Democratic Sentinel, Volume 17, Number 8, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 March 1893 — HER PROMISE. [ARTICLE]

HER PROMISE.

Old Abner Marsden moved uneasily in his big arm-chair. ‘.‘Seems to me Luce is a mighty long time getting that water,” he muttered, as he rose aiid hobbled to the end of the cottage porch. He put aside the vines that screened the view and looked down toward the lower end of the garden, where a cool spring gurgled up from the earth. “Well, if she ain't talkin’ agin with that pauper, Ang Howland,” growled the old man. “Luce! say, Luce, I want you!” he called. “I’ll be there in a minute, father,” called back a comely girl of eighteen, who stood near the spring chatting with a plainly dressed youth of about the same age. She reached for the pail of water, which Angus Howland still held in his baud, and said with a smile: “I must go, Aug, Father wants me." “It .seems tome, Luce,” said Angus, as he gave her the 'pail, “that your father always wants you when lie sees me around, lie hates me for some reason, but if it's all light with you, lean stand it.” Lucia looked troubled as she said, “Good-by, Ang,” and turned toward the house. Old Marsden was an extremely illiterate man, but in business ventures he had always been successful, and now, though a confirmed invalid, his head was full of schemes and devices, and he used to sit for hours at a time planuing measures by whiydi his hoard of wealth might be increased. j,u?ia took after her mother, who had been “a powerful good woman, - ’ so people said. “Luce,” said the old mau as she appeared at the door, “I want this to bj the last of your talking with that good for nothing lout, Ang Howland. The idea of a likely girl like you talking friendly with such trash 1 I won't have it, and if he don’t steer clear I’ll give him something to remember me by,” and the old man shook his oane vigorously. “I do not see why you should dislike him so,” said Lucia. “He has had a hard time getting along, but that isn’t his fault.” “His father was cut out to die in the poorhouse,” yelled the old man, “and why didn’t he die there ?” “Because," Lucie answered, “Ang worked hard and took care of the old folks."

Her'father scowled. , “Oil Howland was intended for the poorhouse, and no good comes of fightin’ Providence. He died without a cent, and so will the young feller. But that ain’t the point; there are plenty of fellers ’round here that has money, but there ain’t many such gals as you be, I reckon. Why, Luce, you have the choice of the town, and it's your solemn duty not to be rash.” .The miserly features of the old man relaxed somewhat as he admired his daughter’s comely face. He experienced a kind of fatherly affection for her, aud was even willing to spend money freely that she might make a good appearance. When he saw her dressed in some new article of apparel he would mutter to himself, “It’s all right, it will all come back; I know a good investment, for I have made a good many—yes, a good many.” A few evehings after the event above mentioned, Lucia was walking in the garden when she heard some one tap lightly at the gate, and in the moonlight saw Angus Howland. “He wants to see me,” she thought, as she hurried through the lilacs to the garden path. “Father

m I will miss me if I am gone long,” said Lucia, on approaching, “hut we can visit for a minute.” “Luce,” said Angus, “I have come to say good-bye. Your father says for me to keep away from you because I am poor, and he doesn’t want you to marry a pauper. Well, I am going away for five years, and when I come back I’ll be rich—rich enough to suit your father,” he exclaimed excitedly, striking the ► fence a heavy blow with his fist. “I don’t care about you being so rich,” said Lucia. “I’ll like you just as well if you are poor; but don’t stay away so long,” and she looked beseechingly ipto his face. “You may have bad luck, you know, and not earn very much money after all, but I’ll think just as much of you. Are you going far?” she asked, looking down at the ground. “To California,’’ said Angus, “and I know just what I shall do wlieu I get there, too. Father often told me ol a valley in California where all sorts of trait will grow almost without cultivation. Father wandered down there when he was out among the mines, and'being used to a fruit country he knew just what a wonderful place it was. He’d have gone there himself if his sickness hadn’t come on, but he told me about it time and time again, and he gave me this little map,” aud Howland took an old torn paper from his pocket, and carefully opening it, pointed out by the bright moonlight, which . broke through the trees, tty; Eldorado of his hopes and ambition. “That valley is mine,” said he, “and lam going there and plant trees.” “Luce!” called old Marsden from the house, “where are you V “Here l am, father,” Lucia replied. “Well, it seems to me that you are a long time gone,” cried the old man, “but comedo the house, for young Hinton is here and wants to see you.” Lucia saw the troubled look that came into Howland’s face and hastily murmured : “Father wants me to marry him, but I won’t : i’ll marry you. Be sure and write often sad don't stay to long,” she

pleaded as she raised her face for a farewell kiss. The next morning old Marsden said to his daughter with an inquisitive look, “Young Hinton didn’t stay long last night, did he?" “No,” answered Lucia; “not very long.” “Did he ask you to have him ? "added the old man. “Yes; father, he did,” answered Lucia “but I told him I couldn’t.” “Told him ye couldn.’t 1 ’’ screamed the o.d man. “Why couldn’t ye ? ” “Because I don’t love him,” said the daughter, looking her father steadily in the eve.

