Winter Evening Tales

"He will do now, sir. It was only the effect of a severe shock on a system too impoverished to bear it. Give him a good meal and a glass of wine."

Sandy was not long in following out this prescription, and during it what a confiding session these two hearts held! Davie told his sad history in his own unselfish way, making little of all his sacrifices, and saying a great deal about his son Sandy, and Sandy's girls and boys.

But the light in his brother's eyes, and the tender glow of admiration with which he regarded the unconscious hero, showed that he understood pretty clearly the part that Davie had always taken.

"However, I am o'erpaid for every grief I ever had, Sandy," said Davie, in conclusion, "since I have seen your face again, and you're just handsomer than ever, and you eight years older than me, too."

Yes, it was undeniable that Alexander Morrison was still a very handsome, hale old gentleman; but yet there was many a trace of labor and sorrow on his face; and he had known both.

For many years after he had left Davie, life had been a very hard battle to him. During the first twenty years of their separation, indeed, Davie had perhaps been the better off, and the happier of the two.

When the war broke out, Sandy had enlisted early, and, like Davie, carried through all its chances and changes the hope of finding his brother. Both of them had returned to their homes after the struggle equally hopeless and poor.

But during the last eleven years fortune had smiled on Sandy. Some call of friendship for a dead comrade led him to a little Pennsylvania village, and while there he made a small speculation in oil, which was successful. He resolved to stay there, rented his little Western farm, and went into the oil business.

"And I have saved thirty thousand dollars, hard cash, Davie. Half of it is yours, and half mine. See! Fifteen thousand has been entered from time to time in your name. I told you, Davie, that when I came back we would share dollar for dollar, and I would not touch a cent of your share no more than I would rob the United States Treasury."

It was a part of Davie's simple nature that he accepted it without any further protestation. Instinctively he felt that it was the highest compliment he could pay his brother. It was as if he said: "I firmly believed the promise you made me more than forty years ago, and I firmly believe in the love and sincerity which this day redeems it." So Davie looked with a curious joyfulness at the vouchers which testified to fifteen thousand dollars lying in the Chemical Bank, New York, to the credit of David Morrison; and then he said, with almost the delight of a schoolboy:

"And what will you do wi' yours, Sandy?"

"I am going to buy a farm in New Jersey, Davie. I was talking with Mr. Black about it this morning. It will cost twelve thousand dollars, but the gentleman says it will be worth double that in a very few years. I think that myself, Davie, for I went yesterday to take a good look at it. It is never well to trust to other folks' eyes, you know."

"Then, Sandy, I'll go shares wi' you. We'll buy the farm together and we'll live together—that is, if you would like it."

"What would I like better?"

"Maybe you have a wife, and then—"

"No, I have no wife, Davie. She died nearly thirty years ago. I have no one but you."

"And we will grow small fruits, and raise chickens and have the finest dairy in the State, Sandy."

"That is just my idea, Davie."

Thus they talked until the winter evening began to close in upon them, and then Davie recollected that his boy, Sandy, would be more than uneasy about him.

"I'll not ask you there to-night, brother; I want them all to myself to-night. 'Deed, I've been selfish enough to keep this good news from them so long."

So, with a hand-shake that said what no words could say, the brothers parted, and Davie made haste to catch the next up-town car. He thought they never had traveled so slowly; he was half inclined several times to get out and run home.

When he arrived there the little kitchen was dark, but there was a fire in the stove and wee Davie—his namesake—was sitting, half crying, before it.

The child lifted his little sorrowful face to his grandfather's, and tried to smile as he made room for him in the warmest place.

"What's the matter, Davie?"

"I have had a bad day, grandfather. I did not sell my papers, and Jack Dacey gave me a beating besides; and—and I really do think my toes are frozen off."

Then Davie pulled the lad on to his knee, and whispered

"Oh, my wee man, you shall sell no more papers. You shall have braw new clothes, and go to school every day of your life. Whist! yonder comes mammy."

Sallie came in with a worried look, which changed to one of reproach when she saw Davie.

"Oh, father, how could you stay abroad this way? Sandy is fair daft about you, and is gone to the police stations, and I don't know where—"

Then she stopped, for Davie had come toward her, and there was such a new, strange look on his face that it terrified her, and she could only say: "Father! father! what is it?"

