Mistaken paths : a novel

Chapter 1

This is a story from life that I am about to relate to you, therefore, in order that you may not be led by me to trace the real actors in it, I will call the small Western city where it had its beginning, Newbridge, instead of by its true name.

It is a manufacturing city, having many shops, foundries, and factories, sending forth thick clouds of smoke and soot, that leave their grimy traces wherever they fall.

In an attractive little frame cottage, situated in a pleasant portion of the city, just far enough removed from the great shops to escape their noise and much of their dirt, lived John Patton, a skilled mechanic, and his family, consisting of his wife and two daughters. This house, together with a snug sum of savings, had been bequeathed to him by his father at his death, some years before my story opens, and he had immediately moved to Newbridge from an eastern city, to take up his abode in it. On account of his having this home, the savings, and a place among the highestpaid workmen in the shops, he was looked up to with

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envy and much show of respect by his fellow- workers, and was thought particularly favored by Providence because his daughters were two of the loveliest girls to be seen for miles around.

Irene, the older, at the beginning of my story just past fifteen, was tall, well formed, fair as a summer day, with large blue eyes full of changing expression, hair of a light golden color, hanging always in a cluster of curls about her shoulders almost to her waist, full red lips, a perfect mouth, and small round dimples that came and went in her cheeks whenever she smiled.

June, who was ten years younger than Irene, was so opposite in appearance that, had you not known, you would never have believed they were sisters, even when seeing them together. She too was beautiful, but her hair was black, her eyes brown, and her complexion dark.

There was, however, one drawback or hinderance to John Patton’s enjoyment of these blessings, for even with the society of his children, his home, comfortably furnished as it was and containing many luxuries which his fellow- work men did not possess and could never afford, was not a happy one. His wife, who had been his helpmeet for years, economizing and saving with him all the while, had grown so exacting in every way as to make home-life ofttimes unbearable. There seemed always to be turmoil and wrangling there. She would not permit the comforts they possessed to be enjoyed; for instance, the parlor was not used, except when company was present, lest the carpet should become worn and faded ; the piano was rarely opened lest dust should get inside ; a new dress must not be worn to school by either of the girls so long as they had an older one to wear.

Mrs. Patton never meant to be cruel, though unconsciously she became so. Seeing the condition of the families of those about her whose incomes were almost equal to her husband’s, who spent all they had, without any calculation for the future, taking what pleasure and pain such method brought as a matter of course, she wished her own condition and that of her family to be better, and their future more secure and promising. Moreover, she was an ignorant woman, and fond of making the greatest display with the least possible expenditure.

Though they had the piano, none of the family could play upon it, save Irene, who could only drum out a few airs, caught up from the street, the church, or the house of a friend. Once, when the instrument had first been purchased, she had revelled in the luxury of a music-teacher for two successive terms, and her progress had been so rapid, and the music and tuition so expensive, that Mrs. Patton decided that there had been sufficient instruction and expense for the time, and the lessons were stopped, and had never since been renewed.

Then, though Mrs. Patton’s health was poor, and there was quite a large amount of work to be done about the house, with the mending and making of clothes for the family, washing, ironing, baking, cooking, and other homely duties of the household, and servant hire was very low in Newbridge, she persistently performed all these duties herself, with no assistance save what she could secure, from time to time, from Irene. Once Irene had returned from school on a 1 *

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biting cold day in winter, and finding her mother hard at work over the wash-tub, said, —

“ Wliy do you wash the clothes on such cold days, mother? Mrs. Carson hires a woman to do her washing for only fifty cents.’’

^‘The Carsons haven’t a thing they can call their own. I do my own washing to keep my children out of the poor-house !” Mrs. Patton answered in a sharp tone.

It was always the way, hard work and hard words ; no poetry in such a life, no pleasure, no advancement ; each hope of something better in the future that sprung up in Irene’s breast died in embryo. Something was added to the savings each month, but something was lost from her hopeful anticipations, looking forward to an end of this dull commonplace life, an end of economizing and hard work, when the savings, the home, and its belongings were to be enjoyed, and

“ Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.”

June was never permitted to play‘d catch” and ^Miideand-seek” with children of her own age, because running wore out her shoes; and her dresses and clean aprons got soiled when she played at keeping house and baked mud pies in the sun, and washing them so much wore them out sooner. She never had known the luxury of a china or wax doll, — they were too easily broken ; but every Christmas-time Santa Claus brought her a rag baby with a round face and flat head, with eyes, eyebrow^s, nose, and mouth marked on its muslin face in ink, and having arms without hands and feet without toes.

