Democratic Sentinel, Volume 16, Number 49, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 December 1892 — SOMETHING TANGIBLE. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

SOMETHING TANGIBLE.

IE- was tired; the look of ennui on the stern, cold face, the drawn expression about the eyes, the listless pose of the body, the aimless, uncertain wandering of the thin, nervous fingers bespoke it, verified It, made it certain. Yes; he was tired. As he glanced about his elegant offices, now deserted by the

clerks for the New Year’s holiday, the suggestion of wealth, power, and high financial standing had no charm to evoke enthusiasm. To Richard Penrith the handsome balance in the ledger, the princely securities locked up in the mass/Ve safe, the plump bank account at the great trust institution across the way, were no more at that moment than a heap of dross, a bundle of withcr«r autumn leaves. One o’clock in the afternoon; the clerks had gone home, and he sat lost in gloomy, profitless, motiveless reverie. Two —he still stared at vacancy, thinking of nothing, of everything; wishing the wheels of business would never stop, feeling as lonely and out of his element in the festive prospects of the next day, as if he was an uncongenial spirit from another world. Three o’clock. From the stone-paved court below, there was wafted to his hearing the merry voices of young clerks and messenger boys engaging in the pranks and capers that followed the last “settllhg up” of the year. The hearty, boyish accents made him wince. How long it seemed since he was ‘‘ J %" boy! How many years since he'put love, emotion, every human sentiment, into a sealed casket, buried it fathoms deep, and became a sordid, money-making machine! With a sigh, bitter and resentful, he put on his hat, hurried from the office, stepped into his handsome carriage at the curb below, and was driven homeward down the magnificent boulevard, one of the richest, certainly the most wretched, of men in all the great city. The portals of his princely home opened to admit him to luxury and comfort a king might covet. His sister, who directed in domestic affairs and well maintained the social status of the establishment, met him, attired with the elegance of a queen. “Richard, we ishall need you tonight” He frowned irritably. “What is it now?” he queried. “A reception. I expect two generals, an artist, and some of the best people of our set. Do try and come out of your shell of uncongeniality for once. ”

“And shrivel in the hypocritical glare of false friendship and hollow pleasure?” he interrupted bitterly. “No, sister. I thank you, but a quiet corner for me. I am tired— I am weary of all this show, vanity and vain labor. Five years a drudge, five more a cynical, flint-hearted moneymaker. and what is the recompense?” His sister stared at him in amazement. The recompense! Was the man going mad? Wealth, social eminence, a proud name! What heights

could possibly lay beyond that pinnacle of earthly grandeur and success? “Excuse me for to-night,” pleaded Penrith. “I am tired of It all. Oh, if out of it all I could extract one grain of comfort, one genuine emotion of enjoyment—something akjn to the old boyish zest—something tangible!” Something tangible! He dwelt on the words at the stately dinner table. They lingered with him as he tried to settle down to a quiet smoke in the library. There arose in his mind a picture of the past. It was poverty, obscurity then; but a thought of the bare-footed rambles through the woods, of the real coziness of the little attic-room back at the old homestead, of ambitions tinged with ideal sentiment and glowing hopes, glorified the years now dead. He glanced from the window at the dying day. Mournful, inexpressibly cold, repellant, unlovely, seemed the wilderness of stately mansions and stiff, precise equipages on the street without. Ilow different the dear old village where he was born! The narrow streets, its quaint homes, its heart-warming people floated across his vision now, and seemed part of another world. It was not so very far away. That little country town nestling among the hills was only an hour’s ride from the great metropolis. Was he getting sentimental? What was this strange impulse that lured him to steal thither like a thief ashamed, and try to warm the frozen currents of his dreary life at the ashes of a dead past? Ah! the dear old town. Ilow natural it looked! The old red school-house, the rickety depot, the broad common—once again, for the first time in ten years, Richard Penritli trod his native soil that night. He wandered about the place like an uneasy ghost haunting the scenes of former experiences. He felt a keen paug of actual envy as he peered through the frost-crested windows of the homely village store, and saw its proprietor, happy, serene, all one glow of perfect delight over the' gathering in of an extra few dollars for holiday business. Why! a turn of stock in tho city oftep. meant a fortune for him, and yet scarcely stirred a nerve!