"It is good news, Sallie. My brother Sandy is come, and he has just given me fifteen thousand dollars; and there is a ten-dollar bill, dear lass, for we'll have a grand supper to-night, please God."

By and by they heard poor Sandy's weary footsteps on the stair, and Sallie said:

"Not a word, children. Let grandfather tell your father."

Davie went to meet him, and, before he spoke, Sandy saw, as Sallie had seen, that his father's countenance was changed, and that something wonderful had happened.

"What is the matter, father?"

"Fifteen thousand dollars is the matter, my boy; and peace and comfort and plenty, and decent clothes and school for the children, and a happy home for us all in some nice country place."

When Sandy heard this he kissed his father, and then covering his face with his hands, sobbed out:

"Thank God! thank God!"

It was late that night before either the children or the elders could go to sleep. Davie told them first of the farm that Sandy and he were going to buy together, and then he said to his son:

"Now, my dear lad, what think you is best for Sallie and the children?"

"You say, father, that the village where you are going is likely to grow fast."

"It is sure to grow. Two lines of railroad will pass through it in a month."

"Then I would like to open a carpenter's shop there. There will soon be work enough; and we will rent some nice little cottage, and the children can go to school, and it will be a new life for us all. I have often dreamed of such a chance, but I never believed it would come true."

But the dream came more than true. In a few weeks Davie and his brother were settled in their new home, and in the adjoining village Alexander Morrison, junior, had opened a good carpenter and builder's shop, and had begun to do very well.

Not far from it was the coziest of old stone houses, and over it Sallie presided. It stood among great trees, and was surrounded by a fine fruit garden, and was prettily furnished throughout; besides which, and best of all, it was their own—a New Year's gift from the kindest of grandfathers and uncles. People now have got well used to seeing the Brothers Morrison.

They are rarely met apart. They go to market and to the city together. What they buy they buy in unison, and every bill of sale they give bears both their names. Sandy is the ruling spirit, but Davie never suspects, for Sandy invariably says to all propositions, "If my brother David agrees, I do," or, "If brother David is satisfied, I have no more to say," etc.

Some of the villagers have tried to persuade them that they must be lonely, but they know better than that. Old men love a great deal of quiet and of gentle meandering retrospection; and David and Sandy have each of them forty years' history to tell the other. Then they are both very fond of young Sandy and the children.

Sandy's projects and plans and building contracts are always well talked over at the farm before they are signed, and the children's lessons and holidays, and even their new clothes, interest the two old men almost as much as they do Sallie.

As for Sallie, you would scarcely know her. She is no longer cross with care and quarrelsome with hunger. I always did believe that prosperity was good for the human soul, and Sallie Morrison proves the theory. She has grown sweet tempered in its sunshine, is gentle and forbearing to her children, loving and grateful to her father-in-law, and her husband's heart trusts in her.

Therefore let all those fortunate ones who are in prosperity give cheerfully to those who ask of them. It will bring a ten-fold blessing on what remains, and the piece of silver sent out on its pleasant errand may happily touch the hand that shall bring the giver good fortune through all the years of life.

TOM DUFFAN'S DAUGHTER

Tom Duffan's cabinet-pictures are charming bits of painting; but you would cease to wonder how he caught such delicate home touches if you saw the room he painted in; for Tom has a habit of turning his wife's parlor into a studio, and both parlor and pictures are the better for the habit.

One bright morning in the winter of 1872 he had got his easel into a comfortable light between the blazing fire and the window, and was busily painting. His cheery little wife—pretty enough in spite of her thirty-seven years—was reading the interesting items in the morning papers to him, and between them he sung softly to himself the favorite tenor song of his favorite opera. But the singing always stopped when the reading began; and so politics and personals, murders and music, dramas and divorces kept continually interrupting the musical despair of "Ah! che la morte ognora."

But even a morning paper is not universally interesting, and in the very middle of an elaborate criticism on tragedy and Edwin Booth, the parlor door partially opened, and a lovelier picture than ever Tom Duffan painted stood in the aperture—a piquant, brown-eyed girl, in a morning gown of scarlet opera flannel, and a perfect cloud of wavy black hair falling around her.

