Evening Republican, Volume 15, Number 97, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 April 1911 — The Brute and the Man [ARTICLE]

The Brute and the Man

By GEORGE CARLING

When James Schofield, farmer and dairyman, drove home from Denton's Corners that night, he was unquestionably drunk. Hilarious and musical when he left his companions at the village tavern, he became after the first mile tearfully sentimental; muttering much to himself about a certain comrade of his boyhood days, long since deceased. During the third and last mile, his hungry and eager horse had plunged recklessly over the muddy, uneven road, and Mr. Schofield, after extricating himself several times from among the milk cans in the wagon, had became pugnacious and aggressive. When he reached his door yard he was fighting drunk. With many curses and kicks he had ushered his unlucky horse into its stall; had cursed his wife for the door held readily open for him; had ordered her to pull off his boots, andhad sworn with vigor and originality at the supper which had been held in readiness for five hours. Finally, exasperated at finding no available fighting material, he had struck the little woman a cruelly savage blow —falling her to the floor — and had answered her one piteous moan with a comprehensive, though somewhat incoherent, lecture on the duties of a wife and her obligations to love, honor and obey. Then he stumbled into the side bedroom and flung himself down Without wasting any precious moments in disrobing. Five minutes later his heavy breathing indicated his perfect oblivion of all matrimonial trials. The girl (she was scarcely more) raised her head. There were no tears, nor sobs, but there was a tiny stream of blood trickling from a cruel cut in her cheek and a little pool on the floor where she had lain. She raised herself wearily to her feet, and staggering to a chair buried her face in her apron—and so sat, thinking—motionless and silent. Presently she arose—took the lamp from the table, and stepping to the looking glass by the window, examined her wounded face. Three years before no sweeter, daintier face—no more bewitchingly gentle eyes—no merrier dimples around such a smiling mouth had been reflected from any mirror in township. Even an hour before one would have had to search far for its equal—the pathos of suffering, of untold anguish, had as yet but changed the quality of its prettiness. At this instant, however, she, herself, was startled at the reflection. She had never seen that face before! —those hard, set, resentful eyes—those tightly compressed lips—that resolute mouth. She had never seen these, although two or three times before she had looked upon a grievously scarred face. But she remembered

now, almost with a little wonderment, that she had already decided how she should meet this next assault when it came. She had dismissed, with a bitter laugh—almost a sneer —the thought of appealing to the law —that abortive, rusty engine of justice and correction, which fines a drunken slugger and then sends him back to his wife, to exact bitter reprisal for her complaint. Noj her remedy was to be more effective and lasting; bringing comfort and safety to herself and fair punishment to the Brute. Lighting a lantern she went to the stable, hearing, as she expected, the eager whinnying of the unfed horse. She threw the welcome oats into the manger, speaking a few caressing words as she rubbed a rough cloth over the grateful animal’s wet back. Then climbing to the loft she threw down a liberal supply of hay—leaned her cheek against his for a moment — and went back to the house, picking up at the wood pile a heavy hatchet. Cautiously entering the room where the Brute lay In his drunken stupor, she put on a dark, serviceable dress — her best —Collected a small quantity

of extra clothing and some little * trinkets, bringing them into tljs kitchen, where she packed them into a rusty traveling bag. Outside, a steady, drizzling rain was falling, and she thought of the miles Of muddy road before her. Packing her shoes in the bag, bhe pulled on a pair of rubber ' boots—-knee-high and confidence-inspiring. Then she smeared the hatchet with blood from the pool on the floor, and ' clipping off a few ends of her bright brown hair she Sprinkled them on the tool. Next she rolled up her bloodstained apron into a tight bundle, and again taking the lantern went out and threw the hatchet into a thicket of brush near by. The apron she staffed behind a beam in the woodheuse. Re-entering the kitchen she pithed up her bag. turned out the light, an* then —paused. Once more, by the light of the lantern, she went Into the bedroom, and after some little search efnerged again with a well-worn wallet. She counted the contents onto the table and stood, considering. There were $74 and some odd cents; the result of a collection of monthly milk bills-.. —-*l - - Still she hesitated. For three years, since the Brute had taken to drinking, she had toiled hard and had earned in honest work fully one-half of what had come in—but no money had been given her. She counted the money Into two equal piles—placed one of these back