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When the delusion about Santa Claus was removed by wiser playmates, Christmas brought only some articles of clothing for both girls, that would have been furnished just the same, and sometimes earlier, had there been no Christmas at all. To be sure, on that day they found nuts, raisins, and candies in their stockings, which they still continued to hang up each year for the sake of these very sweets, which never came at any other time.

Both girls attended the public schools. June had just entered the primary, when Irene was finishing the grammar department.

John Patton and his wife had never received such advantages as were afforded by the excellent schools at Newbridge; Mrs. Patton had received instruction within the walls of a primitive country school-house, where pupils of ages ranging from five to twenty-one met in the same room to glean what knowledge they might from a school-master who exercised the rod quite as much as he did his brains, — perhaps more vigorously and with more intelligence, — and who secured a portion of his salary by boarding around in the homes of his pupils. She had been taken from school early in life and sent to learn dressmaking, that thereby she might be enabled to earn something towards her own support. This fact she was continually recounting to Irene, who did not take kindly to work, by saying, —

“ When I was of your age I was earning my own living. IVe never had the advantages that your father and me are giving to you.^^

John Patton had been apprenticed to a mechanic early in life, and the most of his knowledge was gleaned from practical experience in the workshop. It was the intention of both parents to send the girls through the public schools that they might support themselves finally by teaching; yet Mrs. Patton was fond of saying to her husband, —

It won’t do no good, John, likely, as they probably will get married so soon as they’re ready to teach, both of them, after wasting all these good years.”

There was nothing to do, however, but to speculate on the years, so she consoled herself by saying, —

Irene can’t do nothing about the house any way, and won’t learn, so I can’t see as she’s going to amount to anything except it’s a teacher any way.”

One beautiful May morning, the first day of the week, Irene was walking towards school in a most unhappy frame of mind. The last bell was ringing, and, although she had a half-mile to walk and there was a penalty imposed for being late, she seemed in no haste, but went slowly and hesitatingly onward.

Had you observed her closely you would have seen her draw forth her handkerchief at frequent intervals and wipe her eyes hastily, looking about as if to assure herself that she was unobserved. Had you been very near to her, you would have noticed her slight frame quivering with agitation, and have discovered that the tears were of anger, not of sorrow or distress.

There had been trouble and conflict at home that morning. Irene, like many young girls of her age, was excessively fond of reading novels. It had become almost a passion with her, for as she read of beautiful women having fortunes in their own right, with money to spend when they wished and as they

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chose, with carriages to ride in, servants to wait upon them, dresses of silks, satins, and velvets, of all designs and colors, and living in beautiful homes, with conservatories filled with flowers, and grand parlors and drawing-rooms, that were always open, she would become so completely absorbed as to feel almost as if she were herself the heroine of whom she was reading, — experiencing the same luxuries, pleasures, and comforts.

On the Friday before she had obtained from a classmate a most fascinating novel. Almost every girl in her class had read and talked of it until Irene was almost burning with a desire to peruse it. The girl who owned it had loaned it to her classmates in exchange for other books ; but Irene had none to offer in exchange. They had few books at home, only one of which she had ever cared to read. That one had been sent by an aunt as a Christmas present to her mother a long time before, and was a copy of Byron’s poems, a large book bound in bright green cloth with staring gold letters on its cover. She had seen it lying on the centre-table in the parlor for so long a time, by the side of the tall lamp that always stood there, that she had come to recognize it as a fixture, and would as soon have thought of overturning the table as to have moved it from its place.

One Sunday afternoon her mother had brought it out into the room where the whole family were sitting, and had read aloud from it in a melancholy tone of voice those expressive lines To Tom Moore.” Irene was so charmed by the sentiment that many times afterwards she longed to read from its pages, and on return-

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ing from school one day and finding no one at home, she had gone into the parlor, taken it up, and finding in it other poems as sweet, musical, and interesting, became so deeply engrossed that unthinkingly she curled her feet, with their dirty shoes, up under her on the best hair-cloth sofa, becoming unconscious of everything save what she was reading, when the door of the parlor suddenly opened with a quick nervous jerk and her mother entered. Starting up in terror, she let the book fall to the floor, face downward, open at the place where she had been reading, which was marked at the bottom of each leaf on the white margin by black spots where her thumbs and fingers had been. She was given several sharp raps on the head, and was sent to bed supperless. Such had been her experience with the only book they had at home worth reading, and as she dared not for a moment think of lending that, she racked her brain in vain to devise some other means for procuring the coveted novel.

