Chapter 2

“Indeed, Ellen, it is nothing but business, I assure you; and as I am not blessed with the most even temper in the world, it does not take much you know to upset me: but you heard me speak of that job I was building for Hillman?”

“Yes. I think you said it was to be five hundred dollars, did you not?”

“I did; and it was to have been cash as soon as done. Well, he took it out two weeks ago; one week sooner than I promised it. I sent the bill with it, expecting, of course, he would send me a check for the amount; but I was disappointed. Having heard nothing from him since, I thought I would call on him this morning, when, to my surprise, I was told he had gone travelling with his wife and daughter, and would not be back for six weeks or two months. I can't tell you how I felt when I was told this.”

“He is safe enough for it I suppose, isn't he, George?”

“Oh, yes; he is supposed to be worth about three hundred thousand. But what good is that to me? I was looking over my books this afternoon, and, including this five hundred, there is just fifteen hundred dollars due me now, that I ought to have, but can't get it. To a man doing a large business it would not be much; but to one with my limited means, it is a good deal. And this is all in the hands of five individuals, any one of whom could pay immediately, and feel not the least inconvenience from it.”

“Are you much pressed for money just now, George?”

“I have a note in bank of three hundred, which falls due to-morrow, and one of two hundred and fifty on Saturday. Twenty-five dollars at least will be required to pay off my hands; and besides this, our quarter's rent is due on Monday, and my shop rent next Wednesday. Then there are other little bills I wanted to settle, our own wants to be supplied, &c.”

“Why don't you call on those persons you spoke of; perhaps they would pay you?”

“I have sent their bills in, but if I call on them so soon I might perhaps affront them, and cause them to take their work away; and that I don't want to do. However, I think I shall have to do it, let the consequence be what it may.”

“Perhaps you could borrow what you need, George, for a few days.”

“I suppose I could; but see the inconvenience and trouble it puts me to. I was so certain of getting Hillman's money to meet these two notes, that I failed to make any other provision.”

“That would not have been enough of itself.”

“No, but I have a hundred on hand; the two together would have paid them, and left enough for my workmen too.”

As early as practicable the next morning Mr. Allison started forth to raise the amount necessary to carry him safely through the week. He thought it better to try to collect some of the amounts owing to him than to borrow. He first called on a wealthy merchant, whose annual income was something near five thousand.

“Good morning, Mr. Allison,” said he, as that individual entered his counting-room. “I suppose you want some money.”

“I should like a little, Mr. Chapin, if you please.”

“Well, I intended coming down to see you, but I have been so busy that I have not been able. That carriage of mine which you did up a few weeks ago does not suit me altogether.”

“What is the matter with it?”

“I don't like the style of trimming, for one thing; it has a common look to me.”

“It is precisely what Mrs. Chapin ordered. You told me to suit her.”

“Yes, but did she not tell you to trim it like General Spangler's?”

“I am very much mistaken, Mr. Chapin, if it is not precisely like his.”

“Oh! no; his has a much richer look than mine.”

“The style of trimming is just the same, Mr. Chapin; but you certainly did not suppose that a carriage trimmed with worsted lace, would look as well as one trimmed with silk lace?”

“No, of course not; but there are some other little things about it that don't suit me. I will send my man down with it to-day, and he will show you what they are. I would like to have it to-morrow afternoon, to take my family out in. Call up on Monday, and we will have a settlement.”

Mr. Allison next called at the office of a young lawyer, who had lately come into possession of an estate valued at one hundred thousand dollars. Mr. Allison's bill was three hundred dollars, which his young friend assured him he would settle immediately, only that there was a slight error in the way it was made out, and not having the bill with him, he could not now correct it.

He would call on Mr. Allison with it, sometime during the next week, and settle it.

A Custom-House gentleman was next sought, but his time had been so much taken up with his official duties, that he had not yet been able to examine the bill. He had no doubt but it was all correct; still, as he was not accustomed to doing business in a loose way, he must claim Mr. Allison's indulgence a few days longer.