"Mamma, if anything on earth can interest you that is not in a newspaper, I should like to know whether crimps or curls are most becoming with my new seal-skin set."

"Ask papa."

"If I was a picture, of course papa would know; but seeing I am only a poor live girl, it does not interest him."

"Because, Kitty, you never will dress artistically."

"Because, papa, I must dress fashionably. It is not my fault if artists don't know the fashions. Can't I have mamma for about half an hour?"

"When she has finished this criticism of Edwin Booth. Come in, Kitty; it will do you good to hear it."

"Thank you, no, papa; I am going to Booth's myself to-night, and I prefer to do my own criticism." Then Kitty disappeared, Mrs. Duffan skipped a good deal of criticism, and Tom got back to his "Ah! che la morte ognora" much quicker than the column of printed matter warranted.

"Well, Kitty child, what do you want?"

"See here."

"Tickets for Booth's?"

"Parquette seats, middle aisle; I know them. Jack always does get just about the same numbers."

"Jack? You don't mean to say that Jack Warner sent them?"

Kitty nodded and laughed in a way that implied half a dozen different things.

"But I thought that you had positively refused him, Kitty?"

"Of course I did mamma—I told him in the nicest kind of way that we must only be dear friends, and so on."

"Then why did he send these tickets?"

"Why do moths fly round a candle? It is my opinion both moths and men enjoy burning."

"Well, Kitty, I don't pretend to understand this new-fashioned way of being 'off' and 'on' with a lover at the same time. Did you take me from papa simply to tell me this?"

"No; I thought perhaps you might like to devote a few moments to papa's daughter. Papa has no hair to crimp and no braids to make. Here are all the hair-pins ready, mamma, and I will tell you about Sarah Cooper's engagement and the ridiculous new dress she is getting."

It is to be supposed the bribe proved attractive enough, for Mrs. Duffan took in hand the long tresses, and Kitty rattled away about wedding dresses and traveling suits and bridal gifts with as much interest as if they were the genuine news of life, and newspaper intelligence a kind of grown-up fairy lore.

But anyone who saw the hair taken out of crimps would have said it was worth the trouble of putting it in; and the face was worth the hair, and the hair was worth the exquisite hat and the rich seal-skins and the tantalizing effects of glancing silk and beautiful colors. Depend upon it, Kitty Duffan was just as bright and bewitching a life-sized picture as anyone could desire to see; and Tom Duff an thought so, as she tripped up to the great chair in which he was smoking and planning subjects, for a "good-by" kiss.

"I declare, Kitty! Turn round, will you? Yes, I declare you are dressed in excellent taste. All the effects are good. I wouldn't have believed it."

"Complimentary, papa. But 'I told you so.' You just quit the antique, and take to studying Harper's Bazar for effects; then your women will look a little more natural."

"Natural? Jehoshaphat! Go way, you little fraud!"

"I appeal to Jack. Jack, just look at the women in that picture of papa's, with the white sheets draped about them. What do they look like?"

"Frights, Miss Kitty."

"Of course they do. Now, papa."

"You two young barbarians!" shouted Tom, in a fit of laughter; for Jack and Kitty were out in the clear frosty air by this time, with the fresh wind at their backs, and their faces steadily set toward the busy bustle and light of Broadway. They had not gone far when Jack said, anxiously, "You haven't thought any better of your decision last Friday night, Kitty, I am afraid."

"Why, no, Jack. I don't see how I can, unless you could become an Indian Commissioner or a clerk of the Treasury, or something of that kind. You know I won't marry a literary man under any possible circumstances. I'm clear on that subject, Jack."

"I know all about farming, Kitty, if that would do."

"But I suppose if you were a farmer, we should have to live in the country. I am sure that would not do."

Jack did not see how the city and farm could be brought to terms; so he sighed, and was silent.

Kitty answered the sigh. "No use in bothering about me, Jack. You ought to be very glad I have been so honest. Some girls would have 'risked you, and in a week, you'd have been just as miserable!"

"You don't dislike me, Kitty?"

"Not at all. I think you are first-rate."

"It is my profession, then?"