On the Friday before, however, Alice Jackson, the owner of the book, had, of her own accord, offered to loan it to her until Monday, if she would, in return, assist her a little in the written examination which was always given to them on that day, and Irene had joyfully consented.

As her mother had forbidden her to borrow novels or any such trash,’^ as she called them, Irene kept this one hidden from her sight, retiring early on Friday to begin its perusal in bed. She read late that night. All day Saturday, being obliged to assist about the housework, she was unable to steal a moment away, but at night, on retiring, she read again from its pages, and

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stole to her room on Sunday after church and Sunday-school, and read Sunday night until the oil gave out in the lamp, yet when Monday morning came she had neither finished the novel nor studied her lessons for the day.

On Mondays as it was Mrs. Patton’s custom to arise at a very early hour, sometimes before daylight, to begin the week’s washing, she always called Irene earlier, to prepare the morning meal, and on this morning, all the while she was at work, Irene was seeking to devise some excuse whereby she might get an opportunity to finish the book. Finally she hit upon one she thought would serve her purpose.

When breakfast was ready, and her mother had come in wiping her wet arms and hands on her apron, and had taken her accustomed seat behind the coffee-pot, Irene, appearing to be seized with a sudden spasm, gave a heavy groan, and, placing her hand over her stomach, said, in a tone which seemed full of agony, —

Oh, dear ! I have such a pain right here !”

Drink some hot coffee and you will feel better,” said her mother.

Oh, dear ! no, I couldn’t eat or drink a thing ! I’ll just run up-stairs and lie down a little while, and maybe the pain will go away before school-time.”

All right,” answered her mother. I’ll call you in time for school.” And Irene went out of the room with agony depicted in every line of her countenance.

As soon as the door was closed between her and the family she hastened to her room, drew the book from under the mattress, threw herself upon the bed, and was soon engrossed in the closing chapters of the story.

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So deeply was she absorbed that she did not liear a slow firm step mount the stairs and carefully cross the hall to the door of her room, but she did hear her name spoken in a sharp high tone, and springing up, saw her mother standing beside her bed with a bowl of steaming herb tea in her hands and her eyes fastened upon the book.

What have you there ?’’ inquired Mrs. Patton, as she put out her hand to grasp it.

You must not take it ! it is not mine, and I must return it this morning entreated Irene.

You borrowed it, after my having forbidden you to borrow books exclaimed her mother. “And you have lied to me about being sick, and left me slaving at my work for you while you lay around like a fine lady and read such trash and worthless nonsense as that ! Give it here to me ! I’ll teach you not to disobey me ! I’ll warrant you won’t borrow any more books soon again ! Give it here !” she shouted, as she snatched the book from Irene, and turned to leave the room.

“Oh, mother! mother! what are you going to do with it ? Oh, mother ! let me have it ! I promised to return it to-day ! Oh, please, — what are you going to do with it?” she cried, tears flooding her eyes as she followed her mother down the stairs clinging to her skirts, as if to hold her back. Mrs. Patton seemed not to hear, as with a firm iron tread that seemed to shake the whole house she passed through the hall and sitting-room into the kitchen, Irene following close at her heels still holding fast to her dress crying and begging her to listen.

“ Oh, mother, hear me ! forgive me ! I’ll never, never

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do so again ! I’ll never read another story as long as I live if you’ll only give this back !”

Mrs. Patton, unheeding, passed on to the stove. A large boiler filled with clothes was sending hot steam throughout the house as the clothes boiled up with the suds. With one hand she lifted it aside, — there were no covers on the stove underneath, and the coals were burning brightly.

Mother !” shrieked Irene in terror, as she now divined her mother’s purpose ; but it was too late. The book had been dropped on the burning coals, and the boiler of clothes set back over it.

