The same night one of the village stores was entered, the door of an ancient safe wrenched open, and something over a hundred dollars in specie taken therefrom. So that on Samson Newell's head rested the crime of filial disobedience, and the suspicion, amounting, with nearly all, to a certainty, that he had added burglary to his other wrong-doing.
His name was published in the papers throughout the county, together with a personal description and the offer of a reward for his arrest and return. But as he was never brought back nor heard of more, the matter gradually died away and was forgotten by most in the village; the more so as, from respect and pity for Jacob Newell, it was scarce ever mentioned, except privately.
Eight years elapsed from the time of his flight and supposed crime, when the fellow he had thrashed at the tavern was arrested, tried, convicted, and sentenced to death for a murder committed in a midnight tavern-brawl. In a confession that he made he exonerated Samson Newell from any participation in or knowledge of the burglary for which his reputation had so long suffered, stating in what manner he had himself committed the deed. So the memory of the erring son of Jacob Newell was relieved from the great shadow that had darkened it. Still he was never mentioned by father or mother; and seven years more rolled wearily on, till they sit, to-day, alone and childless, by the flickering November fire.
Sore trouble had fallen on them since their youngest son had disappeared. One by one, the elder children had passed away, each winter's snow for five years covered a fresh grave, till the new afflictions that were in store for them scarcely seemed to affect them otherwise than by cutting yet deeper into the sunken cheeks the deep lines of sorrow and regret.
Jacob Newell had been known for years as a "forehanded man" in the rural neighborhood. His lands were extensive, and he had pursued a liberal system of cultivation, putting into the soil in rich manures more in strength than he took from it, until his farm became the model one of the county, and his profits were large and ever increasing. Particularly in orchards of choice fruit did he excel his neighbors, and his apples, pears, and quinces always commanded the best price in the market. So he amassed wealth, and prospered.
But, unfortunately, after death had taken away his children, and the work in the fields was all done by hired hands, the old man became impatient of the dulness of life, and a spirit of speculation seized him. Just at that time, railroad-stock was in high favor throughout the country. Steam-drawn carriages were to do away with all other modes of public travel, (as, indeed, they generally have done,) and the fortunate owners of railroad-stock were to grow rich without trouble in a short time. In particular, a certain line of railroad, to run through the village where he lived, was to make Jacob Newell and all his neighbors rich. It would bring a market to their doors, and greatly increase the value of all they produced; but above all, those who took stock in it would be insured a large permanent income. Better the twenty and thirty per cent. that must accrue from this source than to loan spare cash at six per cent., or invest their surplus in farm improvements. So said a very fluent and agreeable gentleman from Boston, who addressed the people on the subject at a "Railroad Meeting" held in the town-hall; and incautious Jacob Newell (hitherto most prudent throughout his life) believed.
Only twenty per cent. was to be paid down; no more, said the circular issued by the directors, might be required for years; perhaps there would never be any further call: but that would depend very materially on how generously the farmers through whose lands the road would pass should give up claims for land-damages. Jacob Newell needed excitement of some sort, and it took the form of speculation. He believed in the railroad, and subscribed for two hundred shares of the stock, for which he paid four thousand dollars down. He also gave the company the right of way where the track crossed his farm.
In six months he was called upon for two thousand dollars more; three months afterwards another two thousand was wanted; and so it ran till he was obliged to mortgage his farm, and finally to sell the greater part of it, to meet his subscription. In vain he begged for mercy, and pleaded the statement that only twenty per cent. would be needed. A new set of directors laughed him, and others like him, to scorn. He would have sold his stock, but he found it quoted at only twenty-five cents on the dollar, and that price he could not prevail upon himself to take.
So he sat on this drear Thanksgiving-Day despondent beside his hearth. With a hundred hard lines furrowing his pale face, telling of the work of time and struggle and misfortune, he looked the incarnation of silent sorrow and hopelessness, waiting in quiet meekness for the coming of Death,—without desire, but without dread.
It was not strange that on this day there should come into the hearts of both Jacob and Ruth, his wife, sad and dismal memories. Still his gaze wandered silently about the room, and she plied unceasingly her stiff, bright knitting-needles. One would have thought her a figure of stone, sitting so pale and bolt upright, but for the activity of the patiently industrious fingers.