THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES WINTER EVENING TALES. AMELIA E. BARR, Author of "A Bow of Orange Ribbon," "Jan Vedder's Wife," " Friend Olivia," etc., etc. PUBLISHED BY TTHE CHRISTIAN LOUIS KLOPSCH, Proprietor, BIBLE HOUSE, NEW YORK. Copyright, 1896, BY Louis KLOPSCH. PRESS AND BINDERY OF HISTORICAL PUBLISHING CO.. PHILADELPHIA. IPS PREFACE. In these ' ( Winter Evening Tales, ' ' Mrs. Barr has spread before her readers a feast that will afford the rarest enjoyment for many a leisure hour. There are few writers of the present day whose genius has such a luminous quality, and the spell of whose fancy carries us along so delightfully on its magic current. In these "Tales " each a per- fect gem of romance, in an artistic setting the author has touched many phases of human nature. Some of the stories in the collection sparkle with the spirit of mirth; others give glimpses of the sadder side of life. Throughout all, there are found that broad sympathy and intense humanity that characterize every page that comes from her pen. Her men and women are creatures of real flesh and blood, not deftly-handled puppets; they move, act and speak spontaneously, with the full vigor of life and the strong purpose of persons who are participating in a real drama, and not a make- believe. Mrs. Barr has the rare gift of writing from heart to heart. She unconsciously infuses into her readers a liberal share of the enthusiasm that moves the people of her creative imagination. One cannot read any of her books without feeling more than a spectator's interest; we are, for the moment, actual sharers in the joys and the sorrows, the misfortunes and the triumphs of the men and women to whom she introduces us. Our sympathy, our love, our admiration, are kindled by their noble and attractive qualities; our mirth is excited 8J&566 4 Preface. by the absurd and incongruous aspects of some characters, and our hearts are thrilled by the fre- quent revelation of such goodness and true human feeling as can only come from pure and noble souls. In these had been made an independent woman by his grateful, consideration. He was so admirable that he ceased to interest people, and every time he visited Glasgow fewer and fewer of his old ac- quaintances came to see him. A little more than ten years after his admission to the firm of Gordon & Co. he came home at the new year, and presented his father with the title-deeds of Ellenmount and Netherby. The next day old Andrew was welcomed on the City Exchange as "Lockerby of Ellenmount, gentleman." "I hae lived lang enough to hae seen this day," he said, with happy tears; and David felt a joy in his father's joy that he did not know again for many years. For while a man works for another there is an ennobling element in his labor, but when he works simply for himself he has become the greatest of all slaves. This slavery David now willingly assumed; the accumulation of money be- came his business, his pleasure, the sum of his daily life. Ten years later both his uncle and father 28 Winter Evening Tales. were dead, and both had left David every shilling they possessed. Then he went on working more eagerly than ever, turning his tens of thousands into hundreds of thousands and adding acre to acre, and farm to farm, until Lockerby was the richest estate in Annandale. When he was forty-five years of age fortune seemed to have given him every good gift except wife and children, and his mother, who had nothing else to fret about, worried Janet continually on this subject. "Wife an' bairns, indeed!" said Janet; " vera uncertain comforts, ma'am, an' vera certain cares. Our Master Davie likes aye to be sure o' his bargains. ' ' "Weel, Janet, it's a great cross tome an' him sae honored, an' guid an' rich, wi l no a shilling ill-saved to shame him." "Tut, tut, ma'am! The river doesna swell wi' clean water. Nae body's charged him wi' wrangdoing that's enough. There's nae need to set him up for a saint. ' ' "An' you wanted him to be a minister, Janet." 1 ' I was that blind ance. ' ' "We are blind creatures, Janet." "Wi' excepts, ma'am; but they'll ne'er be found amang mithers. ' : This conversation took place one lovely Sabbath evening, and just at the same time Winter Evening Tales. 29 David was standing thoughtfully on Princes street, Edinburgh, wondering to which church he had better turn his steps. For a sudden crisis in the affairs of a bank in that city had brought him hurriedly to Scotland, and he was not only a prudent man who considered public opinion, but was also in a mood to conciliate that opinion so long as the outward conditions were favorable. Whatever he might do in London, in Scotland he always went to morning and evening service. He was also one of those self-dependent men who dislike to ask questions or advice from anyone. Though a comparative stranger he would not have allowed him- self to think that anyone could direct him better than he could choose for himself. He looked up and down the street, and finally followed a company which increased continually until they entered an old church in the Canongate. Its plain wooden pews and old-fashioned elevated pulpit rather pleased than offended David, and the air of antiquity about the place consecrated it in his eyes. Men like whatever reminds them of their purest and best days, and David had been once in the old Relief Church on the Doo Hill in Glas- gow just such a large, bare, solemn-looking house of worship. The still, earnest men and women, the droning of the precentor, 30 Winter Evening Tales. the antiquated singing pleased and soothed him. He did not notice much the thin little fair man who conducted the services; for he was holding a session with his own soul. A peculiar