CHAPTER XXXVII
MRS. BARTLETT’S LITTLE SCHEME
“Do you mean that I am to get along without Nancy, Mr. Tarbox?” Mrs. Tarbox said quickly.
“I’ve met with losses, Mrs. T.,” replied Seth, “and I don’t feel as if I could afford to pay out seventy-five cents every Monday for work that might as well be done in the family.”
“Does that mean that you expect me to do it, Mr. Tarbox?”
“Ahem!” said Tarbox, a little embarrassed. “It’s your duty to help bear my burden.”
“I think I do that. I am sure that I work beyond my strength.”
“We all have to work. Don’t I work in the fields, Mrs. Tarbox?”
“You choose to do it. You are able to lead an easier life.”
“Who says I am?”
“Everybody in the village knows that you are well to do, and have a large sum in the savings-bank.”
Seth Tarbox frowned.
“If I have got a little money ahead,” he said, “I don’t mean to squander it in extravagant living.”
“I don’t think you are in any danger of it,” remarked Mrs. Tarbox dryly.
Mr. Tarbox left the house, and made it in his way to call at the home of Nancy Stokes and give her notice that her services would not be needed on the coming Monday.
Nancy opened her eyes in surprise.
“Why, Mr. Tarbox,” she said, “I’ve been goin’ to your house for ten years. Have you got any other woman in my place?”
“No, Miss Stokes; but I’ve been thinkin’ that I can’t afford to pay seventy-five cents a week for washin’.”
“Why, you haven’t failed, have you, Mr. Tarbox?”
“No; but I’ve met with losses,” answered Seth vaguely.
“They must be big losses if you can’t afford the little money you’ve paid me.”
“You may call it little, Nancy, but seventy-five cents a week amounts in a year to thirty-nine dollars.”
“It’ll take more‘n one thirty-nine dollars to break you, Mr. Tarbox.”
“You seem to know a good deal about my affairs, Nancy. I’m the best judge of that.”
“Who’s goin’ to do the washin’, then?”
“Mrs. Tarbox will do it.”
“The whole of it?”
“Yes; my first wife used to do it.”
“And died of broken health at forty.”
Seth Tarbox did not relish the plain speaking of Miss Stokes, and turning on his heel, walked away.
Nancy made it a point to call at the farm during the day.
“I hear, Mrs. Tarbox,” she said, “that you are going to do all the washing hereafter.”
“Who told you?” asked Mrs. Tarbox quickly.
“Mr. Tarbox.”
“He is mistaken,” said Mrs. Tarbox calmly. “I shall do nothing of the kind.”
“He expects it.”
“I can’t help that.”
“Good for you, Mrs. Tarbox. Don’t let him impose upon you. He’s too mean to live.”
The next Monday Seth Tarbox went out to his farm work in a complacent frame of mind. His wife had said nothing of the washing, and he concluded that when she found Nancy absent, she would turn to and do the whole herself. But when he returned to dinner he looked in vain for the clothes line.
“You’re late about your washin’, Mrs. T.,” he said, as he entered the kitchen.
“I am not going to wash, Mr. Tarbox.”
“How’s that? You can’t get along without having the clothes washed.”
“I intend to wash my own, but I don’t propose to do the rest.”
“Wh-what?” ejaculated Seth, in dismay.
“You have taken it upon yourself to discharge Nancy. If the clothes remain unwashed, you are responsible.”
“But, Mrs. T., my first wife used to do all the washing. She didn’t have Nancy to help her.”
“What your first wife did does not concern me. I do not propose to follow in her footsteps and die of overwork, as she did.”
“It seems to me, Mrs. T., you don’t realize your duty as helpmeet to your husband.”
“And I don’t propose to, if it requires me to work beyond my strength.”
“If you do all the washing this week, Nancy may come to your assistance next Monday as usual.”
“I decline to do it.”
Seth Tarbox found that he was checkmated, and was obliged to make a second call upon Miss Stokes and countermand his first notice. But he felt very much dissatisfied, and the next day called on his daughter and laid the matter before her.
“I am not surprised,” said Sophia. “Of course Mrs. Tarbox married you for your money. She expects you will leave her a good slice of your estate.”
“She’ll be disappointed,” said Seth angrily.
“I don’t know about that. Have you made a will?”
“No; why should I? You don’t expect I’m going to die right off, do you?”
“No; but still, life is uncertain. If you don’t leave a will, the law will give her something.”