“Love him, Luce 1 I tell ye. people don’t marry for love. They marry to make a good thing. When they get the worst end of it it’s like any other bad bargain; but young Hinton has money and, Luce, you’d better ohangc your mind and send him word that you like him well enough. I'll give you a good start, and you’ll find out thatipu have a pretty good old dad after all.^ Lucia kissed her father, but replied: “Not him. I can never marry him.” The years crept slowly by and brought their usual round of bright aud cloudy days. Lucia had grown taller and morebeautiful. Her father was still as grasping as ever. “I agree with you, Luce,” he used to say, “ there's no special hurry; but you drop them almost too quick sometimes, it seems to me.” One day he hobbled into the room where Lucia sat at work and said in a severe, low tone: “ I hear that you get letters from that Ang Howland. Is it true?” “ I have received ietters from him,” Lucia replied, “and he is doing very well, 1 understand.” "I don't care how he is doing. That feller'll die poor,” growled the old man. He went outside and sat down on the garden bench. “I'll see Cicely," said he, with a crafty look on his face. Cicely was the girl who sorted and dealt out the mail at the village postoffice. Not long after this Lucia ceased receiving letters with a California post-mark. Time passed, and it was now nearly ten years since Luci:; and Angus had stood at the garden gate and said goodbye. Old Marsden had fallen into a state of despondency so utterly abject that Lucia was sometimes on the point of yielding to his wishes, but she thought, "I’ll wait awhile longer; something has happened or he’d never have broken his word.”

One day her father called her to him. He was unable to get about the house now, but lay propped up in his chair all day with his eyes dosed, a very unhappy old man. “Luce,” said he,” “I’ll make short work of it. The last investment 1 made I staked all and I lost. It was the first time. Luce, and your father has had many a bargain in his day, but this time he has outdone them all. In a month from now we won't have .a house to cover our heads. I hoped this sickness might hurry me off, but I see it’s going to give me time, aud I’ll have to go to the poor-house, Luce, unless,"and the old man looked at her pitifully, “unless you save your old dad.” “I’ll work for you!” cried Lucia. “ You shall never go to the poor-house." And she wasjmore tender in the care of her father after that. One day as she stood near her favorite bed of flowers sadly thinking how soon she would have to leave them, a voice broke the silence of her meditations: “ I beg your pardon, but your flowers look very pretty and I had to stop to admire them.” and looking up Lucia saw a tall, well-dressed gentleman standing at the garden gate. “I raise a great many flowers myself,” said the gentleman, “and I always take an interest in them, but I live in a flower country where they grow much more luxuriantly than here." Lucia gave a startled look—but no; how foolish; it couldn’t be he. Angus Howard could never have developed into such a handsome man. “I declare, Luce, you don’t know me,” said the gentleman with a smile. “Oh, Ang! 1 know you now, for you speak with vour old voice, but you have been away a long time.” “You stopped writing, and I read in a California paper that you were married,” said Angus; “but recently learned that it was a false report, and am here once more to ask you to be mine.” “Father, this gentleman wishes to see yon.” said Lucia, as she ushered Howland into her father’s room. The old man opened his eyes and murmured, “Well, have a chair.” “I understand that you have suffered a misfortune,"said the gentleman kindly. The old man groaned. “I’ll have to die in the poor-house; there’s no help for it.”

“It may not be so bad as that,” said the gentleman. The old man turned on him fiercely. “What do yon want with me, I’d like to know? Ain’t it bad enough to be ruined, but a lot of vultures have got to come and hover around me before I’m dead?” ‘ ‘I have been investigating the matter, ” said the gentleman, “and I am sure that 'it is not so bad as you think, and here is evidence that you will not be turned out of your home at any rate,” and he opened before the old man’s eyes the canceled mortgage. “This place is yours,” said the gentleman, “and all your other property is safe, for I have been making investigations.” “Who are you,” erjed old Marsden, “that comes at this time and saves me from the poor house?” “It w not so bad as that,” said the gentleman, smiling, “but my name is Angus Howland.” The remaining few months of the old man’s life worked a great change in his character. One day when the autumn leaver were turning he called his children to him. "Good-bye,” said he, “I am going. You are a good boy, Ang, and will make her happy.” aud his eyes closed forever. —[Chicago News.