Mrs. Patton, turning towards Irene to add a word of admonition for the future, was startled at the look that met hers. Irene, whose eyes seemed almost starting from her sockets, shrieked, —

I hate you ! Oh, how I hate you !” So loud she shouted that her voice grated in her throat, as if she could not express her hatred with so feeble an organ ; then springing upon her mother, she tried to push her against the wall, the stove, anything, she cared not what, anything to show her contempt.

She might as easily have moved the house as to have moved that tall, strong, muscular woman. Her fruitless efforts only added to her fury, and in the intensity of her anguish she fixed her teeth in the wrist of the hand put out to ward her off, fixed them in it deep, fiercely, and revengefully ; then, seizing her hat, rushed out into the street, quivering like a reed in the wind from the intense strain upon her slight frame. So now, though the sun was shining and the birds were singing, and all nature seemed beautiful and bright, 2

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she ^Yas walking along the street, wretched, revengeful, and unhappy, not having one feeling of repentance or remorse, only hardening her heart against her mother more and more each moment.

If father had only been there, he might have saved it for me,” she said to herself, feeling that, though he had long ago surrendered his right to direct and dictate in home affairs, he might have interceded in her behalf on this occasion and turned her mother from her purpose. When she tried to think what she should say to Alice Jackson, the owner of the book, she cried anew and wrung her hands in despair. It would never do to tell her that her mother had burned it, and she had no means of replacing it. She never had any money of her own ; even the necessities of school, such as pens, ink, and paper, were only furnished to her after much importuning on her part and a note from the teacher finally, urging the necessity of them.

“ Oh, what shall I do !” she said to herself, vainly seeking to decide what present course to pursue. The last bell was ringing for school. Frank Kaynor, who was driving past, saw her standing there, noted her distress, and thinking it might be occasioned by the knowledge that she would be late, drew up his horse near the sidewalk, saying, —

“If you will jump in beside me, Irene, I will take you to school. I am going that way, and you will be late if you walk.”

Irene started back, and replied, sharply, —

“ I don’t want you to take me. I don’t care if I am late. I don’t intend to go to school ev — er.” The last word was separated by a sob, and she began crying as if her heart was breaking.

Frank Raynor leaped from his carriage and went towards her.

“ What troubles you, Irene?’’ he asked, gently. At the sound of his voice her grief grew more intense, and the sobs that burst forth shook her very frame. Slie could not have answered him if she had wished ; besides, she saw a woman across the way standing in the door-way of her house staring at her, and another woman crossing the street and coming towards her ; so she put out her hands, and, impatiently pushing him aside, ran as fast as her feet could carry her down the street and up another, until she was quite out of sight of all of them.

When she was out of breath she stopped running, and walked slowly towards the outskirts of the city. Her thoughts were sorely troubled as she attempted to map out some course for the future that would not necessitate her returning home again.

I cannot go back to school again without the book, — the girls will all look on me with suspicion and distrust, and I can never tell them what became of it,” she said in distress, again and again, and lingered all the morning in and about the woods that skirted that part of the town to which she had walked, revolving and weighing many wild plans in her thoughts, only to cast them aside in the end as impracticable, her imagination all the while being more active than her reasoning powers.

^‘At any rate,” she said at length, ^^one thing is certain ; I will never go back home if I have to starve on

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the streets.’’ She was anxious to convey to her mother this decision, thinking that it might stir up some pangs of remorse in her breast, so, when it was near noon, she retraced her steps to await June’s return from school on a corner the child was certain to pass, in order to send a message home by her. She had not waited long before June, whose class was always dismissed a half-hour earlier than the higher grades, was seen approaching in the midst of a small bevy of school-children.

June! June!” Irene called out to her from across the street. June, turning towards her in surprise, left her mates and came running across to where she was standing. When she saw the traces of tears on her sister’s face, she besought her to tell what troubled her, and Irene willingly confided to her the whole story of her distress, saying when she had concluded, —

“ Now, June, I want you to put my best dress and hat in the woodshed, in the corner back of the wood-pile, so I can slip in by the alleyway and find them easily, for I am going away and am never coming back any more.” June did not quite comprehend.

Are you going far away — all alone — and nev — er coming back ev — er any more ?” she questioned, with a long-drawn emphasis on the words ever” and “ never.”

Yes, I am going where I won’t have to wipe dishes, and be treated worse than a dog, without ever being allowed to read or have any pleasure. Run home and tell that to mother — maybe she’ll wish she hadn’t burned the book — and meet me here as you go to school, and let me know what she says.”