“Perhaps I shall live longer than she does.”
“Perhaps so, but she is twenty years younger than you. When she gets your money, she and her boy will have fine times.”
“Can’t that be prevented?” asked Seth.
“There is one way.”
“What is that?”
“I hardly like to tell.”
“Out with it, Sophia!”
“If you should make me a deed of gift of the property – at any rate, of the real estate – she couldn’t do anything.”
“But I don’t want to give the farm away.”
“Oh, it would only be a mere form. Things would go on just the same as before. But it would put a spoke in your wife’s wheel. Of course, pa, you know that I wouldn’t take any advantage of what you did. It makes me laugh, though, to think how you would come up with that mercenary woman.”
“Just so,” chuckled Seth. “Well, I’ll think of it.”
“That’s the first step,” reflected Mrs. Bartlett. “Now I know how to work on pa’s feelings, it won’t be long before he’ll adopt my plan.”
From that time Sophia lost no opportunity to enlarge to her father on his wife’s expectations of profiting by his death, till at last she accomplished her purpose. One day she and her father called at a lawyer’s office, and the deed of gift was made out, and Mrs. Bartlett took charge of the document.
“Mrs. Tarbox won’t know anything of this,” she said. “We’ll keep it secret, pa.”
“Yes, we’ll keep it secret.”
“If she knew, you’d find it hard to get as much work out of her.”
“That’s so!” chuckled Seth.
He would not have felt as well pleased had he known what a power he had put into the hands of his daughter.
We will now reproduce the letter which Grant received from his mother. After expressing the hope that he was in good health, and had something to do, she went on:
I am very unpleasantly situated at present. Grant. A week ago Mr. Tarbox fell from a scaffold in the barn, and broke his leg. His daughter, Mrs. Bartlett, on hearing of it, came to the house with Rodney, and has taken possession of the sick chamber. I am kept out of it, though his wife. I won’t pretend that it hurts my feelings, but I don’t like to be treated as a servant in the house of which I ought to be the mistress. Mrs. Bartlett treats me with very little respect, and I have reason to think that she means to influence Mr. Tarbox to leave all his property to her. This would be a very poor return for all I have done since I married him. As you know, it was chiefly on your account that I did so. If you were doing well, I would not mind so much, but I can hardly hope that a boy like you can earn much among strangers.
Grant showed this letter to Mr. Crosmont.
“Write to your mother,” said the Englishman, “that she need feel no anxiety about you or herself. I will see that neither of you is in want.”
Grant accordingly wrote a letter to his mother that raised her spirits and gave her hope for the future.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
FINDING THE PRODIGAL
“Now,” said Mr. Crosmont on the morning after Grant’s arrival, “I have some work for you to do.”
“I am glad of it, sir,” replied Grant. “I should be homesick if I were idle.”
“I have great faith in the future of San Francisco,” continued the Englishman. “Real estate is sure to make rapid advances, and I am investing in lots all over the city. By the way, you are the owner of two lots on this street.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Crosmont,” said Grant gratefully.
“I mean to be. The lots are of large size, and only cost fifty dollars apiece. I could sell them for double that sum to-day, though I bought them only two months since. How much money have you belonging to Cooper and yourself?”
“Fifteen hundred dollars.”
“I advise you to invest a thousand in lots, under my direction.”
“You can invest the whole, sir. Tom Cooper has seven hundred dollars left in gold-dust, and that will be all the reserve we need.”
“Very well! For every dollar you invest, I feel sure that you can get five within a comparatively short time.”
“I will be guided by your judgment, sir.”
Grant succeeded in getting twenty lots for his money, half of which were entered in the name of Tom Cooper. When he had in his possession the deeds for all his property he began to feel like a capitalist.
“I wonder what Mr. Tarbox would say if he knew how I was fixed,” thought Grant. “He would want to be my guardian. I shall be glad when I can buy a nice home for my mother away from the whole Tarbox tribe. She works altogether too hard. If things go well she shall have an easier time henceforth.”
Mr. Crosmont opened a real estate office and put Grant in charge. Though he was the responsible head, he left the principal work, including the bookkeeping, in the hands of his protégé.
“You must have a regular salary, Grant,” he said. “Now, what shall it be?”
“Anything you like, Mr. Crosmont.”
“That isn’t business-like. The laborer is worthy of his hire.”
“Would ten dollars a week be too much? Then I could pay you my board.”
Mr. Crosmont smiled.