Almost disheartened, Mr. Allison entered the store of the last individual who was indebted to him for any considerable amount, not daring to hope that he would be any more successful with him than with the others he had called on. But he was successful; the bill, which amounted to near one hundred and fifty dollars, was promptly paid, Mr. Allison's pocket, in consequence, that much heavier, and his heart that much lighter. Fifty dollars was yet lacking of the sum requisite for that day. After calling on two or three individuals, this amount was obtained, with the promise of being returned by the middle of the next week.

“I shall have hard work to get through to-day, I know,” said he to himself, as he sat at his desk on the following morning.

“Two hundred and fifty dollars to be raised by borrowing. I don't know where I can get it.”

To many this would be a small sum, but Mr. Allison was peculiarly situated. He was an honest, upright mechanic, but he was poor. It was with difficulty he had raised the fifty dollars on the day previous. Although he had never once failed in returning money at the time promised, still, for some reason or other, everybody appeared unwilling to lend him. It was nearly two O'clock and he was still a hundred dollars short.

“Well,” said he to himself, “I have done all I could, and if Hall won't renew the note for the balance, it will have to be protested. I'll go and ask him, though I have not much hope that he will do it.”

As he was about leaving his shop for that purpose, a gentleman entered who wished to buy a second-hand carriage. Mr. Allison had but one, and that almost new, for which he asked a hundred and forty dollars.

“It is higher than I wished to go,” remarked the gentleman. “I ought to get a new one for that price.”

“So you can, but not like this. I can sell you a new one for a hundred and twenty-five dollars. But what did you expect to pay for one?”

“I was offered one at Holton's for seventy-five; but I did not like it. I will give you a hundred for yours.”

“It is too little, indeed, sir: that carriage cost three hundred dollars when it was new. It was in use a very short time. I allowed a hundred and forty dollars for it myself.”

“Well, sir, I would not wish you to sell at a disadvantage, but if you like to, accept of my offer I'll take it. I'm prepared to pay the cash down.”

Mr. Allison did not reply for some minutes. He was undecided as to what was best.

“Forty dollars,” said he to himself, “is a pretty heavy discount. I am almost tempted to refuse his offer and trust to Hall's renewing the note. But suppose he won't--then I'm done for. I think, upon the whole, I had better accept it. I'll put it at one hundred and twenty-five, my good friend,” said he, addressing the customer.

“No, sir; one hundred is all I shall give.”

“Well, I suppose you must have it, then; but indeed you have got a bargain.”

“It is too bad,” muttered Allison to himself, as he left the bank after having paid his note. “There is just forty dollars thrown away. And why? Simply because those who are blessed with the means of discharging their debts promptly, neglect to do so.”

“How did you make out to-day, George?” asked his wife, as they sat at the tea-table that same evening.

“I met my note, and that was all.”

“Did you give your men anything?”

“Not a cent. I had but one dollar left after paying that. I was sorry for them, but I could not help them. I am afraid Robinson's family will suffer, for there has been sickness in his house almost constantly for the last twelvemonth. His wife, he told me the other day, had not been out; of her bed for six weeks. Poor fellow! He looked quite dejected when I told him I had nothing for him.”

At this moment; the door-bell rang and a minute or two afterwards, a young girl entered the room in which Mr. and Mrs. Allison were sitting. Before introducing her to our readers, we will conduct them to the interior of an obscure dwelling, situated near the outskirts of the city. The room is small, and scantily furnished, and answers at once for parlour, dining-room, and kitchen. Its occupants, Mrs. Perry and her daughter, have been, since the earliest dawn of day, intently occupied with their needles, barely allowing themselves time to partake of their frugal meal.

“Half-past three o'clock!” ejaculated the daughter, her eyes glancing, as she spoke, at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I am afraid we shall not get this work done in time for me to take it home before dark, mother.”

“We must try hard, Laura, for you know we have not a cent in the house, and I told Mrs. Carr to come over to-night, and I would pay her what I owe her for washing. Poor thing! I would not like to disappoint her, for I know she needs it.”

Nothing more was said for near twenty minutes, when Laura again broke the silence.