movement among the con- gregation announced that the sermon was beginning, and David, looking up, saw that the officiating minister had been changed. This man was swarthy and tall, and looked like some old Jewish prophet, as he lifted his rapt face and cried, like one crying in the wilderness, " Friends! I have a ques- tion to ask you to-night: 'What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?' " For twenty-three years David had silenced that voice, but it had found him out again it was Willie Caird's. At first interested and curious, David soon became profoundly moved as Willie, in clear, solemn, thrilling sentences, reasoned of life and death and judgment to come. Not that he followed his arguments, or w r as more than dimly conscious of the moving elo- quence that stirred the crowd as a mighty wind stirs the trees in the forest : for that dreadful question smote, and smote, and smote upon his heart as if determined to have an answer. What shall it profit? What shall it profit ? What shall it profit ? David was Winter Evening Tales. 31 quick enough at counting material loss and profit, but here was a question beyond his computation. He went silently out of the church, and wandered away by Holyrood Palace and St. Anthony's Chapel to the pathless, lonely beauty of Salisbury Crags. There was no answer in nature for him. The stars were silent above, the earth silent beneath. Weariness brought him no rest; if he slept, he woke with the start of a hunted soul, and found him asking that same dreadful question. When he looked in the mirror his own face queried of him, "What profit?" and he was compelled to make a decided effort to prevent his tongue uttering the ever present thought. But at noon he would meet the defaulting bank committee, "and doubtless his lawful business would take its proper share of his thought!" He told himself that it was the voice and face of his old friend that had affected him so vividly, and that if he went and chatted over old times with Willie, he would get rid of the disagreeable influence. The influence, however, went with him into the creditors' committee room. The embarrassed officials had dreaded greatly the interview. No one hoped for more than bare justice from David L,ockerby. "Clemency, help, sympathy! You'll get blood out o' a stane first, gentlemen," said the old cashier, with a dour, hopeless face. 32 Winter Evening Tales. And yet that morning David Lockerby amazed no one so much as himself. He went to the meeting quite determined to have his own only his own but some- thing asked him, "What shall it profit '?" and he gave up his lawful increase and even offered help. He went determined to speak his mind very plainly about mis- management and the folly of having losses; and something asked him, * ' What shall it profit ?' ' and he gave such sympathy with nis itelp that the money came with a bless- ing in its hand. The feeling of satisfaction was so new to him that it embarrassed and almost made him ashamed. He slipped ungraciously away from the thanks that ought to have been pleasant, and found himself, almost unconsciously, looking up Willie's name in the clerical directory, "Dr. William Caird, 22 Moray place." David knew enough of Edinburgh to know that Moray place con- tained the handsomest residences in the city, and therefore he was not astonished at the richness and splendor of Willie's library ; but he was astonished to see him surrounded by five beautiful boys and girls, and evidently as much interested in their lessons and sports as if he was one of them. "Ech! Davieman! but I'm glad to see you!" That was all of Willie's greeting, but his eyes filled, and as the friends held Winter Evening Tales. 33 each other's hands Davie came very near touching for a moment a David L,ockerby no one had seen for many long years. But he said nothing during his visit of Willie's sermon, nor indeed in several subsequent ones. Scotsmen are reticent on all matters, and especially reticent about spiritual ex- perience; and though Davie lingered in Edinburgh a week, he was neither able to speak to Willie about his soul, nor yet in all their conversations get rid of that haunt- ing, uncomfortable influence Willie had raised. But as they stood before the Queen's Hotel at midnight bidding each other an affectionate farewell, David suddenly turned Willie round and opened up his whole heart to him. And as he talked he found himself able to define what had been only hitherto a vague, restless sense of want. ' ' I am the poorest rich man and the most miserable failure, Willie Caird, that ever you asked yon fearsome question of and I know it. I have achieved millions, and I am a conscious bankrupt to my own soul. I have wasted my youth, neglected my talents and opportunities, and whatever the world may call me I am a wretched break- down. I have made money plenty of it and it does not pay me. What am I to do?" "You ken, Davie, my dear, dear lad, what 34 Winter Evening J^ales. advice the Lord Jesus gave to the rich man 'distribute unto the poor and come, fol- low me!'" Then up and down Princes street, and away under the shadow of the Castle Hill, Willie and David walked and talked, till the first sunbeams touched St. Leonard's Crags. If it was a long walk a grand work was laid out in it. "You shall be more blessed than your namesake," said Willie, "for though David gathered the gold, and the wood, and the stone, Solomon builded therewith. Now, an' it please God, you shall do your ain work, and see the topstone brought on with rejoicing." Then at David's command, workmen gathered in companies, and some of the worst "vennels" in old Glasgow were torn down; and the sunshine flooded "wynds" it had scarcely touched for cen- turies, and a noble building arose that was to be a home for children that had no home. And the farms of Kllenmount fed them, and the fleeces of Locker by clothed them, and into every young hand was put a trade that would win it honest bread. In a short time even this undertaking began to be too small for David's energies and resources, and he joined hands with Willie in many other good works, and gave not only freely of his gold, but also of his Winter Evening Tales. 