“I see, Grant,” he said, “you have no idea of the value of your services. You will have nothing to pay for board, for I consider your society sufficient compensation. I will, besides that, pay you a fixed salary of one hundred and fifty dollars a month.”
Grant opened his eyes in amazement.
“But, sir, you forget that I am only sixteen.”
“No, I don’t. In London or New York I should be unable to pay you anything like that sum, but here the case is different. Your salary, however, will be small compared with the profits you will realize on your lots.”
“I won’t count my chickens before they are hatched, Mr. Crosmont,” said Grant, smiling.
“That is usually the prudent course, but you are sure to gain a good profit on your land investment.”
Of this belief Grant had a very speedy confirmation, for within a week he was waited upon by a gentleman who wished to erect a hotel, on a site a part of which was owned by Grant and the balance by Mr. Crosmont. Mr. Crosmont managed the negotiations, and in the end Grant received two thousand dollars for his two lots.
“I should like to keep that money,” said Grant, “as I may have a use for it at home.”
“Very well. You can let it out on call at three per cent. a month. That won’t pay as well as real estate, but you will have it when you need it.”
A month later Grant received a letter from Tom Cooper. The important part of the communication was the following paragraph:
Somehow it has leaked out, I don’t know how, that our claim is unusually rich, and I have been waited upon by a couple of New York men who have offered me five thousand dollars for it. I think it will be well to accept, especially as I am now alone. I have on hand now about twelve hundred dollars in gold-dust, which I mean to take to San Francisco myself. I shall make arrangements to receive the money in a draft on a San Francisco banker, and will pay you your share when we meet. Perhaps I might make more money by retaining the claim, but it is dull work living here alone, though I have a good home with the Crambos. You may expect to see me in a short time.
“I congratulate you, Grant,” said Mr. Crosmont. “You seem to be a favorite of fortune.”
About this time an event occurred which calls for special mention. One evening Grant was walking through Montgomery Street, in the neighborhood of Telegraph Hill, when his attention was called to a young man who was walking in advance of him with unsteady steps. Something in his manner led Grant to think he was in trouble. After some hesitation, he hastened his steps and touched the stranger on the shoulder.
The other turned, and revealed the face of a young man of perhaps twenty-seven. His expression was troubled, almost despairing.
“Can I be of any assistance to you?” asked Grant gently.
“I have eaten nothing for forty-eight hours,” said the other, in a hopeless tone. “I am without money and without hope.”
“Will you allow me to help you?” repeated Grant.
“You have spoken the first kind words I have listened to for weeks,” said the other. “I should enjoy a cup of coffee and a plate of meat.”
“Come with me, then,” said Grant.
He led the way to a restaurant near by, and ordered a plain but substantial meal. The young man’s face brightened, as a plate of beef-steak and a cup of coffee were placed before him. He ate with avidity and evident appetite.
When the meal was finished, he said: “You seem to be only a boy. What brought you to this city?”
“I was poor and wanted to earn a living.”
“Have you prospects?”
“Beyond my expectations.”
“I, too, came here to earn a living. I had some money with me when I arrived, but it is all gone now. Nothing that I took hold of prospered. When you spoke to me I was in despair. I was making up my mind to commit suicide.”
“That would be very foolish – and wicked.”
“Perhaps so, but consider my situation. I had no prospects and no money. I have none now, but somehow when a man has filled his stomach he feels less despondent.”
“I may be able to put something in your way. I came here a poor boy, but I am not poor now.”
“And I – would you be surprised to hear that I am the son of a rich man and the heir of a large estate?”
“Yes,” answered Grant, “I am surprised. You don’t look much like it. In that case I don’t understand why you should be in this condition.”
“I can explain easily. I have been a prodigal son. I have wasted money in folly and dissipation, and alienated my father’s affections.”
“Have you seen or heard from him lately?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know that he is estranged?”
“It can hardly be otherwise. He is an honorable man, and my conduct has shamed and humiliated him.”
“It is not too late to repent and turn over a new leaf.”
“I fear it is. At any rate, I never expect to be reinstated in my father’s favor.”
“You can at any rate work for an honest living.”
“Yes, I am ready to do that, if the chance is offered me.”
“I am quite sure that you will have the chance. I could give it to you myself, but I have a friend here who is much better able than I.”
“You give me new hope. What is your friend’s name?”
“Giles Crosmont.”
The young man started as if he had been shot. He showed signs of excitement.
