Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 22, Number 69, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 May 1901 — Hetty, of The Old Grudge. [ARTICLE]

Hetty, of The Old Grudge.

By J. H. CONNELLY.

CHAPTER XlX.—(Continued.) , “But it is different with the man who governs and utilizes the mighty and gwift-moving forces of the mill. He controls the fierce fires that melt the stubborn ore; wields the tremendous machinery that shapes the unwilling metal to his desire; nothing is too hard or too heavy for him; the roar that fills his ears is a paean in praise of his genius and might; nature submissively obeys his will, his pulses swell and thrill with the consciousness of power, and he bears himself erect with the dignity of mastcrhood. What does not the world of to-day owe to the men who make the iron! They are the true kings of civilization. Practically, all that is fashioned, all that is done, all that is thought for the world’s progress to-day is rooted in their work. The first Iron worker was a god, and a god among gods, mind you. What would Jove’s thundering have amounted to if he had not had Vulcan to forge his thunderbolts for him?’’

“Why, you surprise me, Uncle David. I had no idea you felt that way. How does it come that you never went into iron-working?” '■ “I hardly know myself. Sometimes it seems to me that in some dimly remembered, remote time, as if in a half-forgot-teu former life, I wrought iron. It is a curionß fancy that comes to me, not in dreams, as you might suppose, but when I am all alone, Vide awake, sitting still, letting my mind do its own thinking and not trying to control it at all. And it has come to me, too, when visiting an iron mill and seeing new and strange machinery, which I would st once comprehend the uses of, without explanation, and recognize as am improvement upon something I would vaguely remember as employed for a like purpose in some shadowy, by-gone time, far back of the knowledge of Davy Henderson. It is strange that I aye contented me on a farm. And yet, on second thoughts, it Isn’t. There are few men, I think, who would not fain be something else than what they are and fill some other place than that into which jate has thrust and keeps them. I guess, the much I’ve done in building has kept me content. Building Is next to ironmaking. The happiest days of my life, I believe, were those in w r hich I was building that stone court house; and the bigger the stone to be handled was, the better I liked the job. Gosh, lad, I’d like to build with mountains! But, eh, what an old dreamer I’m getting to be! Come! Let’s talk of something else. What are you going to do?” “I’m not very clear about anything beyond marrying and finding out if It’B true that skunk, Sim Mulveil, had a warrant for me, and if so, what for.” “Oho! So that is worrying you? Well, »ome think he had, but more don’t believe It, and nobody'"pretends to say what it was for. Something was said, on Training Day, about thieving, but it is understood, of course, that that was only to •tart the fight. The way Sim and Rufus came to their just and righteous end gives some color to the rumor that there was a warrant for you and Sim had it, for some of those cussed Mulveils have jumped, by sheer guesswork, to the fact that he and Rufe were drowned when chasing you.” “And Hetty?” “No. The curious thing is that her elopement is not known to a soul in Washington County except her mother and yours, Mary Elder and me.” “And Danny?” “Well, I suppose that imp may have some idea of it, but it’s hardly likely, or he would have blabbed it, just for mischief.” John smiled, thinking he knew Danny better, but did not feel called upon to defend him. “But, to return to what I was saying, seme of the Mulveils do have the idea I mentioned, and do sort of blame you. And it is just possible they may try 1o make things unpleasant for you on your return, just at first.” “Any Mulveil who desires trouble with me can have all he wants of it.” “I have no doubt, and it is just to ■vert anything of the sort that I want matters a little my way just now. It is only by giving no opportunities for the breaking out of that foolish old grudge, we can hope to ever get it extinguished. It is a disgrace to us as civilized men and Christians that it should exist, aud just •ee how it stands in the way of yaur own happiness.” “Well, what do you propose?" “I will take you straight home, and I want you to stay there until I come for you to-morrow morning. We will go to church together. It will be Communion Sabbath, and everybody will be there.” “I’ll go to church with you, Ulcle David, but I don’t feel like promising that I will stay nt home until then.” “You want to go and see Hetty tonight. Now, be ruled by me this once, John, for your own good. Don't go there to-night. It will only make trouble for you and Hetty. Do ns I tell yon, and I think I can promise you that before long when you go there you will receive a welcome. Take my advice, and stay at home to-night.” “Well, I’ll do it. I’ll wait until tomorrow. But understand, nothing holds me after church. I know myself too well now to promise what I will, or will nbt, do after I’ve seen Hetty again.” “We’ll try to make the treatment aB light for you, John, as the nature of your case will permit.” Uncle David let his horses jog along at easy pace. They had already traversed the road once that day, having been started on it long before dawn, and the old man—one of whose favorite maxims was: “The merciful man is merciful unto his beast” —saw no occasion for hurrying their return. As it was, he had John home long before dark, nnd drove away to his own house, leaving the lad in his mother’s arms. Mrs. Cameron’s joy over the return of her son could hardly have been greater had he just got back from a three-year whaling voyage. Never until he ran

