John Engleman and the Spirit of Christmas. A Story

John Engleman and the Spirit of Christmas. BY NEPHI ANDERSON, AUTHOR OF "The Castle Builder, "Added Upon," etc. They came from the west; there were two of them only ; they were not wise; neither had they a star to guide them. It was a cold day for traveling. The storms of the past few days had made the roads soft; but they were now being crusted by the frost through which the tired horses broke at every step, and the wheels dragged heavily. The two travelers sat in the spring-seat of the farm wagon. The young man's coat was but- toned to his chin; driving gloves covered his hands; a slouch hat hung over his ears. The woman by his side was muffled and wrapped so that her face only was exposed. This, it could be seen, though young and pretty, was now pinched and careworn. "Harvey," asked the young woman, "where are we? I'm cold." "We are nearly to the point of the mountain," replied her companion. "We are making the best time possible on these roads." He drew the blankets up farther over her lap and tucked them well around her, though his own knees were uncovered. He touched the horses with the whip, to which they unwillingly responded. The sky, clear during the first part of the day, was now over- cast again. The wind blew from the north, and there was a feeling of snow in the air. Christmas was but a few days in the future, so the weather was seasonable enough; but it was most cold and miserable to those two sitting on the wagon, suffering not only from outside cold, but also from that which comes from some unknown source deep in the human heart. For fully an hour the horses plodded on, the two travelers sitting as if wholly withdrawn within each others' thoughts. Not a word was spoken. The long stretch of road came to an end, and the horses tugged slowly up the hill. Twice they stopped to rest before they reached the summit. Then as they trotted down

JOHN ENGLEMAN AND THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS 127 the hill towards the village, its lamps gleamed through the darken- ing gloom, and the first flakes of snow began to fall. Less than a year ago, these two, Harvey and Clara Woodson, newly made man and wife, had traveled over this same road going westward to take up land and to make a home for themselves. With high hopes they had set out to realize their dreams of future happiness; but now they were returning, their dreams vanished, their star of hope set in a dark sky, their hearts cold, and troubled, and sad. This was the end, they said to themselves. What had the future in store for them? Oh, what a lot of misery could be tucked into the short time between Christmases! What was the trouble with these two? It would be hard to put a finger on one particular cause of their falling out. Neither of them had been guilty of any great wrong, but there were many little things that displayed a lack of wisdom, misunderstandings, unthoughtfulness, unkindness as to each others feelings, unchecked tempers, unwillingness to forgive and forget. They had not understood that love, to be stamped as true, must undergo a test. Love amid sunny skies and blooming flowers is quite different from love amid poverty, hard work, and the testing of muscles and tempers. These two had been unschooled; and now at the first hard lessons, they had failed. Yes; they had agreed that their troubles had piled up to mountain height, insurmountable. The only way to end the struggle, they thought, was to separate. She would go back home to her mother; he might go where he would. This they had decided on, and were now carrying out. The hardest part of that journey was the end. As they neared the village, each felt that the silence between them ought to be broken. He wanted to say something, and a thousand thoughts crowded into her mind to which she could not give expression. At last they drew up to a gate. Her father and mother had known of their coming, and were waiting. Harvey leaped down first and lifted his wife to the ground, holding her close for an instant before she ran with a little cry from him into the house. Her boxes and trunks were unloaded, then the young man climbed back into the spring-seat. "Harvey," pleaded Mr. Waite, "you're not going home tonight." "Yes, I'll drive right on."

128 IMPROVEMENT ERA "Don't be foolish. Come, we'll put up your tired team — you go in and get warm." "Not tonight, thank you just the same. I, too, am going home. Good night." The horses were told to go. Clara's father and mother stood in the lamp glow from the open door, the snow flakes alight- ing on their uncovered heads, while they saw their son-in-law drive on down the road and disappear in the darkness. John Engleman was far removed from the spirit of Christmas, both in thought and feeling. The rising north wind, whistling around the corners and rattling the loose boards of his shanty, threatened snow. Within, the rusty stove glowed with heat when John piled in the sage-brush; but if this work was neglected for any length of time, the fire died down and the stove became cold. And John Engleman, careless, of both self and fire, sat in his improvised chair by the stove with no light but that which came uncertainly from the open door of the stove. A strong puff of wind blew the shanty door open, at the same time driving the smoke from the stove into the room. John arose, went to the door as if to close it, but instead, he stepped outside and looked up into the sky. He saw the snow coming, but it meant nothing particular to him. His stock had been provided for, his two horses were well housed for the night. His dog shared with him a corner of the shanty near the wood-box; and were not these all that were immediately dependent on him? As for him- self, well, the shanty was not very comfortable, especially in cold weather, but what of it? His house in town, or for that matter the finest in the land, could not just now give more of happiness or of a contented mind. With a parting look into the sky, John Engleman went back into the house and closed the door tightly after him. He lifted the lid from the stove and forced in some more brush. Then he lighted a lamp, but he found the chimney so smoky that he took it off again and cleaned it. He could now see to read. To read! He had not read a book for long months. What to him were the petty or foolish imaginings of others when he himself had lived so intensely; but he knew it was well sometimes to get away from one's own thoughts to those of others, and to take part