“What name did you say?” he asked. “Repeat it.”
“Giles Crosmont.”
“Is he an Englishman?”
“Yes; he has a large estate in Devonshire.”
“Great Heavens!” exclaimed the young man; “Giles Crosmont is my father.”
“Your father? Come, then, let me lead you to him at once.”
“No, no,” said the young man, hanging back. “He would not receive me.”
“Would not receive you? He is in California for the express purpose of hunting you up.”
“Are you sure of that?” asked the young man eagerly.
“Yes; he told me so himself.”
“That is the best news I have heard for many a day. Take me to him, then, at once.”
The surprise and deep thankfulness of Mr. Crosmont when Grant arrived with his son may be imagined. He held out his arms without a word, and folded the young man in his embrace.
“I am ashamed to come back to you, father,” said young Crosmont, “after the way I have behaved.”
“Let us forget the past, my son,” responded the father. “Let us look forward to a bright future!” Then, turning to Grant, he said: “In restoring my son to me, Grant, you have fully paid me for all I have done for you. You have placed me under the deepest obligations.”
“And I, too, look upon you as my guardian angel,” added young Crosmont, as he grasped the boy’s hand in his.
“It was a mere chance,” said Grant modestly.
“Say, rather, it was a providence,” corrected Giles Crosmont reverently.
CHAPTER XXXIX
GRANT HEARS FROM HOME
Tom Cooper reached San Francisco two weeks after his letter. “I stopped at Sacramento to see father,” he said. “I found the old gentleman doing well, and fully persuaded that I had made a mistake in not staying with him. He offered me four dollars a day to work in the shop. When I told him that I owned ten lots in San Francisco, was entitled to two thousand five hundred dollars for my share of the claim, and had considerable loose money besides, you ought to have seen him open his eyes. He was speechless for a minute; then he said: ‘You’re smarter than I thought, Tom. I guess you’d better go your own way, and I will look after the shop. I’m too old to dig for gold, but I am making a good living at my trade.’”
Tom cashed a check for five thousand dollars, and made over half to Grant.
“There’s some more money due you, Grant,” he said, “from the gold-dust I have brought with me.”
“Keep it all, Tom,” rejoined Grant. “I am rich enough without it, and you deserve some commission for selling the claim.”
Tom objected to this at first, but Grant insisted upon it. Tom took possession of his lots, and sold three on very advantageous terms within a month.
“I think you brought me luck, Grant,” he said. “Till you joined me I was plodding along comfortably, but making little more than I could have done at my trade. But after you and I began to work together in double harness, everything has prospered with me.”
“Not just at first, Tom. You remember our small earnings at Howe’s Gulch.”
“That’s true, but prosperity came afterward. It was your meeting old Mr. Gilbert that set us on our feet.”
“How is he? Did you call on him?”
“Yes. He is pretty well for him, but what a forlorn life he leads! Do you know he thinks a great deal of you?”
“I thought he did.”
“He inquired particularly after you, and said you were a fine boy.”
“It is well to have one admiring friend,” said Grant, smiling.
“You have many friends who are attached to you,” returned Tom.
“I have certainly received much kindness,” said Grant. “I seem to be appreciated considerably more here than at home.”
“How are things going on at home?”
“Not very well. Mr. Tarbox is sick, and his daughter has installed herself in his chamber, and is not willing that my mother should see him.”
“Does that trouble you?”
“No, for I am able to provide for mother better than her husband. When I go back I shall establish her in a home of her own.”
The very next day Grant received a letter from his mother, the contents of which were most important.
We reproduce it here:
Dear Grant:
Mr. Tarbox died last week. No one anticipated that his sickness would end fatally, but I attribute it to worry of mind. It appears that his daughter, Mrs. Bartlett, succeeded some time since in inducing him to deed the farm to her. I believe the argument she used was, that should he die, I would claim a good share of it as his widow. The law would no doubt have given me a claim to some portion of it.
Mr. Tarbox had scarcely given away the property than he repented it, and tried to persuade Sophia to give it back. She didn’t exactly refuse, for she knew that he had considerable other property which he could leave her at his death. But she made delays, and raised objections, till he saw that there was no hope of recovering the farm. You know how fond he was of money, and the fact that he had alienated so large a share of his property preyed upon his mind and actually made him sick. Then his daughter came and established herself in his room.
“Give me back the farm, Sophia,” I overheard him say one day. “It’ll be yours some day, but I want to keep it while I live.”