"Exactly."

"Now, what has it ever done to offend you?"

"Nothing yet, and I don't mean it ever shall. You see, I know Will Hutton's wife: and what that woman endures! Its just dreadful."

"Now, Kitty!"

"It is Jack. Will reads all his fine articles to her, wakes her up at nights to listen to some new poem, rushes away from the dinner table to jot down what he calls 'an idea,' is always pointing out 'splendid passages' to her, and keeps her working just like a slave copying his manuscripts and cutting newspapers to pieces. Oh, it is just dreadful!"

"But she thoroughly enjoys it."

"Yes, that is such a shame. Will has quite spoiled her. Lucy used to be real nice, a jolly, stylish girl. Before she was married she was splendid company; now, you might just as well mope round with a book."

"Kitty, I'd promise upon my honor—at the altar, if you like—never to bother you with anything I write; never to say a word about my profession."

"No, no, sir! Then you would soon be finding some one else to bother, perhaps some blonde, sentimental, intellectual 'friend.' What is the use of turning a good-natured little thing like me into a hateful dog in the manger? I am not naturally able to appreciate you, but if you were mine, I should snarl and bark and bite at any other woman who was."

Jack liked this unchristian sentiment very much indeed. He squeezed Kitty's hand and looked so gratefully into her bright face that she was forced to pretend he had ruined her glove.

"I'll buy you boxes full, Kitty; and, darling, I am not very poor; I am quite sure I could make plenty of money for you."

"Jack, I did not want to speak about money; because, if a girl does not go into raptures about being willing to live on crusts and dress in calicos for love, people say she's mercenary. Well, then, I am mercenary. I want silk dresses and decent dinners and matinees, and I'm fond of having things regular; it's a habit of mine to like them all the time. Now I know literary people have spasms of riches, and then spasms of poverty. Artists are just the same. I have tried poverty occasionally, and found its uses less desirable than some people tell us they are."

"Have you decided yet whom and what you will marry, Kitty?"

"No sarcasm, Jack. I shall marry the first good honest fellow that loves me and has a steady business, and who will not take me every summer to see views."

"To see views?"

"Yes. I am sick to death of fine scenery and mountains, 'scarped and jagged and rifted,' and all other kinds. I've seen so many grand landscapes, I never want to see another. I want to stay at the Branch or the Springs, and have nice dresses and a hop every night. And you know papa will go to some lonely place, where all my toilettes are thrown away, and where there is not a soul to speak to but famous men of one kind or another."

Jack couldn't help laughing; but they were now among the little crush that generally gathers in the vestibule of a theatre, and whatever he meant to say was cut in two by a downright hearty salutation from some third party.

"Why, Max, when did you get home?"

"To-day's steamer." Then there were introductions and a jingle of merry words and smiles that blended in Kitty's ears with the dreamy music, the rustle of dresses, and perfume of flowers, and the new-comer was gone.

But that three minutes' interview was a wonderful event to Kitty Duffan, though she did not yet realize it. The stranger had touched her as she had never been touched before. His magnetic voice called something into being that was altogether new to her; his keen, searching gray eyes claimed what she could neither understand nor withhold. She became suddenly silent and thoughtful; and Jack, who was learned in love lore, saw in a moment that Kitty had fallen in love with his friend Max Raymond.

It gave him a moment's bitter pang; but if Kitty was not for him, then he sincerely hoped Max might win her. Yet he could not have told whether he was most pleased or angry when he saw Max Raymond coolly negotiate a change of seats with the gentleman on Kitty's right hand, and take possession of Kitty's eyes and ears and heart. But there is a great deal of human nature in man, and Jack behaved, upon the whole, better than might have been expected.

For once Kitty did not do all the talking. Max talked, and she listened; Max gave opinions, and she indorsed them; Max decided, and she submitted. It was not Jack's Kitty at all. He was quite relieved when she turned round in her old piquant way and snubbed him.

But to Kitty it was a wonderful evening—those grand old Romans walking on and off the stage, the music playing, the people applauding and the calm, stately man on her right hand explaining this and that, and looking into her eyes in such a delicious, perplexing way that past and present were all mingled like the waving shadows of a wonderful dream.