In the wallet—and taking the other, she stepped out into the night. Wearied almost to exhaustion, she climbed into the early mail train at Bursbro, and in two hours she was in Buffalo. Then on again, without a break, to Cleveland. In two days she had answered-an advertisement and secured employment as servant to a suburban family. It was late when the Brute awoke and struggled to his feet, cursing his wife fop not having called him. He stumbled out Into the kitchen and noted, with rising rage, the disorder of the night before —the uncleared table —an overturned chair —the unlighted fire. Then his eye fell upon the red stain in the floor. “Gone to those d—d Watson’s again!” he growled viciously, as he remembered her refuge on previous similar occasions. “I’ll teach her afore 'night, cuss her!” But before night, Mr. Schofield was under arrest, and In Bursbro jail, on a charge of .murdering his wife. Her disappearance and his known abuse of her led to quick suspicion, and a search of the premises easily revealed the blood-stained floor and apron, and the damning hatchet. In time, the grand jury sustained the charge and he was held for trial at the next session—to be held two or three months later. f

An exhaustive search for the body of his wife revealed nothing. With the sharper instinct of woman, she had evaded detection as effectively as the most experienced criminal could have done. So the Brute, in the seclusion of his cell, sobered off. As his mind cleared and his hot blood cooled, perhaps his thoughts ran more on his wife’s fate than on his own jeopardy. In his dreams and in his waking moments, hfr Telt an ever-increasing dread of hearing of her—fearing the worst. He grew strangely apathetic about himself, and when, a week before his trial, word was brought to him that he was a free man —that his wife had made known her existence and whereabouts, he walked from the jail without comment—went to his farm and picked up the thread of his life, alone and soon unnoticed. Over in 'Cleveland the suburban family were congratulating themselves on the cheerful, never-failing industry—the quiet, thoughtful deftness of'their servant. wondered at the tincture of sadness which seemed to overshadow her; and won by their sympathetic kindness, she had told her story. Then came sickness —severe, but not lasting—and after that a letter from Kitty, her bosom friend. With what delight she tore it open! How hungry she was. for news from her old friends and neighbors—perhaps also, she was hungry for news of him. One paragraph of the letter read: “He (you know who I mean) is back on the farm, doing his own housework. He has sold the cows, so he never comes to the village with milk, and he keeps out of sight when anyone goes along the road, so you see, Molly dear, I can’t tell you much of anything about him —and you don’t care, I guess!” Then as she read a big, pearly tear drop rolled down the pretty cheek, and splashed out the “don’t care.” Presently came another letter from Kitty, plentifully embellished, as usual, with parentheses and quotation marks, and wfth a paragraph which brought more tears and a long period of gazing at nothing. “Bob (the goose still -comes to see me) says that he calls in to see Jim (your Jim, I mean) whenever he passes the farm, (you know they used to be great chums before). He says that Jim seems sad and talks very little. But he works like a Trojan! (whatever that Is) and he hasn't drank anything since they took him to Bursbro." \

A Week later the little wife alight* ed from the stage which journeyed between Bursbro and Denton’s Corners. Much to the driver’s surprise, she had insisted ypon getting off a quarter of a mile before reaching the Schofield farm. It was after dark, but she trudged along the well known road, carrying her bundle, while the stage disappeared in the gloom. When she came in sight of the house, there was a light in the kitchen, but around the dooryard all was quiet and deserted. She crept to the corner window and peeped beneath the shade. She noted the cheery fire in the well-cleaned stove, and the tidiness of the room. By the table sat the man—her Jim — holding a big needle up before the lamp; and the tears welled in her eyes and a great sob choked her, as she saw the big hand clumsily jabbing a thread at the eye. Climbing softly onto the porch, shd lifted the latch and stood before him. The man stood up, amazed and doubting. He stretched out his arms appealingly. His eyes were -filled with unspeakable pleading—witb trembling, expectant joy. “Molly!—my llt-tle Molly! I knew you'd come again, some day—my 'Molly!" She stepped close to him, and placing the bundle in his outstretched arms, pulled aside the wrappings." "Careful. Jim! Be very careful! My dear old Jim!"

And the wondering Jim looked down, into a tiny little sac two little blue eyes looking curiously into bis —felt a wee band clutch his great finger—and saw his Molly’s dimples in the daintiest, sweetest, prettiest little counterpart—while his Molly wound her arms tenderly around them both, and her happy tears mingled with roguish smiles at his clumsy awkwardness—at his transfigured face—as he slowly grasped the fullness of his great benediction.