by Oliver Optic
CHAPTER I
THE FOURTH OF JULY COMING
"How much money have you got, Frank?" asked Charles Hardy of his friendFrank Sedley.
"Four dollars and seventy-five cents."
"That is more than twice as much as I have. Won't you have a glorioustime?"
It was the evening of the third of July, and the two boys were countingthe money they had saved for Independence. Captain Sedley, the fatherof Frank, had promised to take him and his friend to Boston to attendthe celebration; and they had long looked forward to the event with theliveliest anticipations of pleasure.
"I don't know, Charley," replied Frank Sedley, as he slid the moneyinto his purse; "I was thinking of something else."
"What, Frank?"
"I was thinking how poor the widow Weston is, and how much good thismoney I am going to throw away on fire-crackers and gingerbread woulddo her."
"Perhaps it would."
"I know it would."
"But you are not going to spoil our fun by giving it to her, are you?"
"There are a great many boys who will have no money to spendto-morrow--Tony Weston, for instance," continued Frank.
"Tony is a good fellow."
"That he is; and his mother has a terrible hard time of it to supportherself and her son and daughter."
"I suppose she has. Why don't you ask your father to help her?"
"He does help her. He gives her wood and flour, and a great many otherthings; and my mother employs her to do sewing. She is willing towork."
"And Tony works too."
"He is too young to do much; but he loves his mother, and tries to doall he can to lighten her burden."
"He makes a dollar a week sometimes."
"I was thinking just now that I would give Mrs. Weston the money I hadsaved for Independence."
"Pooh! Frank."
"It would do her a great deal of good."
"What is the use of going to Boston, if you have no money?" askedCharles, who was not a little disturbed by this proposed disbursementof the Fourth of July funds.
"I can stay at home, then."
"That wouldn't be fair, Frank."
"Why not?"
"You not only rob yourself of the fun, but me too."
"I really pity the poor woman so much that I cannot find it in my heartto spend the money foolishly, when it will buy so many comforts forher."
"Your father will give you some money for her."
"That isn't the thing."
"What do you mean?"
"You went to meeting last Sunday?"
"Yes."
"And heard the sermon?"
"Some of it," replied Charles, smiling.
"You remember the minister spoke of the luxury of doing good; of thebenefit one gets by sacrificing his inclination for the good of others,or something like that; I can't express it as he did, though I have theidea."
Frank paused, and looked earnestly into the face of his friend, toascertain whether he was likely to find any sympathy in the heart ofCharles.
"I do remember it, Frank. He told a story to illustrate his meaning."
"That was it. I don't very often mind much about the sermon, butsomehow I was very much interested in that one."
"And so you mean to give your money to the widow Weston, just to seehow you will feel after it," added Charles with a laugh.
"No; that isn't it."
"What is it, then?"
"I will give it to her because I really feel that she needs it morethan I do. I feel a pleasure in the thought of sacrificing myinclination for her happiness, which is more satisfactory than all thefun I anticipate to-morrow."
"You'll be a parson, Frank."
"No, I won't; I will do my duty."
"Have you made up your mind?"
"We can have a good time at home."
"Pooh!"
"I shall give my money to the widow Weston, at any rate."
Charles Hardy could not but admire the generosity of his friend, thoughhe found it difficult to abandon the thought of the pleasure heanticipated in spending the Fourth in Boston. He stood in silentthought a few moments, and then spoke.
"Well, Frank," said he, "if you have determined to give your money tothe widow, I shall follow your example."
"But, Charley, I didn't mean to influence you. I will even go to Bostonwith you, though I have no money."
"I will give my money to the widow. I think you are right."
"Good, Charley! I like you for it."
"I have two dollars and a quarter," continued Charles, taking the moneyfrom his pocket.
"We shall make up just seven dollars. How it will rejoice the heart ofthe poor woman!" exclaimed Frank with enthusiasm.
"So it will. But don't you think your father will make it up to us,when he finds out how generous we have been?"
Frank looked into the face of his companion with an expression ofpainful surprise on his countenance.
"I don't want him to do so."
"Why not?"
"It would rob the action of all its merit. If you give your money withthe hope of having it restored to you, I beg you not to give it at all.I have abandoned all thoughts of having any money to spend to-morrow."