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, “what a pain I have in my side!” And for a moment she rested from her work, and straightened herself in her chair, to afford a slight relief from the uneasiness she experienced. “I wonder, mother, if I shall always be obliged to sit so steady?”

“I hope not, my child; but bad as our situation is, there are hundreds worse off than we. Take Annie Carr, for instance--how would you like to exchange places with her?”

“Poor Annie! I was thinking of her awhile go, mother. How hard it must be for one so young to be so afflicted as she is!”

“And yet, Laura, she never complains; although for five years she has never left her bed, and has often suffered, I know, for want of proper nourishment.”

“I don't think she will suffer much longer, mother. I stopped in to see her the other day, and I was astonished at the change which had taken place in a short time. Her conversation, too, seems so heavenly, her faith in the Lord so strong, that I could not avoid coming to the conclusion that a few days more, at the most, would terminate her wearisome life.”

“It will be a happy release for her, indeed, my daughter. Still, it will be a sore trial for her mother.”

It was near six when Mrs. Perry and her daughter finished the work upon which they were engaged.

“Now Laura, dear,” said the mother, “get back as soon as you can, for I don't like you to be out after night, and more than that, if Mrs. Carr comes, she won't want to wait.”

About twenty minutes after the young girl had gone, Mrs. Carr called. “Pray, be seated, my dear friend,” said Mrs. Perry, “my daughter has just gone to Mrs. Allison's with some work, and as soon as she returns I can pay you.”

“I think I had better call over again, Mrs. Perry,” answered the poor woman; “Mary begged me not to stay long.”

“Is Annie any worse, then?”

“Oh, yes, a great deal; the doctor thinks she will hardly last till morning.”

“Well, Mrs. Carr, death can be only gain to her.”

“Very true; still, the idea of losing her seems dreadful to me.”

“How does Mary get on at Mrs. Owring's?”

“Not very well; she has been at work for her just one month to-day; and although she gave her to understand that her wages would be at least a dollar and a quarter a week, yet to-night, when she settled with her, she wouldn't give her but three dollars, and at the same time told her that if she didn't choose to work for that she could go.”

“What do you suppose was the reason for her acting so?”

“I don't know, indeed, unless it is because she does not get there quite as early as the rest of her hands; for you see I am obliged to keep her a little while in the morning to help me to move Annie while I make her bed. Even that little sum, small it was, would have been some help to us, but it had all to go for rent. My landlord would take no denial. But I must go; you think I can depend on receiving your money to-night?”

“I do. Mrs. Allison is always prompt in paying for her work as soon as it is done. I will not trouble you to come again for it, Mrs. Carr. Laura shall bring it over to you.”

Let us now turn to the young girl we left at Mr. Allison's, whom our readers, no doubt, recognise as Laura Perry.

“Good evening, Laura,” said Mrs. Allison, as she entered the room; “not brought my work home already! I did not look for it till next week. You and your mother, I am afraid, confine yourselves too closely to your needles for your own good. But you have not had your tea? sit up, and take some.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Allison; mother will be uneasy if I stay long.”

“Well, Laura, I am sorry, but I cannot settle with you to-night. Tell your mother Mr. Allison was disappointed in collecting to-day, or she certainly should have had it. Did she say how much it was?”

“Two dollars, ma'am.”

“Very well: I will try and let her have it next week.”

The expression of Laura's countenance told too plainly the disappointment she felt. “I am afraid Mrs. Perry is in want of that money,” remarked the husband after she had gone.

“Not the least doubt of it,” replied his wife. “She would not have sent home work at this hour if she had not been. Poor things! who can tell the amount of suffering and wretchedness that is caused by the rich neglecting to pay promptly.”

“You come without money, Laura,” said her mother, as she entered the house.

“How do you know that, mother?” she replied, forcing a smile.

“I read it in your countenance. Is it not so?”

“It is: Mr. Allison was disappointed in collecting--what will we do, mother?”

“The best we can, my child. We will have to do without our beef for dinner to-morrow; but then we have plenty of bread; so we shall not starve.”