35 time and labor. The old eloquence that stirred his classmates in St. Andrew's Hall "till they would have followed him to the equator" began to stir the cautious Glas- gow traders to the bottom of their hearts and their pock etbooks; and men who didn't want to help in a crusade against drunken- ness, or in a crusade for the spread of the Gospel, stopped away from Glasgow City Hall when David L,ockerby filled the chair at a public meeting and started a subscrip- tion list with ^1000 down on the table. But there were two old ladies that never stopped away, though one of them always declared "Master Davie had fleeched her last bawbee out o' her pouch;" and the other generally had her little whimper about Davie "waring his substance upon ither folks' bairns." "There's bonnie Bessie Lament, Janet; an' he would marry her we might live to see his ain sons and daughters in the old house. ' ' " 'Deed, then, ma'am, our Davie has gotten him a name better than that o' sons an' dochters; and though I am sair disap- pointed in him " "You shouldn't say that, Janet; he made a gran' speech the day." "A speech isna a sermon, ma'am; though I'll ne'er belittle a speech wi' a ^1000 argument. ' ' 36 Winter Evening Tales. "And there was Deacon Moir, Janet, who didna approve o' the scheme, and who would therefore gie nothing at a'." "The Deacon is sae godly that God doesna get a chance to improve his condi- tion, ma'am. But for a' o' Deacon Moir's disapproval I'se count on the good work going on.'' " 'Deed yes, Janet, and though our Davie should ne'er marry at a' " 4 'There '11 be generations o' lads an' lasses, ma'am, that will rise up in auld Scotland an' go up an' down through a' the warld a' ca' David I^ockerby * blessed.' " Winter Evening J^ales. 37 FRANZ MULLER'S WIFE. ' ' Franz, good morning. Whose philoso- phy is it now? Hegel, Spinosa, Kant or Dugald Stewart?" "None of them. I am reading Faust. " ' * Worse and worse. Better wrestle with philosophies than lose yourself in the clouds. At any rate, if the poets are to send the philosophers to the right about, stick to Shakespeare. ' ' ' ' He is too material. He can't get rid of men and women." "They are a little better, I should thitiK, than Mephisto. Come, Franz, condescend to cravats and kid gloves, and let us go and see my cousin Christine Stromberg. ' ' 1 ' I do not know the young lady. ' ' "Of course not. She has just returned from a Munich school. Her brother Max was at the L,yndons' great party, you re- member?" "I don't remember, Louis. In white cravats and black coats all men look alike. ' ' "But you will go?" "If you wish it, yes. There are some uncut reviews on the table : amuse yourself while I dress." 38 Winter Evening Tales. "Thanks, I have my cigar case. I will take a smoke and think of Christine." For some reason quite beyond analysis, Franz did not like this speech. He had never seen Christine Stromberg, but yet he half resented the careless use of her name. It fell upon some soul consciousness like a familiar and personal name, and yet he vainly recalled every phase of his life for any clew to this familiarity. He was a handsome fellow, with large, clearly-cut features and gray, thoughtful eyes. In a conversation that interested him his face lighted up with a singularly beautiful animation, but usually it was as still and passionless as if the soul was away on a dream or a visit. Even the regulation cravat and coat could not destroy his in- dividuality, and Louis looked admiringly at him, and said, "You are still Franz Miiller. No one is just like 3'ou. I should think Cousin Christine will fall in love with you. ' ' Again Franz's heart resented this speech. It had been waiting for love for many a year, but he could not jest or speculate about it. No one but the thoughtless, favored Louis ever dared to do it before Franz, and no one ever spoke lightly of women before him, for the worst of men are sensitive to the presence of a pure and lofty nature, and are generally willing to respect it. Winter Evening Tales. 39 Franz dreamed of women, but only of noble women, and even for those who fell below his ideal he had a thousand apologies and a world of pity. It was strange that such a man should have lived thirty years, and never have really loved any mortal woman. But his hour had come at last. As soon as he saw Christine Stromberg he loved her. A strange exaltation possessed him ; his face was radiant ; he talked and sung with a brilliancy that amazed even those most familiar with his rare exhibi- tions of such moods. And Christine seemed fascinated by his beauty and wit. The hours passed like moments ; and when the girl stood watching him down the moon-lit avenue, she almost trembled to remember what questions Franz's eyes had asked her and how strangely familiar the clasp of his hand and the sound of his voice had seemed to her. "I wonder where I have seen him be- fore," she murmured "I wonder where it was?'* and to this thought she slowly took off one by one her jewels, and brushed out her long black hair; nay, when she fell asleep, it was only to take it up again in dreams. As for Franz, he was in far too ecstatic a mood to think of sleep. "One has too few of such godlike moments to steep them in unconsciousness, ' ' he said to himself. And 4