JOHN ENGLEMAN AN!) THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS L29 in others' adventures and experiences. What should he read that evening? His box of books was packed ready to be carted away the aexl day, but he would have to find something amon- them some- thing that would either entertain him or would send him asleep t<> the land of oblivion. He drew out a small, well-worn volume. It proved to be Dickens' Christmas Carol. Why, to be sure, it was time to read it again. Each year, just before Christmas, John Engleman had made it a practice to read this little story to put him in the proper Christmas attitude. So far, the custom had succeeded in its object very well; but could he read it again? A little more than twelve months had passed since lie had read the Christmas Carol — it seemed a Ions time ago. How they — Clara Waite and he — had enjoyed that reading! How they had drank in the sweet spirit of Christmas! How they had denounced grouchy old Scrooge and his stinginess! How they had danced with delight at the Fezzewig's party! How they had enjoyed their visit at Bob Cratchet's, and how they also had feasted with the family on that wonderful roast goose and more wonderful plum pudding! Should he read the story again, and alone? He sat and thumbed the book, noting some places he had underscored. He read over the greeting between Scrooge and his nephew, then continued, following all the pranks of the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Future, as they took their charge over England's green fields and among London's murky streets. The wind blew hard outside, and the snow now came beating against the thin walls of the shanty, lodging closely in windows and door. John hugged the stove. The brush fire was out when the repentant Scrooge of the story, rejoicing that he still had a chance to shape his life for the better, went to spend a merry Christmas with his nephew. "A great story," said John to himself. "Some day I'm going to London just because it was Dickens' town. Out in this wild west such things as the novelist descril.es could not be. Here there are no Scrooges, no Bob Cratchets. no such poverty of -pint or body. Here is God's big, free, open country, where everybody can get a decent living, and where there ire no despots to grind the face of the poor. No; that is true, but there are other things — heartaches, loneliness, disappointments, and

130 IMPROVEMENT ERA Go to bed, John Engleman, and sleep off those brooding thoughts. He had stripped himself of his coat, getting ready to tumble in, when he heard the whinney of a horse near his door. Listening, he caught a wagon's muffled roll through the snow. Slipping on his coat again, he went to the door, opened it, and peered out into the snow storm and the blackness. "Halloo, who's there," shouted John. The wagon stopped, and a voice replied from the seat, "Is that you, John? What are you doing here this time of the year?" "Who is it? I can't see you out there." "I'm Harvey Woodson. Don't you know me?" "Harvey! Well, I never! and what are you doing here this time of the night?" "I'm traveling — on the way home." "Are you alone? Where — where's your wife?" "She's not with me. She's at her mother's." "Well, that's a good place to be on such a night as this; — but, say, your team is all fagged out?" "Yes; we've been going all day. It's cold, too." There was no ring to the voice that came through the falling snow, and John Engleman discerned it. "Look here, Harve," said he, "you had better stay with me over night. There is room in the stable for your horses, with plenty of feed; and you can bunk with me." The driver sat without replying. The horses hung their heads in exhaustion. "Come," urged John, "drive into the yard, and I'll help you." "Thank you, John, but I guess I'll drive on." "Not much. You'll stay with me tonight, and you can drive on early in the morning." He took the horses by the lines, led them into the yard, and began to unhitch. The driver remained in careless inactivity for some time before he jumped down stiff and cold and, without protesting further, helped put up his horses. They carried some quilts and boxes into the shanty. Then more sage-brush was stuffed into the stove and made to burn. "Are you hungry?" asked John. "I haven't much, but I can get you something." "No; never mind. Just let me get warm, then roll up in my blankets and go to sleep."

