The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 08, No. 50, December, 1861

"That man don't ride, nohow! I've marked him! I don't cal'late to take no sarse this trip! Take any six or eight for twelve dollars an' fifty cents right straight to the tahvern! Who bids?"

"I'll give you fifteen dollars, my friend, to take myself, my wife, and three children to the village."

It was Samson Newell who spoke.

"'M offered fifteen," cried the White Bear, pricking up his ears; "goin' to the tahvern at fifteen; who says fifteen 'n' arf?"

"I do!" from a pursy passenger with a double chin and a heavy fob-chain.

He glanced round a little savagely, having made his bid, as who should say, "And I should like to see the man who will raise it!"

"'N' 'arf! 'n' 'arf! 'n' 'arf! 'n' 'arf!" cried the White Bear, growing much excited,—"an' who says sixteen?"

Samson Newell nodded.

"Sixteen dollars! sixteen! sixteen! We can't tarry, gentlemen!"

The White Bear proved the truth of this latter assertion by suddenly disappearing beneath the snow. He reappeared in an instant and resumed his outcry.

"I see the gentleman's sixteen," quoth the man who had called the White Bear "Sheep-Shanks," "and go fifty cents better!"

"I see you," replied the auctioneer, "an' don't take your bid! Who says sixteen 'n' 'arf?"

"I do!" quoth the Double Chin; and he glowered upon his fellow-passengers wrathfully.

At this instant appeared Old Woollen on the scene. In one hand he bore his pocket-book; in the other, a paper covered with calculations. The latter he studied intently for a moment, then,—

"I'll give you sixteen dollars an' sixty-two 'n' a half cents; an' if you ever come round our way"—

The jubilant auctioneer, fairly dancing upon the fence in the energy of his delight, broke in here,—

"Can't take no bids, gentlemen, short of a half-dollar rise, each time!"

Old Woollen retired, discomfited, and was seen no more.

From this point the bidding ran up rapidly till it reached twenty-five dollars, where it stopped, Samson Newell being the successful bidder.

It was a study to watch the man, now that his chance for reaching home that day brightened. Instead of being elate, his spirits seemed to fall as he made his arrival at the village certain.

"Ah!" he thought, "are my father and mother yet living? How will my brothers and sisters welcome me home?"

How, indeed?

* * * * *

In the village where dwelt Jacob Newell and his wife, an old man, lame and totally blind, had been for over thirty years employed by the town to ring the meetinghouse-bell at noon, and at nine o'clock in the evening. For this service, the salary fixed generations before was five dollars, and summer and winter, rain or shine, he was always at his post at the instant.

When the old man rang the evening-bell on the Thanksgiving-Day whereof I write, he aroused Jacob and his wife from deep reverie.

"Oh, Jacob!" said the latter, "such a waking dream as I have had! I thought they all stood before me,—all,—every one,—none missing! And they were little children again, and had come to say their prayers before going to bed! They were all there, and I could not drive it from my heart that I loved Samson best!"

His name had hardly been mentioned between them for fifteen years.

Jacob Newell, with a strange look, as though he were gazing at some dimly defined object afar off, slowly spoke,—

"I have thought sometimes that I should like to know where he lies, if he is dead,—or how he lives, if he be living. Shall we meet him? Shall we meet him? Five goodly spirits await us in heaven; will he be there, also? Oh, no! he was a bad, bad, bad son, and he broke his father's heart!"

"He was a bad son, Jacob, giddy and light-headed, but not wholly bad. Oh, he was so strong, so handsome, so bright and brave! If he is living, I pray God that he may come back to see us for a little, before we follow our other lost ones!"

"If he should come back," said Jacob, turning very white, but speaking clearly and distinctly, "I would drive him from my door, and tell him to be gone forever! A wine-bibber, dissolute, passionate, headstrong, having no reverence for God or man, no love for his mother, no sense of duty towards his father; I have disowned him, once and forever, and utterly cast him out! Let him beware and not come back to tempt me to curse him!"

Still from the distance, overpowering and drowning the headlong rush of passion, came the soft booming of the evening-bell.

"I hear the church-bell, Jacob: we have not long to hear it. Let us not die cursing our son in our hearts. God gave him to us; and if Satan led him astray, we know not how strong the temptation may have been, nor how he may have fought against it."

Jacob Newell had nought to say in answer to this, but, from the passion in his heart, and from that egotism that many good men have whose religious education has taught them to make their personal godliness a matter to vaunt over, he spoke, foolishly and little to the point,—

"Ruth, did Satan ever lead me astray?"

"God knows!" she replied.

There came a rap at the door.

The melody of the church-bell was fast dying away. The last cadences of sound, the last quiver in the air, when the ringer had ceased to ring and the hammer struck the bell no more, lingered still, as a timid and uncertain tapping fell upon the door.

"Come in!" said Jacob Newell.

The door was slowly opened.

Then there stood within it a tall, muscular man, a stranger in those parts, with a ruddy face, and a full, brown beard. He stood grasping the door with all his might, and leaning against it as for support. Meanwhile his gaze wandered about the room with a strange anxiety, as though it sought in vain for what should assuredly have been found there.

"Good evening, Sir," said Jacob Newell.

The stranger made no reply, but still stood clinging to the door, with a strange and horrible expression of mingled wonder and awe in his face.

"'Tis a lunatic!" whispered Ruth to her husband.

"Sir," said Jacob, "what do you want here to-night?"

The stranger found voice at length, but it was weak and timorous as that of a frightened child.

"We were on the train, my wife and I, with our three little ones,—on the train snowed in five miles back,—and we ask, if you will give it, a night's lodging, it being necessary that we should reach home without paying for our keeping at the hotel. My wife and children are outside the door, and nearly frozen, I assure you."

Then Ruth's warm heart showed itself.

"Come in," she said. "Keep you?—of course we can. Come in and warm yourselves."

A sweet woman, with one child in her arms, and two shivering beside her, glided by the man into the room. They were immediately the recipients of the good old lady's hospitality; she dragged them at once, one and all, to the warmest spot beside the hearth.