband has become addicted to the use
of strong drink, not an occasional tippler, but a confirmed and habitual
drunkard. His natural disposition was gay and social, and he began by
taking an occasional glass with his friends--more for sociability than
for any love of the beverage. His wife often admonished him of the
danger of tampering with the deadly vice of intemperance, but he only
laughed at what he termed her idle fears. Well had it been for them both
had the fears of his wife proved groundless! It is needless for me to
follow him in his downward path, till we find him reduced to the level
of the common drunkard. Some three months previous to the time when our
story opens his employers were forced to dismiss him, as they could no
longer employ him with any degree of safety to their business. It was
fortunate for Mrs. Harland that the dwelling they occupied belonged to
her in her own right--it had been given her by her father at the period
of her marriage--so that notwithstanding the dissipated habits of the
husband and father they still possessed a home, although many of the
comforts of former days had disappeared before the blighting influence
of the demon of intemperance. After being dismissed by his employers Mr.
Harland seemed to lose all respect for himself, as well as for his wife
and children, and, but for the unceasing toil of the patient mother, his
children might have often asked for bread in vain.
So low had he now fallen that almost every evening found him in some low
haunt of drunkenness and dissipation; and often upon returning to his
home he would assail his gentle wife with harsh and unfeeling language.
Many there were who advised Mrs. Harland to return with her children to
her parents, who were in affluent circumstances, but she still cherished
the hope that he would yet reform. "I pray daily for my erring husband,"
she would often say, "and I feel an assurance that, sooner or later, my
prayers will be answered; and I cannot feel it my duty to forsake him."
But on this evening, as she sits thus alone, her mind is filled with
thoughts of the past, which she cannot help contrasting with the
miserable present, till her reverie is interrupted by the sound of
approaching footsteps, which she soon recognizes as those of her
husband; she is much surprised--for it is long, very long, since he has
returned to his home at so early an hour--and, as he enters the room,
her surprise increases when she perceives that he is perfectly sober. As
he met her wondering gaze a kind expression rested upon his countenance,
and he addressed her saying: "I do not wonder at your astonishment, dear
Mary, when I call to mind my past misconduct. I have been a fiend in
human shape thus to ill-treat and neglect the best of wives; but I have
made a resolve, 'God helping' me, that it shall be so no longer."
Seating himself by her side, he continued: "If you will listen to me,
Mary, I will tell you what caused me to form this resolution. When I
went out this evening I at once made my way to the public house, where I
have spent so much of my time and money. Money, I had none, and, worse
than this, was owing the landlord a heavy bill. Of late he had assailed
me with duns every time I entered the house; but so craving was the
appetite for drink that each returning evening still found me among the
loungers in the bar-room, trusting to my chance of meeting with some
companion who would call for a treat. It so happened that to-night none
of my cronies were present. When the landlord found that I was still
unable to settle the 'old score,' as he termed it, he abused me in no
measured terms; but I still lingered in sight of the coveted beverage;
and knowing my inability to obtain it my appetite increased in
proportion. At length, I approached the bar, and begged him to trust me
for one more glass of brandy. I will not wound your ears by repeating
his reply; and he concluded by ordering me from the house, telling me
also never to enter it again till I was able to settle the long score
already against me. The fact that I had been turned from the door,
together with his taunting language, stung me almost to madness. I
strolled along, scarce knowing or caring whither, till I found myself
beyond the limits of the city; and seating myself by the roadside I
gazed in silent abstraction over the moonlit landscape; and as I sat
thus I fell into a deep reverie. Memory carried me back to my youthful
days, when everything was bright with joyous hope and youthful ambition.
I recalled the time when I wooed you from your pleasant country home,
and led you to the altar, a fair young bride, and there pledged myself
before God and man to love, honour and cherish you, till death should us
part. Suddenly, as if uttered by an audible voice, I seemed to hear the
words 'William Harland, how have you kept your vows?' At that moment I
seemed to suddenly awake to a full sense of my fallen and degraded
position. What madness, thought I, has possessed me all this time, thus
to ruin myself and those dear to me? And for what? for the mere
indulgence of a debasing appetite. I rose to my feet, and my step grew
light with my new-formed resolution, that I _would_ break the slavish
fetters that had so long held me captive; and now, my dear wife, if you
can, forgive the past and aid me in my resolutions for amendment there
is hope for me yet." Mrs. Harland was only too happy to forgive her
erring but now truly penitent husband; but she trembled for the future,
knowing how often he had formerly made like resolutions, but to break
them. She endeavoured, however, to be hopeful, and to encourage him by
every means which affection could devise.