JOHN ENGLEMAN AND THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS L31 "Of course, you shall do as you please about that; but what- is the matter, Harve?" "I can't talk about it — not now. I'm just dead tired, and cold." "Didn't you walk to keep warm?" asked John as lie. added more fuel to the fire. "No; I just sat and froze, and nearly went to sleep. Would to God I had, and never wakened." John was startled. What did this mean? Harvey Woodson had driven westward less than a year ago with his young wife, and here they were back again — and in such a condition. The \vi IV was not ill or worse. John made some guarded inquiries from Which he learned that Clara was at her mother's, safe enough in those respects; but further information was not forthcoming. The traveler soon became warmed, then rolled up in his blankets on the floor. He said, no, firmly, when the other urged him to occupy the narrow bunk by the wall. John Engleman looked wonderingly at his friend, as he lay with face averted. For a long time he sat by the table, feeding the fire when it burned low. Then when he heard the hard breal h- ing of the sleeper on the floor, he also went to bed. But there was no sleep for a long time. There were troubles in the world, other than his own, it seemed, even with those whom he supposed to be supremely happy. Marley's ghost walked again that night, mixing, in some strange, mystic way, with John and his returned friends, Harvey and Clara. The two men were up by daylight in the morning. There was more life in Harvey, and he said he had slept like a log. John prepared breakfast while Harvey went out to see to the horses. The sky was clear, the air cold. While eating breakfast John explained that he was just ready to move to town for the winter. The other talked on general topics only, until he had hitched his team and was seated in his wagon to drive off. Then he said: "John, I'm obliged to you. You have helped me a lot." "I'm glad of it. Let me help some more." "You can't. Nobody can." "Why? What is the matter?" "It's all off between us." "Between you and Clara?" "Yes."

132 IMPROVEMENT ERA "Harve, how can you say that?" "It's true. Goodbye. I'll see you again soon." He cracked his whip, and the horses pulled out heavily along the road. That same afternoon John Engleman deserted his summer camp and with his belongings drove into the village. There he heard more news of Harvey and Clara Woodson, for such things travel quickly. The gossips were busy, and the stories, augmented like a rolling ball of snow, soon assumed large proportions. John listened to the talk, but said nothing, though he thought and felt much, coming as all this did so near a certain tenderness of his own. Then John withdrew from the village and its talk to be alone. A great temptation had come to him: Clara might yet be his. The thought made his heart leap, and emotions surged through him A divorce had been mentioned. That would leave her free. His fond dream might yet be realized, that dream from which he had been so rudely awakened when Clara Waite had chosen Harvey instead of him. Hope, then, was not dead, as he had concluded. Was he selfish? Yes; but is not all love selfish? Why should not he have a taste of happiness? He would not quarrel with Clara. He had a better way, he was wiser. Besides, Harvey had had his chance, but had not made good. The coming together of those two had been a terrible blunder which he alone could correct. He had always thought that Clara was for him — yes, he remembered clearly how she had come into his life, and how she had chased away the dull care that was making him an old man. And here were his first thoughts and impressions vindicated. These were all temptations, and John Engleman knew it. In his innermost heart he had to acknowledge them to be such, and that he must resist them. His better, more rational self told him this: Harvey and Clara were man and wife. What business had he to think of them in any other way? He had lost once in a fair "fight." Was it not cowardly now to take advantage of a former "enemy" who was down? Conditions were bad enough between Harvey and Clara, and yet he had thought to make them worse. All this John Engleman acknowledged, and yet it was not so easy to give up his thoughts of what might yet be. Christmas was at the door. To whom should it bring happiness? It might come to him — only by bringing miseiy to others. That was a

JOHN ENGLEMAN AND THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS L33 worldly happiness, not worthy of the Spirit of Christmas who was supposed to preside at this season of the year. Then another suggestion came to him, came from some small, still voice deep down in his heart, as if the spirit of Christmas might have put it there. This idea grew with him, until at length it became strong enough to assert itself boldly and oppose the spirit of Selfishness— the spirit that had posession of Scrooge in the story, said John Engleman. The evening of the clay that John Engleman had fully made up his mind what to do, he met on the street as if by good fortune Clara Woodson's father. They stopped, as was their custom, and passed the time of day. "And how is Clara?" asked John. The father looked k3enly at the enquirer as if to discern his meaning. "She is as well as can be expected," was the reply. "I have been thinking that I ought to call and see her." "Not yet — no, not now." "You misjudge me, I fear," John hastened to say." Harvey is, as you know, an old friend of mine. I would go as his friend, to do him good — and her too. I believe I can help them." "If you can, come by all means. I am apparently helpless." "I'll go right along with you now." It was already dark on the village street, so there could be no comment on the fact that John took Mr. Waite's arm as they walked along towards the house. A light shone from the front room, and there they found Clara and her mother. "Here's an old friend come to see you." said the father. John shook hands with Mrs. Waite and then with Clara. He saw that the once rosy-cheeked girl was now a hollow-cheeked woman, with lines of care in her pale face. She greeted him quietly, somewhat reticent. They all talked for some time on commonplace matters, and then at Mr. Waite's contrivance, John and Clara were left alone. "Clara — Mrs. Woodson. I called this evening for a purpose," began John. "Don't!" she exclaimed, moving towards the door -is if to follow her father out. "Pardon me, but you do not understand. 1 have nol come as I once did. I am here as Harvey Woodson's friend, to do g 1 for him if I can. He has helped me many a time, and now I want

