Idle Hour Stories Part 11

The first step, she thought; now for the next. It came to her almost by magic. In a little rear hall-room sat Margaret Dewees, clicking away at her typewriter. A strong, clear-headed girl who had maintained herself these ten years, and had put by her savings. She was soon to be married to a stalwart young farmer, the lover of her early youth. They had been working and waiting. From the first she took an interest in the young wife, and it was given to her energy and common sense to help a suffering sister. Together they plotted and planned. Eleanor's la.s.situde gradually pa.s.sed away under vigorous rubbing and brisk walks.

Margaret's trousseau was a thing to be considered. From Mrs. Woodruff's surplus stock of stylish gowns and garments the country girl's outfit was deftly concocted. The young wife could sew neatly and rapidly. When all was ready the sum of two hundred dollars lay in her writing desk.

Her grand piano, too large for the new quarters, was removed from storage to a dealer's, and was sold for three hundred more. She wrote at once to an uncle in a Western city; told him of her little efforts, and asked what she might do with her mite. He was a real estate man and promptly invested it in a lot in the rising town of Duluth.

In exchange for her services as seamstress, Margaret taught Eleanor the use of the typewriter. When she was married she left the instrument, for the summer months, in Eleanor's care. A nominal rent was agreed upon, and this was easy to pay, as Margaret's engagements were transferred to the new operator, while she, herself, attended to chickens and cows, and her six feet of husband.

Eleanor's spirit of enterprise did not stop here. She obtained pupils on the type-writer machine at five dollars each. She shipped a lot of old party dresses, crushed and out of style, to the costumer's on B---- street, and saved the proceeds. Every time her husband handed over her allowance of pin money, she put at least half of it in her "strong box."

It was hard to hide all this activity and cheerfulness from him, but she did. With her woman's enjoyment of a little mystery, and her high resolve to show herself worthy of him, she kept in the old rut as nearly as possible when he was at home. He saw only that she was stronger, and it lightened his labors.

"My little woman does not ride, or read, any more," he said one evening, in the indulgent tone he used towards her.

"Why, yes, I do read. Don't you see my little library there?"

"Yes, but it seems to me I miss something."

He missed the litter of trashy novels he had been wont to see.

"I told you I was learning to walk;" she added, with a smile, "I really do walk somewhere every day."

"That pleases me most of all," he said in his cheery way, "but what will Dr. Bull think. You know he prescribes rest and quiet."

"I don't care one bit; I have long since cut his acquaintance."

The end of the year rolled round. Eleanor watched her husband's face with ever increasing anxiety. One evening he sat buried in thought from which all her endeavors could not rouse him. He did not feel well, he said. All night he tossed and muttered. Calculations and figures were uppermost.

He was up early, as usual, and away. Eleanor hastened her preparations, and carefully counted her little h.o.a.rd--the earnings of months. Early in the afternoon she came home with the proceeds of her last batch of type-writing, glowing with exercise, and the happiness of contributing at least some hundreds to meet her husband's creditors. He was there, lying on the sofa, pale and hopeless. Forgetting all else, she flung herself beside him with a sob.

"Oh! Harry, my dearest! Tell me what it is that is killing you--I have a right to know."

"It is ruin, Eleanor. I have brought you to poverty--you whom I would have given my very life to make happy."

"You are talking in riddles, Harry," she exclaimed, rallying from her alarm. "Am I not the happiest woman in the world? And don't you see how well and strong I am?"

She coaxed the whole story from his lips. Then with affected lightness, she said: "Is that all? Why, you frightened me terribly; I thought you were ill--had caught some horrible disease or other. See here!"

As she spoke she ran to her desk, took out her treasure, and poured it into his hands in her impulsive fashion.

"Eleanor! What is this?" staring like one dazed, from her radiant face to the notes in his hands.

"This? Why, this is only your silly wife's laziness and selfishness in another form."

Then her story had to be told. Their combined efforts still fell short of the required sum, but she triumphantly produced the deed to the Western land. For a season there were caresses and even tears, of mutual love and thankfulness.

"My precious wife!" he exclaimed, as he clasped her close. "What a treasure in you, if all the money in the world should fail!"

"But your piano!" he said, with regret overreaching his appreciation of her sacrifice.

"Let it go," she merrily replied. "I could not play worth listening to--this you must admit. It was just an expensive, c.u.mbersome toy--that's all."

Next day the balance of the debt was borrowed upon the security of the western deed, and Henry Woodruff was a free man once more. When the five hundred dollars jumped to thousands in a sudden boom, he bought a neat home. Here, Margaret, the valued friend, supplied produce from her farm.

Eleanor was never quite content till Harry had looked up her two maligners, and brought them to the pleasant domain where she presided, and which her painfully awakened energy had helped to buy. In time she told her secret, and thanked them for that ten minutes' gossip. In time, too, sons and daughters came and found a mother prepared by self-denial for the exigencies of life.

The Iron Box

A MYSTERY

Twilight dropped its soft, somber curtain upon a handsome southern home. Sadly out of keeping with the peaceful landscape and cheerful hearthstone, were the feelings of a man who crept close to the window shutter, and peered cautiously within the cosy apartment. And brighter grew the twinkle in his rapacious eyes as the brilliant objects upon which he glared shone in the lamplight.

Upon a table in the center of the room was a mosaic casket, the raised lid disclosing a collection of jewels rarely to be found in the possession of a single individual.

With glowing cheeks and radiant eyes Netta Lee surveyed her treasures; but the glow and sparkle were for the tall figure beside her, however her feminine pride might be gratified at this splendid array. So long as Richard Temple honored her among women with his heart's devotion, there needed not the glitter of gems to complete her happiness.

"Our friends are most kind with their wedding gifts," said the prospective bridegroom, "these are royal!--"

"Yes, and oh, Richard! just see these pearls. Exquisite, aren't they!

One hundred years old, and a present from my grandmother."

"What a queer, old-fashioned case," said Mary, a younger sister taking up the flat, square box of red morocco, where nestled in its white satin lining lay the milky brooch and ear-rings.

"So much the more valuable; in this love-of-the-antique age," remarked Bertha Lee. "Netta, who sent these gorgeous corals?"

"Aunt Winifred;--wasn't it good of her?"

"Pooh! No more than she might do for each of us," replied the saucy girl. "Heigho! I wish my fate, if I have one, might appear. Couldn't you innocently suggest to the old lady that I have no jewels for the all-important occasion--a bridesmaid, too?"

"Why not select from these?" said Richard. "There is enough here, and to spare, for all. Let's see--pearl, diamond, amethyst, coral, emerald, turquoise, filagree--I declare it is a veritable jeweler's display."

"You must recollect, though, Richard, I had some of these before."

"Her friends seem to have discovered her weakness," observed Mrs. Lee, entering the room.

"Now, mother, you shall not say that. You forget the carloads of things that have come--nice, useful, domestic articles----"

"Richard, what is it? What is the matter?" suddenly exclaimed Mrs. Lee, looking at him.

In alarm Netta glanced at his face, which she saw was clouded from anxiety, or pain. At once she closed the casket and went to his side in great concern.

"What is it, dear? Are you ill?"

"Not ill in body, my love; hardly comfortable in mind," was his reply, as he sat down upon the davenport close by. "Sit here beside me, and I will tell you what is troubling me. No, don't go," he added, as the others started to leave the room, "it concerns us all."