Through the influence of friends, his former employers were induced to
give him another trial. He had many severe struggles with himself ere he
could refrain from again joining his dissipated companions; but his
watchful wife would almost every evening form some little plan of her
own for his amusement, that he might learn to love his home. In a short
time their prospects for the future grew brighter, his wife began to
smile again; and his children, instead of fleeing from his approach, as
they had formerly done, now met him upon his return home with loving
caresses and lively prattle. Some six months after this happy change,
Mrs. Harland one evening noticed that her husband seemed very much
downcast and dejected. After tea, she tried vainly to interest him in
conversation.
He had a certain nervous restlessness in his manner, which always
troubled her, knowing, as she did, that it was caused by the cravings of
that appetite for strong drink, which at times still returned with
almost overwhelming force. About eight o'clock he took down his hat
preparatory to going out. She questioned him as to where he was going,
but could obtain no satisfactory reply; her heart sank within her; but
she was aware that remonstrance would be useless. She remained for a few
moments, after he left the house, in deep thought, then suddenly rising
she exclaimed aloud, "I will at least make one effort to save him." She
well knew that should he take but one glass, all his former resolves
would be as nothing. As she gained the street she observed her husband a
short distance in advance of her, and walking hastily she soon overtook
him, being careful to keep on the opposite side of the street, that she
might be unobserved by him. She had formed no definite purpose in her
mind; she only felt that she must endeavor to save him by some means. As
they drew nigh the turn of the street she saw two or three of his former
associates join him, and one of them addressed him, saying, "Come on,
Harland; I thought you would get enough of the cold water system. Come
on, and I'll stand treat to welcome you back among your old friends."
For a moment he paused as if irresolute; then his wife grew sick at
heart, as she saw him follow his companions into a drinking saloon near
at hand. Mrs. Harland was by nature a delicate and retiring woman; for a
moment she paused; dare she go further? Her irresolution was but
momentary, for the momentous consequences at stake gave her a fictitious
courage. She quickly approached the door, which at that moment some one
in the act of leaving the house threw wide open, and she gained a view
of her husband in the act of raising a glass to his lips; but ere he had
tasted its fiery contents it was dashed from his hand, and the shattered
fragments scattered upon the floor. Mr. Harland, supposing it the act of
one of his half-drunken companions, turned with an angry exclamation
upon his lips; but the expression of anger upon his countenance suddenly
gave place to one of shame and humiliation when he saw his wife standing
before him, pale but resolute. In a subdued voice he addressed her,
saying, "Mary, how came you here?" "Do not blame me, William," she
replied; "for I could not see you again go astray without, at least,
making an effort to save you. And now will you not return with me to
your home?" The other occupants of the room had thus far remained silent
since the entrance of Mrs. Harland; but when they saw that Mr. Harland
was about to leave the house by her request, they began taunting him
with his want of spirit in being thus ruled by a woman. One of them, who
was already half drunk, staggered toward him, saying, "I'd just like to
see my old woman follerin' me round in this way. I'll be bound I'd teach
her a lesson she would'nt forget in a hurry," Many similar remarks were
made by one and another present. The peculiar circumstances in which
Mrs. Harland found herself placed gave her a degree of fortitude, of
which upon ordinary occasions she would have found herself incapable.
Raising her hand with an imperative gesture she said in a firm voice:
"Back tempters, hinder not my husband from following the dictates of his
better nature." For a few moments there was silence in the room, till
one of the company, more drunken and insolent than the others, exclaimed
in a loud, derisive voice; "Zounds, madam, but you would make a capital
actress, specially on the tragedy parts; you should seek an engagement
upon the stage." Mr. Harland's eyes flashed angrily as he listened to
the insulting words addressed to his wife, and, turning to the man who
had spoken, he addressed him, saying, in a decided tone of voice: "I
wish to have no harsh language in this room while my wife is present,
but I warn each one of you to address no more insulting language to
her." The manner in which Mr. Harland addressed them, together with the
gentle and lady-like appearance of his wife had the effect to shame them
into silence. His voice was very tender as he again addressed his wife,
saying, "Come Mary I will accompany you home--this is no place for you."
When they gained the street the unnatural courage which had sustained
Mrs. Harland gave way, and she would have fallen to the earth, but for
the supporting arm of her husband. For a few moments they walked on in
silence, when Mr. Harland said, in a voice choked with emotion, "You
have been my good angel, Mary, for your hand it was which saved me from
violating a solemn oath; but I now feel an assurance that I have broken
the tempter's chains forever." I am happy to add that from this hour he
gained a complete victory over the evil habit which well-nigh had proved
his ruin; and in after years, when peace and prosperity again smiled
upon them, he often called to mind the evening when his affectionate and
devoted wife, by her watchful love, saved him from ruin, and perchance
from the drunkard's grave.
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