134 IMPROVEMENT ERA to help him.... He Btayed with me the night you both came homo." The woman stood still, listening intently. "Yes — and what did he say about me?" she asked. "He said nothing about you; he would not talk; but I could see that he has taken his trouble terribly to heart." With a little startled cry she stepped nearer the speaker, then sank into a chair by the table. John Engleman now knew how- unfounded his own momentary hopes had been. His duty became plainer, and he received added strength to do it. "I am going to see Harvey tomorrow," continued John; "and I want to bring a message to him from you — a message of good will. It's Christmas time, you know." "Yes, but — he doesn't care." "Don't say that; I know better." "Then why has he treated me like this?" She spoke with a rising temper. "Like what?" "Well — never mind I don't understand you. What do you want?" "See here, Clara, I'm going to be plain. You two have quarreled. Neither of you will give in now, nor make the first advances toward a better understanding. Someone else must help you, and I have come to do that." "It is useless. You can't do anything. Harvey — " "Sh — I can help because I know you both so well. You can't deny that I know about your quick temper and other weaknesses. I remember how that temper of yours used to come up like a thunder storm from a clear sky. Have you overcome that?" "Well, no, but—" "Let me tell you something which I want you to think seriously about: once upon a time Harvey Woodson thought you were the most perfect creature out of heaven. He loved you blindly then, even as he now loves you with eyes wide open. He set you high. What have you done to bring his ideals low in the dust?" She answered him nothing. "Don't you know," he continued, "that every time we show our weaknesses, every time our ugly natures crop out, those who love us are terribly pained. They see their ideals lowered, and that which thev thought was the most beautiful of treasures

JOHN ENGLEMAN AND THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS 135 robbed of its lovliness; and when these uglj outbreaks continue without any effort at correction, the results are aw ml. I am not blaming you altogether, but pari of the fault is yours, and you must awaken permanently to thai fact." "Why do you come and talk to me like this?" "Because I am your friend — and Harvey's." "For no other reason?" "No — well, yes; there is another reason." "What is that?" "Day after tomorrow is Christmas. I have woed and won the sweet spirit of Christmas — you see, I can win some beautiful things." He laughed as if he meant this to be a little joke. "I don't quite understand." "Perhaps not. Let me make myself plain." She moved her chair nearer the table on which stood the lamp. She toyed with a book, glancing now and then at the man who was once a lover and who had now come on such a strange errand. "Let me tell you something about Harvey," said he, "some- thing that perhaps you do not know." "Yes— all right." "I have said, and as you know, he and I were chums — until you came. You chose Harvey, which you had a perfect righl to do. I — I don't think you made any mistake No; I may uo1 give you any reasons for that just now, but that does not matter. Harvey Was perfectly honorable with me when he learned of my feelings. He came to me and said: 'Old man, I'm out of it. Forgive me for butting in.' " 'Look here' said I 'this is a free country, and you have just as much right to try to win Clara Waite as I have. I think a lot of her, but if I am not mistaken, so do you.' " 'Well, I do', he acknowledged, 'but I'm not going tocul von out,' " 'Harvey Woodson', said I, 'If you can cut me out, I want you to do it. I don't want a wife that somebody else ought to have. Further, I don't want to marry a girl that someone could have taken from me had he had the chance.'" "Did you say that?" "I did, and much more." The speaker moved his chair also nearer the table. "And I repeat that now, for 1 feel the same today. With that understanding, Harvey .ailed in, and won

!3G IMPROVEMENT ERA No matter what 1 lost, what I went through. He won, and that settled it for me — forever." She looked strangely at him across the table while he continued to talk. No one, not even her father had been so plain and had probed so into the very depths of their trouble. At times what he said hurt terribly, but this was a desperate case, and gentler means would not bring the desired results. At last she said: "What do you want me to do?" "Just now I want you to spend Christmas Eve at my house. There will be just a few people — you and Harvey and your folks and myself." "He won't come." "Will you?" "I — Oh, he won't come if he knows I am to be there." "Will you come if he will, knowing he is to meet you?" "Yes," she said at last. John remained for supper, when he also obtained the promise of Mr. and Mrs. Waite to be present at his home on Christmas Eve. (To be concluded in the next number.)