“And I shall have to do without my new shoes. My old ones are too shabby to go to church in; so I shall have to stay at home.”

“I am sorry for your disappointment, my child, but I care more for Mrs. Carr than I do for ourselves. She has been here, and is in a great deal of trouble. The doctor don't think Annie will live till morning, and Mrs. Owrings hag refused to give Mary more than three dollars for her month's work, every cent of which old Grimes took for rent. I told her she might depend on getting what I owed her, and that I would send you over with it when you returned. You had better go at once and tell her, Laura; perhaps she may be able to get some elsewhere.”

“How much is it, mother?”

“Half a dollar.”

“It seems hard that she can't get that small sum.”

With a heavy heart Laura entered Mrs. Carr's humble abode.

“Oh how glad I am that you have come, my dear!” exclaimed the poor woman. “Annie has been craving some ice cream all day; it's the only thing she seems to fancy. I told her she should have it as soon as you came.”

Mrs. Carr's eyes filled with tears as Laura told of her ill success. “I care not for myself,” she said “but for that poor suffering child.”

“Never mind me, mother,” replied Annie. “It was selfish in me to want it, when I know how hard you and Mary are obliged to work for every cent you get. But I feel that I shall not bother you much longer; I have a strange feeling here now.” And she placed her hand upon her left side.

“Stop!” cried Laura; “I'll try and get some ice cream for you Annie.” And off she ran to her mother's dwelling. “Mother,” said she, as she entered the house, “do you recollect that half dollar father gave me the last time he went to sea?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Well, I think I had better take it and pay Mrs. Carr. Annie is very bad, and her mother says she has been wanting some ice cream all day.”

“It is yours, Laura, do as you like about it.”

“It goes hard with me to part with it, mother, for I had determined to keep it in remembrance of my father. It is just twelve years to-day since he went away. But poor Annie--yes, mother, I will take it.”

So saying, Laura went to unlock the box which contained her treasure, but unfortunately her key was not where she had supposed it was. After a half hour's search she succeeded in finding it. Tears coursed down her cheeks like rain as she removed from the corner of the little box, where it had lain for so many years, this precious relic of a dear father, who in all probability, was buried beneath the ocean. Dashing them hastily away, she started again for Mrs. Carr's. The ice cream was procured on the way, and, just as the clock struck eight, she arrived at the door. One hour has elapsed since she left. But why does she linger on the threshold? Why but because the sounds of weeping and mourning have reached her ears, and she fears that all is over with her poor friend, Her fears are indeed true, for the pure spirit of the young sufferer has taken its flight to that blest land where hunger and thirst are known no more. Poor Annie! thy last earthly wish, a simple glass of ice-cream, was denied thee--and why? We need not pause to answer: ye who have an abundance of this world's goods, think, when ye are about to turn from your doors the poor seamstress or washerwoman, or even those less destitute than they, without a just recompense for their labour, whether the sufferings and privations of some poor creatures will not be increased thereby.

RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL.

OBADIAH LAWSON and Watt Dood were neighbours; that is, they lived within a half mile of each other, and no person lived between their respective farms, which would have joined, had not a little strip of prairie land extended itself sufficiently to keep them separated. Dood was the oldest settler, and from his youth up had entertained a singular hatred against Quakers; therefore, when he was informed that Lawson, a regular disciple of that class of people had purchased the next farm to his, he declared he would make him glad to move away again. Accordingly, a system of petty annoyances was commenced by him, and every time one of Lawson's hogs chanced to stray upon Dood's place, he was beset by men and dogs, and most savagely abused. Things progressed thus for nearly a year, and the Quaker, a man of decidedly peace principles, appeared in no way to resent the injuries received at the hands of his spiteful neighbour. But matters were drawing to a crisis; for Dood, more enraged than ever at the quiet of Obadiah, made oath that he would do something before long to wake up the spunk of Lawson. Chance favoured his design. The Quaker had a high-blooded filly, which he had been very careful in raising, and which was just four years old. Lawson took great pride in this animal, and had refused a large sum of money for her.