But June lingered.

Where’bouts are you going ?” she inquired.

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Oh, I don’t knoAV ; that is, I can’t tell just yet ; but if you’re real good, and put the dress and hat where I have said, and tell mother I am going to go away off, and am never coming back, and meet me here again on your way to school. I’ll tell you all about it. Now make haste.”

June needed no further urging, but ran with all her might homeward. Pretty little June! she had such a plump little figure, and her face was like a sunbeam all the time. Nothing ever worried her. She had large eyes like Irene, but they were brighter and full of mischief and merriment, her eyelashes were long and sweeping, and her lips were full, pouting, and very red. Two sisters are seldom seen so entirely unlike each other in appearance and manners. Nothing that June ever wore detracted from her beauty ; everything that Irene ])ut on seemed unbecoming. June came and went to school with a crowd of children about her, of which she was the acknowledged leader ; Irene went to and fro alone. Nothing troubled June ; everything troubled Irene. Irene was always thinking and dreaming ; June scarcely thought at all. June would laugh over a cut in her finger and run to have her mother tie it up, laughing sometimes with tears in her eyes, while Irene would complain for hours over a scratch not nearly so severe. Irene was always full of cares; June had never a care in the world. June was like a diamond, — no matter how plain the setting, retaining its lustre and brilliancy just the same; while Irene, like a pearl, required a fine setting, and suitable light to set forth its beauty. June was generous ; Irene was selfish. June never thought of advancing in school, while Irene was b 2*

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an earnest student, ambitious to progress rapidly in all her studies.

Many of her classmates envied her success, and ofttimes besought her to assist tliem ; but she never consented to do so unless such assistance was paid for in some way ; and as envy breeds hatred, her classmates grew to dislike her. They never avoided her, but simply, as if by common consent, let her alone.

Irene was a dreamer ; she loved to read and paint, having a talent for painting remarkable in one so young. She liked to walk through the woods, to gather wild flowers, and to be alone, always thinking, and making plans for her future. Every new book or story she read started a new train of thought in her mind ; for she always believed that what she read might happen to her in reality, as it had happened to others in fiction. Life, to her imaginative mind, was full of romances such as she read about, and she was at present figuring as one of the poor unfortunates in one of them.

To-day with its troubles might be the turning-point in her life, so she reasoned. Where she was to go or how to continue, however, were perplexing questions constantly recurring to her. They disturbed her more than ever as she awaited June’s return, because she felt the need of carrying out her intention of going away, having sent such word to her mother. But, as she had no money, she realized that she would be obliged to walk and beg as she went along until she was out of Newbridge, and thus be no better than a common beggar, and the thought annoyed her. If she could only get into a rail way -car and be quickly carried

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away to a distant city, no doubt she would experience little difficulty in securing a position as governess in some rich man’s family, she thought, never once pausing to consider that there might not be any such position awaiting her, or that she was too young and inexperienced to fill it ; she only realized now that the lack of funds was a very serious impediment to start out with. Her head ached and she was hungry, having sacrificed her breakfast that she might read the ill-fated novel.

Where was she to procure her dinner to-day ? where to-morrow? were questions continually presenting themselves, and she grew impatient as she recognized how utterly helpless was her situation. The shop-whistles were signalling the hour of noon. The men going home from their work, they poured out of the shops like huge black clouds, separating and spreading about in every direction until, becoming more and more scattered, they finally disappeared. Several passed her whom she knew, and nodded cheerily to her. She was vexed at their recognition, so she turned aside to avoid them.

Irene ! Irene !” a musical voice called out to her, and she heard footsteps behind hurrying to overtake her. At another time, in lighter trouble, the voice would have been refreshing and most welcome, and she would have stopped instantly and turned with relief to greet her only intimate friend, Minnie Barnes. Now it jarred on her, because it was so sweet, and seemed so happy, while she herself was so miserable. She hurried on, not seeming to hear, anxious to put herself out of reach of sympathy, lest she be influenced

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from her determination to quit home, friends, and Newbridge.

“ Irene ! Irene ! wait a moment !’’ She was obliged to stop and turn, there was no other way ; the voice was so near it was impossible to pretend not to have heard it. The face that greeted hers was wreathed in smiles, as she knew it was certain to be before ever she looked.