All heart, all sympathy, all human, simple felicity! What a paradise, compared to the hot-house, superficial life of the city! He paused as a name spoken by a bent, old man, passing with a companion, struck his ear with a shock. “It’s all Miss Naomi’s doings, sir. Bless her dear heart! She’s nursed my wife back to health, she’s got my boy a situation, and we ain’t the first that angel of charity has helped.” “Miss Hewitt is a great friend to the poor; yes.” Naomi Miss Hewitt! Richard Penrith stood stock still on the snowy street. A 'slight flush surmounted his brow, his eyes grew larger, then tender.

Strange how he had forgotten her —stranger still that after all these years the sudden recurrence of that once treasured name could stir his nature as it had not been moved for nearly a decade! Ho tried to smile at the memory of their boy and girl love,, but failed. Something choked him its he walked on, and paused to peer through the windows of a neat, pretty cottage. Yes, there was the “best room” brightly lighted, and old Mrs. Hewitt seated knitting, surrounded by coziness and warmth. There was the pretty rustic porch. How often lie had kissed Naomi good-night under the dew-spangled vines surrounding it. All was the same, only the vines were dead and drooping now, All was the same. His heart gave a great bound as the vivid lamplight showed a little framed portrait on the wall; 'nis picture as he had been, treasured, esteemed faithfully by the winseme lass he had sacrificed to the cold, cynical demands of gold. He fell to wondering how Naomi looked now. She was not visible about the house, and he strolled reluctantly on, and passing people stared suspiciously at him. He followed the concourse. Ah, another reminder of the past, the old church, its glowing portals an open welcome to all the weary, and hungered, and penitent. He entered and glided to an obscure pew. It took him back ten years. How a certain watch-night meeting one New Year’s Eve long ago came back to his mind! Naomi was there then, and he was her “company:” Why! Naomi was here now! Yes! his heart thrilled as he made her out.

Changed? Yes, as gentle years of sympathy, and purity, and love for fellow mankind change the face of a saint. The glory of perfect womanhood in her kindly beaming eyes made»* Richard Penrith shrink at a sense of his own callous unworthiness. Angelic influences were here tonight, surely. The white-haired preacher seemed to appeal to his heart as to a brother's. He was distressed, awakened, and then a peaceful calm swayed his soul—he hated the things he had loved, he realized the hollowness of the bright bauble he had striven for, holding at its call only bitter dust and flight. How his heart beast! It most have been dead for years? New Year’s chimes ringing, he stood on the church porch, he . timorously advanced to the side of the trim, loving. fond woman he had watched all the evening. “Naomi—Miss Hewitt, do you not remember me?” Her face paled, her little hand trembled as he grasped jt. Then her soul beamed out in hoDest welcome, and then « ' They were boy and gill again, “keeping company,” walking home from watch meeting as of yore, and the holy stars smiled down.

Richard Penrith bade Naomi Hewitt good-by at the cottage porch only to return the next day. At evening he returned to the city to be greeted with dismay at his unexplained absence by his sister. “You have alarmed us, Richard. So unlike you, too. But you bet-

ter. I declared You haven't seemed like yonrgxwn-self for an age. New Year’s resolutions, Richard?” , t she laughed archly. “Yes,” replied the brother, his eyes sparkling, “I have determined to turn over a new leaf.” “Indeed. Give up your cigars—come out in society?” ’■ “As a married man, yes." “Richard!" “I mean it, sister,” spoke Richard Penrith, solemnly and earnestly. “This New Year’s day has taught me to value the true pleasures of life—not wealth, not power, not pride.” “Ah! You have found something else, Richard?” “Yes," replied Richard Penrith, tenderly. “Back at my boyhood’s home, back where Naomi is waiting for me to claim her as my wife, I have found—something tangible—love!” Margaret Mahan.