--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Hafen, Annie Woodbury collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 20 number: 11 published: 1917-09 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'Annie Woodbury Hafen, "Withhold Your Verdict," *Improvement Era* 20, no. 11 (September 1917): 955–959.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera20011unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera20011unse start_page: 955 end_page: 959 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1917-09) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera20011unse publication_year: 1917 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1917, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # Withhold Your Verdict Withhold Your Verdict By Annie Woodbury Hafen "Oh-h! This weather," I yawned as I stretched iny anus forth in a most unladylike manner and whirled around on my office chair; "I simply can't stay awake." But I noticed that the gray head of my employer was nod- ding also; his nose suddenly bumped the desk, and up his head flew. "Gracious! this weather," he mused as he sought for the place on his book where he had left off. "Just what I was saying. I simply can't accomplish one thing this afternoon," I said emphatically, trying to thrill myself with renewed energy. But on a hot day in August, when the dampness on your brow neutralizes the night's work of your curlpapers, and your fresh waist hangs limply about you, it is very hard to thrill yourself with energy. Nor is it easy to be the amiable janitor, nor the swift errand girl, nor the perfect adding machine that you are expected to be in a little county office. You see, I was Deputy Clerk in a county office in southern Utah. The County Clerk was a very kind yet steadfast man and he made things just as pleasant as possible for me during work- ing hours. On this especially stupefying afternoon he noticed my rest- lessness and suggested that I might clear out the old cupboard in the corner while I rested my eyes and brain. This cupboard had been a catch-all for the relics left by each retiring clerk. Old seals, old inkwells, old stamp pads, old watches, old bottles, — all combined made it seem like an old curiosity shop. There was no work that could have suited me better just then. In a short time, by my side there was a great heap of junk for the rubbish pile, and the shelves were taking on a clean and orderly look. On the very bottom shelf, from away back in a dusty, dark corner, behind a tin box, I drew forth an old, yellow county newspaper, and a bundle tied up in a faded red silk handker- chief. "What's this?" I asked as I dangled the dusty bundle before my employer. Upon investigation, he pronounced it to be the trinkets and papers taken from the body of an anonymous IMPROVEMENT ERA man drowned in the Clara Creek some ten years before. The newspaper contained an account of his death. "No use keeping them any longer," he said finally; "throw them into the junk heap." I was very curious to know what the bundle contained, but 1 worked on until the last trace of disorder was cleared away. It was then past five o'clock, the time for closing, so I took my belongings, the curious bundle, and the aged newspaper, and seated myself in the shade of a tree in the back yard. "Man drowned in Santa Clara Creek," ran the startling headlines in the worn weekly paper. The words sent a chill down my back; but I wanted to know more about the mysterious death, the bundle, and all, so I read on until I had devoured every detail in the article. The newspaper stated that on May 1, 1901, the dead body of a man had been found on the east bank of the Santa Clara Creek. Nothing could be found on the body of deceased to fully identify him; a few papers and trinkets revealed that his name was Jack and that he came from Kansas. An inquest held de- cided that the man, apparently a prospector, had attempted to cross the flooded creek on a donkey, and that neither donkey nor man had come out alive. All information obtainable, which was very meager, was telegraphed to authorities in Kansas ; no claim- ant appeared; so the body was buried by the County in the St. George cemetery. With a curious thrill I turned to examine the bundle. For fully fifteen minutes I tugged at the hardened knot. The thread- bare cloth suddenly broke and into my lap slid a dozen yellow papers and an old silver watch. In the back of the useless time- piece I found a soft yellow curl, quite glossy yet. It was from some baby's head, I knew. I scanned a few papers. They were love letters from a wife to her husband written in a rather rough, girlish hand. Yes, they were truly love letters. The simple language in every one was teeming with all the love, devotion, and longing that a waiting wife can feel for an absent husband. Briny tears were streaming down my cheeks when I came to the last letter. It was longer than the others. Besides the usual phrases of love and yearning, there was a plea for her husband to return. "Your letters," it read, "have been less frequent lately, and they do not seem so full of love. I have wondered, can you be forgetting? Jack, dear, give up your prospecting. Come back to the little farm. I shall be quite content and happy now, even if we are poor, if you are with us ! Every time the whistle blows, little Rose screams and claps her hands, 'cause she thinks her daddy's coming. But he hasn't come yet. I am sending one of — her curls her little head is covered with them now. Let it, if WITHHOLD YOUR VERDICT 957 nothing else, bring you back to your baby and your Lily who loves you." I was touched by the sweet appeal, and I wondered if the man wilfully, could longer stay away from the yearning wife. Who could ever know? But turning over the last page of her letter I found written in a scrawling, masculine hand: — "Dear Lily excuse paper. It's all I've got. I'm broke now but as soon as I can raise the dow I'll come home. Kiss the little kid for me. I keep her curl inside my watch. Will write more when I land some work." But that reassuring letter was never sent. I closed my eyes and pictured a mother and child somewhere in the world, who had hopefully waited and watched for footsteps that never came. Then I could see as the years sped by and brought no tidings that a loving heart had calloused, a hopeful spirit turned to one of dread despair; for the man could never return and the woman could never know why. My heart bled as I pictured the lonely, broken wife who bowed down and bitterly moaned, "De- serted." Yes, all indications said she was