away with Hetty had he spent a night from home, and a miserably lonely old woman she had felt herself during his seemingly interminable absence. He hnd only been gone four months, according to the almanac, but-no calendar correctly marks the (light of time for those who love the absent. And really, she declared, he must have been gone much longer, for he had had time to grow bigger, stronger, more manly, graver, with a more assured manner and self-confident bearing than was his before. The imperceptible degrees by which he had grown up, day by day, under her eyes constantly, since his infancy, had somehow kept alive in her heart the fancy of looking upon her big boy as still her little child, until now this break had come in the habits of a lifetime, and it was with a startled, half-painful feeling that, looking upon this great, strong, self-reliant, purposeful-looking man, she missed her little child. It was only as she closed her eyes and listened to his voice that the sweet, long-cherished fancy came back to her. Aud eveu the voice, she imagined, had a firm, ringing tone that it did not use to have. She sighed. It would take a little time for her to grow ‘accustomed'to this new John. After supper, mother and son sat upon the doorstep, looking out on the garden, watching the swift martins in their graceful flights about the old house, to which they had but recently returned for the summer. Until now she had kept him talking about himself and what he had been doing when away from her. Finally she said: “Something very strange has happened here, John. Yesterday morning, the Reverend Mr. McLeod sent over a note, asking for the spoons and watch yon found up on the ‘Backbone.’ ” “How did he know I ever found anything there?” “That is more than I can tell you. All I know is that he asked for them; and, more than that, he knew the initials on the spoons—‘R. W. B.’—and the number of the watch.” “I suppose he has in some way found out the owner. You sent them to him, of course?” “Yes. I sent them all.” “that was right.” “And he sent again to say would I please, when you came home, send you over, too.” "Me! Is there anything more he wants ?” “I don’t know. But I shouldn’t be surprised if there were. The clergy are always great hands for asking, you know.” “Well,. I’ll meet him at church to-mor-row, and see about it then.” “Maybe.” “Why do you say ‘maybe,’ mother?” “I’m thinking it’s little you’ll see or hear to-morrow but Hetty Mulveil.” “I do want to see her, that’s a fact, mother. I’ve been away such a long time.” “Don’t I know it, my boy? Haven’t you been away from me for the first time in your life? Oh, yes. I know it has been a long time.” “Well, I won’t go away from home any more, for anybody or anything. I’ll just marry Hetty, and settle down to become a regular old moss-back farmer.” “Why do you speak that way, John, of what your father was—a farmer?” He looked at her and hesitated. Should he tell her how he sympathized with his Uncle David’s admiration for the manly work of iron-making? The fascination it had for him? No. It would only make her uneasy, perhaps, with a fear that some day he might go away again to the mill. So he only laughed, replied lightly: “Why, mother, don’t the rocks and trees and everything that stays long in one place get a coat of moss? Can’t you imagine there is a sort of invisible but real moss creeping over us, too, when we keep quiet in one spot a good while?” “What a notion! When are you going to marry Hetty?” “The very first chance I can make after church to-morrow.” The old woman meditated in silence for a little while; then, stroking his hair with an affectionnte, caressing touch and suppressing a sigh, said gently: “I shnll have to be the best mother I can for both of you. Mrs. Mulveil isn’t reported as taking any more kindly to the arrangement than she did when Hetty ran away with you.” “Say, tell me, mother; don’t you think T should have married her then?” “I do not presume to say, my boy. But I think, if your father had run off with me, there would have been a wedding before either of us got back.” ‘John silently gritted his teeth. She went on: “Mr. Roger -McFarlane is said to be making very serious advances to the widow Mulveil. I suppose some folks will,say such goings-ou are shameful between two like them, who are at least old enough to know better, but for my part I do not see that it is anybody else’s business than their own. And I would be very glad of it if the effect should be, as it very well might, to soften her and give her something else to think about than crossing Hetty.” “The old Scotchman would make her a really good husband, I have no doubt, and whatever influence he might have would pertainly be used in my behalf.” “I don’t question it; and I don’t doubt Mrs. Mulveil would be quite a decent body herself if she could only be induced to forget that Hetty’s father was a Mulveil. I should think she’d want to. A Mulveil, indeed! Not that I have anything against the Mulveils myself. I’m sure Hetty could not be any prettier, or better girl, whatever she might be. But —oh, dear! Ido wish sometimes, John, that she were a Cameron!” “So do I, dear mother,” replied John, laughingly, “and I mean that ahe shall be, just as soon as possible.” CHAPTER XX. * Uncle David did not doubt John’s good latent to keep his word about staying at