She was in love's land for about three hours; then she had to come back into the cold frosty air, the veritable streets, and the unmistakable stone houses. But it was hardest of all to come back and be the old radiant, careless Kitty.

"Well, pussy, what of the play?" asked Tom Duffan; "you cut –'s criticism short this morning. Now, what is yours?"

"Oh, I don't know papa. The play was Shakespeare's, and Booth and Barrett backed him up handsomely."

"Very fine criticism indeed, Kitty. I wish Booth and Barrett could hear it."

"I wish they could; but I am tired to death now. Good night, papa; good night, mamma. I'll talk for twenty in the morning."

"What's the matter with Kitty, mother?"

"Jack Warner, I expect."

"Hum! I don't think so."

"Men don't know everything, Tom."

"They don't know anything about women; their best efforts in that line are only guesses at truth."

"Go to bed, Tom Duffan; you are getting prosy and ridiculous. Kitty will explain herself in the morning."

But Kitty did not explain herself, and she daily grew more and more inexplicable. She began to read: Max brought the books, and she read them. She began to practice: Max liked music, and wanted to sing with her. She stopped crimping her hair: Max said it was unnatural and inartistic. She went to scientific lectures and astronomical lectures and literary societies: Max took her.

Tom Duffan did not quite like the change, for Tom was of that order of men who love to put their hearts and necks under a pretty woman's foot. He had been so long used to Kitty dominant, to Kitty sarcastic, to Kitty willful, to Kitty absolute, that he could not understand the new Kitty.

"I do not think our little girl is quite well, mother," he said one day, after studying his daughter reading the Endymion without a yawn.

"Tom, if you can't 'think' to better purpose, you had better go on painting. Kitty is in love."

"First time I ever saw love make a woman studious and sensible."

"They are uncommon symptoms; nevertheless, Kitty's in love. Poor child!"

"With whom?"

"Max Raymond;" and the mother dropped her eyes upon the ruffle she was pleating for Kitty's dress, while Tom Duffan accompanied the new-born thought with his favorite melody.

Thus the winter passed quickly and happily away. Greatly to Kitty's delight, before its close Jack found the "blonde, sentimental, intellectual friend," who could appreciate both him and his writings; and the two went to housekeeping in what Kitty called "a large dry-goods box." The merry little wedding was the last event of a late spring, and when it was over the summer quarters were an imperative question.

"I really don't know what to do, mother," said Tom. "Kitty vowed she would not go to the Peak this year, and I scarcely know how to get along without it."

"Oh, Kitty will go. Max Raymond has quarters at the hotel lower down."

"Oh, oh! I'll tease the little puss."

"You will do nothing of the kind, Tom, unless you want to go to Cape May or the Branch. They both imagine their motives undiscovered; but you just let Kitty know that you even suspect them, and she won't stir a step in your direction."

Here Kitty, entering the room, stopped the conversation. She had a pretty lawn suit on, and a Japanese fan in her hand. "Lawn and fans, Kitty," said Tom: "time to leave the city. Shall we go to the Branch, or Saratoga?"

"Now, papa, you know you are joking; you always go to the Peak."

"But I am going with you to the seaside this summer, Kitty. I wish my little daughter to have her whim for once."

"You are better than there is any occasion for, papa. I don't want either the Branch or Saratoga this year. Sarah Cooper is at the Branch with her snobby little husband and her extravagant toilettes; I'm not going to be patronized by her. And Jack and his learned lady are at Saratoga. I don't want to make Mrs. Warner jealous, but I'm afraid I couldn't help it. I think you had better keep me out of temptation."

"Where must we go, then?"

"Well, I suppose we might as well go to the Peak. I shall not want many new dresses there; and then, papa, you are so good to me all the time, you deserve your own way about your holiday."

And Tom Duffan said, "Thank you, Kitty," in such a peculiar way that Kitty lost all her wits, blushed crimson, dropped her fan, and finally left the room with the lamest of excuses. And then Mrs. Duffan said, "Tom, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! If men know a thing past ordinary, they must blab it, either with a look or a word or a letter; I shouldn't wonder if Kitty told you to-night she was going to the Branch, and asked you for a $500 check—serve you right, too."