deserted, and yet the man was true to her. woman, withhold your verdict. The man is innocent until he is proved guilty. You should trust. Ah, it is easy to say what another should do! All the while that I had been reading the letters and sor- rowing for those unfortunates, I was silently living again my own troubles and sorrowing for myself. How different life might — have been if but there was the big unconquerable if. All was over now. I leaned my head against a post. The tears did not flow but there was a dull heavy ache in my heart. The sun had gone down. All was quiet save the distant roaring of the river. It was the peaceful twilight hour — yes, love's own sweet hour; sentence that I had passed on the but not for me. Just then the other woman fell upon me. Withhold your verdict. The man is innocent until he is proved guilty. Had I trusted enough? or had my pride killed my sense of justice? No, no, the man my case; and yet, I could not prove it. I must was guilty in think. I must think it all over. We were schoolmates, Ray and I. I always admired him. He was the ideal of my girlish dreams. And then he went away to study. He had strong ambitions to become a worthy lawyer. were For years we wrote our friendly letters; sometimes they stopped entirely until— few and far between, but they never well, last spring, just three months ago, he wrote a truly love letter saying he felt confident that he could now take care of a wife and he wanted a wife to care for him. The dear old fellow! business-like way, yet it all sounded He did it in a matter-of-fact, so sweet to me. It was just what my heart was hungering for. IMPROVEMENT ERA "I think you love me, Evelyn. I can almost read it between the lines in your letters. But," he wrote in his mock-serious way, "if I am mistaken, and you do not care for me, do not send a letter of rejection. No, no, I would far better receive no an- swer at all." Well, I knew that he knew that I loved him. I could not hide my joy. I was the happiest girl in the world at the mere thoughts of being his wife, so I wrote a letter in which I poured out my heart to him. And what did I receive for it? I was ignored, humiliated. Days went on, but still no letter came. It was then I felt with bitterest pangs that he was merely playing with me. When I had received that letter I was so happy that I could not contain myself. I had told mother, father, those dear girl friends, and even my little brothers and sisters; and now, now they all knew that things were different. It was not only losing the man that hurt. There was the humiliation that came when my family and friends knew that I was jilted. I could not bear their pitying glances. Oh, how could he do it? It was wicked; it was cruel. If it were only possible that he was not to blame. Perhaps, he had not received my letter. Perhaps the same treacherous stream that had taken that man from his wife, had also stolen my letter and had taken my love from me. Improbable, but could it not be possible? Three months ago the spring freshets were raging. More than once the mail sacks had been snatched from the hack by the floods. But had they not always been rescued from the waves? I wanted to hope, and yet I dared not. Should I have faith in him till he was proved guilty? No, I could not; my humiliation had been too great. Oh, I was so weary of everything. I opened my eyes and glanced around. It had grown quite dusky, so I gathered up my things and sauntered home. Mother met me at the door. "Why Eva, what makes you so late tonight?" she asked gently. I smiled sadly but could not speak. Mother understood. More than once during the past two months I had come home with the same heavy heartache. "James," she called, "saddle Eva's pony and bring it to the gate." The dear discerning mother! She knew what I wanted and needed at times like this. I aimlessly dressed in my riding habit. "Couldn't you eat a bit of supper before you go?" mother coaxed. But I shook my head. She brought a glass of rich, fresh milk. "You must drink this, child." I swallowed it, mounted my horse, and was out in the starry night. Betsy did not gallop off as she usually did. She caught my WITHHOLD YOUR VERDICT 959 mood and paced along at a slow, easy gait. I wanted to be out iu the world of nature, away from everything human. The creek was roaring tonight. I guided my pony to the fields where the water flowed. As I rode along in the shadow of the old Black Hill, my heart prayed painfully and I bowed my head over my dear little Betsy's neck. "Dear, kind Father, give me wisdom, give me faith, and," I breathed aloud, "give me love." We followed the creek until it joined the Virgen River. Betsy and I halted and looked long at the dark, roaring waters. Suddenly a light fell about us. I turned. The great yellow moon was rising over the hills not far away. Its light trans- formed the dark waters into dancing mirrors. O mighty forces, — two racing rivers, coming from different points, one heavy with thick, yellow clay, the other dark with black, rich soil. They met, mingled their waters, and became one stronger, might- ier body that raced onward to the Colorado. "Ah," I thought, "how like our lives. Man and woman coming from different parts, leading different colored lives, meet, mingle, merge and become one mightier power in the grand realm of parenthood." Then such a feeling surged through my being. I closed my eyes. I could hear the waters singing: "As unto the bow the arrow, So unto the man is woman. Though she bends him, she obeys him; Though she follows, yet she sways him: Useless each without the other." Yes, I decided that I wanted and needed my love so badly, I would trust; I would bury my false pride. I would write to him. I would find if there were a misunderstanding. I would — know all. And perhaps perhaps all would be well yet. With renewed strength and steadfast purpose, I guided my pony towards home. We galloped along through the moonlit fields. Filled with the joy of living, my whole being cried out: "God's in his heaven, all's right with the world." When I reached home, I went straight to my room, wrote a short, business-like note to Ray. I asked if he had received my letter of acceptance; if he had, and had changed his mind re- garding me, things were all right as they were; but if he had not — received it I, well, I merely wanted him to know that I had written it. I could not expect a written answer from him for at least four days. As I waited, I felt hopeful. Whatever the answer, I should, at least, know the truth. On the evening of the second day, as I was lying in our old