home that evening. Nevertheless, he sali to himself: “Human nature is weak, and the temptation of love is strong* I bad better •troll over there after supper and keep, an eye on John for awhile.” That was, perhaps, all well enough; but why should Uncle David—Ordinarily so careless about his personal appearancehave taken so much trouble in combing and brushing his hair and beard, changing his coat for a better one and putting on a smart necktie? He would hardly have done so much by way of preparation for attending a meeting of the elders or of the board of supervisors. John and his mother were still sitting in the door, when he put in an appearance before them, and at the farther end of the porch, in front of the new extension of the house, Miss Mary Elder occupied a rocking chair, enjoying her evening rest after a busy day of work on Mrs. Cameron’s summer wardrobe. Seeing that the widow and her son were in earnest converse, the giant went up on the porch and seated himself near the spinster, with the most casual, unpremeditated and unconcerned manfler he could assume, quite unconscious that behind him John was lifting his eyebrows with a look of surprised inquiry, to which Mrs. Cameron replied by a nod and knowing smile. In the commencement of their conversation, both Uncle David and Mary spoke with ordinary loudness, but gradually, when weather aud health and the look of the wheat had been disposed of, their voices dropped so as to be audible only to each other. “You are working too hard, Miss Mary,” David said to her. “If you keep on, the confinement and bending over your needle so steadily will affect your health and good looks.” “You are very good to interest yourself in me, sir,” she replied hesitatingly, with an unpleasant sense of constraint and awkwardness in encountering the novel experience of even an only implied compliment. “Oh, no. If we lone estrays from the domestic folds do not take an interest in each other’s welfare, we are likely to be overlooked and forgotten altogether.” He spoke jocosely, but with a shade of earnestness in his tone that Mary could not but be aware of. “I’m sure it would not be easy to overlook you,” she responded, smilingly. “Perhaps ‘overlooked’ is not just the word I should have used. I remember finding once, in the edge of the creek, a bottle containing a fish. The foolish creature seemed to have gone in there when small, and been unable to find its way out until it grew too large to do so. No doubt all the fishes that went by its transparent prison saw it, and possibly wondered why it staid there instead of joining in the general swim, assuming the responsibilities and discharging the social and domestic duties recognized in fish communities. But the environment established for it by its own youthful folly had been too strong for until I came along, broke the bottle and restored it to its proper place among the multitude of its kind in the common pursuit of happiness and probable realization of pin-hooks.” “Dear me!” said Mary, looking puzzled. “How very kind of you!” “Occasionally,” he went on, “I fancy myself like that bottled fish. I had chosen, or, at least, had accepted an environment that became a prison. In other words, I find myself a confirmed old bachelor.” “Oh!” exclaimed Mary, smiling approval of the coarse he was manifestly heading. “A bachelor, yes; but »ot so very old.” “’M; well, old enough to kuow better; old enough to realize that no phase of human existence is more selfish, useless and devoid of real happiness than that in which I have so long elected to live. Now, in all frankness, Mary, what good are you and I to the world, as we are? I may even ask: What good are we to ourselves, since, if we are no good to others, we cannot be to ourselves? Thanks to our industrious, frugal habits, the longer we live and go on as we are, the more property we will have aecumulaterd by the time we are called upon to leave it. And we will leave behind all that we have lived for—leave it to those who, in a few years will have forgotten us. Our names will ha*?e been Written in water.” “I’m sure I have heard of you*? doing many a kind action to the poor unfortunate, Mr. Henderson.” “The proof that I have not done enough is that I still possess fa? more than I will ever have any persona* need for.” “I confess I never thought of ft in that way. I have always tried to do what I felt my duty called me to, ia the way of sending the gospel to the heathen and such like; but a woman isn’t expected to do much, you know, and I’ve saved up a pretty snug sum, more, as you say, than I will ever have any personal need for.” “I don’t doubt it; and yet here yqa are working Away as hard as ever to get more, and drifting around from plfice to place, without a hoiqe you can call your own.” “And don’t you think I feel that? Oh, many a time, even where people have been as kind to me as if I were ene of their own folks, I have cried my*elf to sleep over thinking how utterly a!one I was." “I can understand your feeltof very well. 'lsolation is infinitely more gainful and harder to bear than solitude. I’ve no doubt women may find relief from it in crying, but men can’t; they as* more likely to take refuge in reading, religion or rum. I take most kindly to thi first, tolerate the second and detest the third. Books have been family and friuads to me all my life. Are you fond of books?” “Oh, yes, sir! But I have not had much time to read.” “What have you read?” “Well—Fox’s ‘Book of Martyr*" and “Charlotte Temple’ and ‘The Scottish Chiefs’ and the ‘Method of Grac*’ and the ‘Seven Champions of ChrisUndom’ and ” Uncle David made a grimace and interrupted her dryly: (To be continued.)