One evening, a little after sunset, as Watt Dood was passing around his cornfield, he discovered the filly feeding in the little strip of prairie land that separated the two farms, and he conceived the hellish design of throwing off two or three rails of his fence, that the horse might get into his corn during the night. He did so, and the next morning, bright and early, he shouldered his rifle and left the house. Not long after his absence, a hired man, whom he had recently employed, heard the echo of his gun, and in a few minutes Dood, considerably excited and out of breath, came hurrying to the house, where he stated that he had shot at and wounded a buck; that the deer attacked him, and he hardly escaped with his life.

This story was credited by all but the newly employed hand, who had taken a dislike to Watt, and, from his manner, suspected that something was wrong. He therefore slipped quietly away from the house, and going through the field in the direction of the shot, he suddenly came upon Lawson's filly, stretched upon the earth, with a bullet hole through the head, from which the warm blood was still oozing.

The animal was warm, and could not have been killed an hour. He hastened back to the dwelling of Dood, who met him in the yard, and demanded, somewhat roughly, where he had been.

“I've been to see if your bullet made sure work of Mr. Lawson's filly,” was the instant retort.

Watt paled for a moment, but collecting himself, he fiercely shouted,

“Do you dare to say I killed her?”

“How do you know she is dead?” replied the man.

Dood bit his lip, hesitated a moment, and then turning, walked into the house.

A couple of days passed by, and the morning of the third one had broken, as the hired man met friend Lawson, riding in search of his filly.

A few words of explanation ensued, when, with a heavy heart, the Quaker turned his horse and rode home, where he informed the people of the fate of his filly. No threat of recrimination escaped him; he did not even go to law to recover damages; but calmly awaited his plan and hour of revenge. It came at last.

Watt Dood had a Durham heifer, for which he had paid a heavy price, and upon which he counted to make great gains.

One morning, just as Obadiah was sitting down, his eldest son came in with the information that neighbour Dood's heifer had broken down the fence, entered the yard, and after eating most of the cabbages, had trampled the well-made beds and the vegetables they contained, out of all shape--a mischief impossible to repair.

“And what did thee do with her, Jacob?” quietly asked Obadiah.

“I put her in the farm-yard.”

“Did thee beat her?”

“I never struck her a blow.”

“Right, Jacob, right; sit down to thy breakfast, and when done eating I will attend to the heifer.”

Shortly after he had finished his repast, Lawson mounted a horse, and rode over to Dood's, who was sitting under the porch in front of his house, and who, as he beheld the Quaker dismount, supposed he was coming to demand pay for his filly, and secretly swore he would have to law for it if he did.

“Good morning, neighbour Dood; how is thy family?” exclaimed Obadiah, as he mounted the steps and seated himself in a chair.

“All well, I believe,” was the crusty reply.

“I have a small affair to settle with you this morning, and I came rather early.”

“So I suppose,” growled Watt.

“This morning, my son found thy Durham heifer in my garden, where she has destroyed a good deal.”

“And what did he do with her?” demanded Dood, his brow darkening.

“What would thee have done with her, had she been my heifer in thy garden?” asked Obadiah.

“I'd a shot her!” retorted Watt, madly, “as I suppose you have done; but we are only even now. Heifer for filly is only 'tit for tat.'”

“Neighbour Dood, thou knowest me not, if thou thinkest I would harm a hair of thy heifer's back. She is in my farm-yard, and not even a blow has been struck her, where thee can get her at any time. I know thee shot my filly; but the evil one prompted thee to do it, and I lay no evil in my heart against my neighbours. I came to tell thee where thy heifer is, and now I'll go home.”

Obadiah rose from his chair, and was about to descend the steps, when he was stopped by Watt, who hastily asked,

“What was your filly worth?”

“A hundred dollars is what I asked for her,” replied Obediah.

“Wait a moment!” and Dood rushed into the house, from whence he soon returned, holding some gold in his hand. “Here's the price of your filly; and hereafter let there be a pleasantness between us.”

“Willingly, heartily,” answered Lawson, grasping the proffered hand of the other; “let there be peace between us.”