“Wait till you get well, pa,” she answered. “You are too sick to trouble yourself about business now.”
“I shall be sick till I get the farm back,” he answered.
“It’ll be all right. Don’t worry yourself.”
But he continued to worry, and the doctor says he fretted himself to death. It may be uncharitable in me, but I don’t think Sophia grieved very much over her father’s taking away, though she put on a suit of deep black at the funeral.
Well, the will was read the next day, and all the property outside of the farm goes to Sophia and Rodney. The farm being already hers, of course there is nothing left for me. My friends are very indignant, and Mr Tower, the lawyer, tells me that I have good reason to contest it. I am certainly very poorly paid for all I’ve done in the five years since we were married.
I remained at the farm for a day or two, but I found it so disagreeable, as Mrs. Bartlett evidently wished me out of the way, that I took board temporarily with Mrs. Draper in the village. You know I have some money remaining from what you left with me. Before that is gone I think I can get a chance to act as housekeeper for Mr. John Wilkins, whose wife recently died.
I feel quite lonely, and wish you were at home, but I am afraid you could not get any work that would pay you, and I am glad to hear that you are doing well in California. Write soon to your affectionate mother,
Helen Tarbox.
“Tom, I must go home,” said Grant. “My mother needs me.”
“But, Grant, won’t you come back again?”
“Yes. I have too many interests in San Francisco to keep away. I want to go home and establish my mother comfortably. Then I can return with a cheerful heart.”
“How will you go back – over the plains?”
“No, once is enough for me. I will go to New York by steamer, and then take the railroad to Iowa.”
The next day, and before Grant could get ready to start, he received another letter.
This was from Tom Childs, a schoolfellow and intimate friend. Here it is:
Dear Grant:
I got your address from your mother, and I am going to write you a short letter. I wish I could see you, for you were one of my most intimate friends. I hope you are doing well, and so do all the boys wish you well except one. That one is Rodney Bartlett, who is now living here in Woodburn. He and his mother are up at the old farm, and your mother has been turned out. It is a great shame, I think, and so does the whole village. Mr. Tarbox’s death seemed very sudden, but people think he worried to death. Anyhow, Mrs. Bartlett has got the whole property, except a thousand dollars, which were left to Rodney.
You ought to see that boy strut ’round. He ‘feels his oats’ as father says. He’s got a gold watch, a very showy one, and takes it out every five minutes to look at it. You would think he was a millionnaire by the airs he puts on. The other day he asked me: “Do you ever hear from Grant Colburn?”
I answered that I was going to write you.
“He was a great fool to go to California,” said Rodney.
“What was there to stay for here?” I asked. “His mother has been turned out of the house without a cent, and you and your mother have taken everything.”
“That’s perfectly proper,” said Rodney. “We are blood relations to Mr. Tarbox.”
“And she was his wife,” I told him.
“Oh, well, she had her living for five years,” said Rodney. “She’ll get along well enough. She can hire out in some family. She’s strong enough to work.”
“She’s been treated mighty mean,” I said indignantly.
“Ma offered her twenty-five dollars,” replied Rodney, “but she was too proud to take it. I s’pose she wanted more.”
“Well, it was a pretty mean sum to give your grandfather’s widow,” I remarked.
“My mother understands what’s proper,” said Rodney stiffly. “Have you seen my new watch?”
“Where did you buy it?”
“Ma sent to New York for it. It cost sixty dollars. I guess it’s as good a watch as anybody carries in Woodburn.”
I wish, Grant, you could come home, and bring a better watch. How it would take down the pride of that young snob!
Oh, I mustn’t forget to tell you that Mr. Jones – Abner Jones – is in trouble. It seems that your step-father held a mortgage of a thousand dollars on his farm, and it comes due in two or three months. Mrs. Bartlett threatens to foreclose, and unless he can get some one else to assume the mortgage, I am afraid the farm will be sold for much less than its value. It is worth three thousand dollars, but father says it won’t fetch, at a forced sale, much over two thousand, perhaps only that sum. I pity Mrs. Jones. I was speaking to Arthur Jones yesterday. He feels very bad about it.
But I have written you a long letter. Let me hear from you soon.
Your true friend,Tom Childs.
“There’s another reason for going home,” observed Grant, as he folded up the letter. “I shall start by the next steamer.”
“I will expect you back in three months,” said Mr. Crosmont. “While you are away my son will take your place in the office, but I shall miss you very much.”