"And not go to Boston?"
"No."
"What will your father say when you tell him you are not going? He willwant to know the reason."
"I will tell him day after to-morrow."
"He will want to know to-morrow."
"I can persuade him to wait. Shall we go over to-night, and give themoney to Mrs. Weston?"
"Yes; if you like."
"Wait a moment, and I will go into the house and ask my father to letme stay out till nine o'clock this evening."
Frank bounded lightly over the green lawn to his father's house, nearwhich the conversation took place.
Rippleton, the scene of my story, is a New England village, situatedabout ten miles from Boston. It is one of those thriving places whichhave sprung into existence in a moment, as it were, under the potentstimulus of a railroad and a water privilege. Twenty years ago itconsisted of only one factory and about a dozen houses. Now it is agreat, bustling village, and probably in a few years will become acity. Trains of cars arrive and depart every hour, as the Traveller'sGuide says; and a double row of factories extends along the sides ofthe river. It has its banks, its hotels, its dozen churches, and itsnoisy streets--indeed, almost all the pomp and circumstance of a greatcity.
About a mile from the village was the beautiful residence of CaptainSedley--Frank's father. He was a retired shipmaster, in which capacityhe had acquired a handsome fortune. His house was built within a fewrods of Wood Lake--a beautiful sheet of water, nearly three miles inlength, and a little more than a mile in width. On the river, whichformed the outlet of this lake, the village of Rippleton was situated;and its clear waters turned the great wheels of the factories.
Captain Sedley had chosen this place in which to spend the evening ofhis days, because it seemed to him the loveliest spot in all NewEngland. The glassy, transparent lake, with its wood-crowned shores,its picturesque rocks, its little green islands, indeed, everythingabout it was so grand and beautiful, that it seemed more like thecreation of an enthusiastic imagination than a substantial reality. Theretired shipmaster loved the beautiful in nature, and his first view ofthe silver lake and the surrounding country enabled him to decide thatthis spot should be his future habitation. He bought the land, builthim a fine house, and was as happy as a mortal could desire to be.
But I beg my young reader not to think that Captain Sedley was happybecause he lived in such a beautiful place, and had such a fine house,and so much money at his command; for a beautiful prospect, a costlydwelling, and plenty of money, alone, cannot make a person contentedand happy. The richest men are often the most miserable; a bed of downmay be a bed of thorns; and a magnificent mansion will not banish thegnawings of remorse.
Captain Sedley was a good man. He had always endeavored to be tr
ue tohis God and true to himself; to be just and honest in his relations tohis fellow-men. In an active business experience of twenty years, hehad found a great many opportunities for doing good--opportunitieswhich he had had the moral courage to improve. He loved his God byloving his fellow-man. He had made his fortune by being honest andjust. He had lived a good life; and as every good man will, whether heget rich or poor by it, he was receiving his reward in the serenehappiness of his life in this world, and in the cherished hope ofeverlasting bliss in the world to come.
Captain Sedley was happy, too, in his family. Mrs. Sedley was anamiable and devoted woman; and Frank, his only child, was anaffectionate and obedient son. Perhaps my young friends cannot fullyappreciate the amount of satisfaction which a parent derives from thegood character of his child. Though the worthy shipmaster had abeautiful estate and plenty of money, if his son had been a liar, athief, a profane swearer,--in short, if Frank had been a bad boy,--hecould not have been happy. If a wise and good father could choosebetween having his son a hopeless drunkard or villain, and laying hiscold form in the dark grave, never more to see him on earth, he wouldno doubt choose the latter. Almost all parents say so; and their wordsare so earnest, their tears so eloquent, that we cannot but believe it.Such was the father of Frank Sedley, and it was such a father that madeso good a son.
Charles Hardy was the son of one of the factory agents, who was CaptainSedley's nearest neighbor; and a strong friendship had grown up betweenthe two boys. Charles's character was essentially different from thatof his friend; but as I prefer that my young reader should judge hisdisposition for himself, and distinguish between the good and the evilof his thoughts and actions as the story proceeds, I shall not now tellhim what kind of a boy he was.