by B. F. Craig
SCENE FOURTH--ROXIE DAYMON AND ROSE SIMON.
```The road of life is light and dark,
```Each journeyman will make his mark;
```The mark is seen by all behind,
```Excepting those who go stark blind.
```Men for women mark out the way,
```In spite of all the rib can say;
```But when the way is rough and hard,
```The woman’s eye will come to guard
```The footsteps of her liege and lord,
```With gentle tone and loving word.=
|Since the curtain fell upon the closing sentence in the last scene,many long and tedious seasons have passed away.
The placid waters of the beautiful Ohio have long since been disturbedby steam navigation; and the music of the steam engine echoing from theriver hills have alarmed the bat and the owl, and broke the solitudearound the graves of many of the first settlers. Many old associationshave lived and died. The infant images of the early settlers are menand women. In the order of time Roxie Fairfield, the heroine of the snowstorm, and Aunt Fillis Foster, claim our attention.
With a few back glances at girlhood, we hasten on to her womanhood. AuntFillis permitted Roxie to attend a country school a few months in eachyear. The school house was built of round logs, was twenty feet square,with one log left out on the south side for a window. The seats weremade of slabs from the drift wood on the Ohio River, (the first cutfrom the log, one side flat, the other having the shape of the log,rounding); holes were bored in the slabs and pins eighteen inches longinserted for legs. These benches were set against the wall of the room,and the pupils arranged sitting in rows around the room. In the centersat the teacher by a little square table, with a switch long enough toreach any pupil in the house without rising from his seat. And thus theheroine of the snow storm received the rudiments of an education, as shegrew to womanhood.
Roxie was obedient, tidy--and twenty, and like all girls of her class,had a lover. Aunt Fillis said Roxie kept everything about the house inthe right place, and was always in the right place herself; she saidmore, she could not keep house without her. By what spirit Aunt Filliswas animated we shall not undertake to say, but she forbade Roxie’slover the prerogative of her premises.
Roxie’s family blood could never submit to slavery, and she ranaway with her lover, was married according to the common law, whichrecognizes man and wife as one, and the man is that one.
They went to Louisville, and the reader has already been introduced tothe womanhood of Roxie Fairfield in the person of Daymon’s wife.
The reader is referred to the closing sentence of Scene First. Daymonwas granted a new trial, which never came off, and the young couple leftLouisville and went to Chicago, Illinois. Roxie had been concealed by afemale friend, and only learned the fate of Daymon a few minutes beforeshe entered the court room. Daymon resolved to reform, for when futurehope departed, and all but life had fled, the faithful Roxie rose like aspirit from the dead to come and stand by him.
Daymon and Roxie left Louisville without any intimation oftheir-destination to any one, without anything to pay expenses, andnothing but their wearing apparel, both resolved to work, for the sunshone as brightly upon them as it did upon any man and woman in theworld.
As a day laborer Daymon worked in and around the infant city, asignorant of the bright future as the wild ducks that hovered ‘round theshores of the lake.
It is said that P. J. Marquette, a French missionary from Canada was thefirst white man that settled on the spot where Chicago now stands. Thiswas before the war of the Revolution, and his residence was temporary.
Many years afterward a negro from San Domingo made some improvementsat the same place; but John Kinzie is generally regarded as the firstsettler at Chicago, for he made a permanent home there in 1804. For aquarter of a century the village had less than one hundred inhabitants.A wild onion that grew there, called by the Indians Chikago, gave thename to the city.
After a few years of hard, labor and strict economy a land-holder wasindebted to Daymon the sum of one hundred and fifty dollars. Daymonwished to collect his dues and emigrate farther west. By the persuasionof Roxie he was induced to accept a deed to fifteen acres of land. In ashort time he sold one acre for more than the cost of the whole tract,and was soon selling by the foot instead of the acre. The unparalleledgrowth of the city made. Daymon rich in spite of himself. .
The ever wakeful eye of the Angel of observation is peering into theparlor of the Daymon _palace_, to see Roxie surrounded with all theluxuries of furniture, sitting by an ornamented table, upon which laygilt-edged paper; in the center of the table sat a pearl ink-stand and aglass ornament set with variegated colors. Roxie’s forehead rested uponthe palm of her left hand, elbow on the table. Profound reflectionsare passing through her brain; they carry her back to the days of herchildhood. Oh, how she loved Suza; the little bright eyes gazed uponher and the red lips pronounced the inaudible sound, “_dear sister_.” “Yes, I will write,” said Roxie, mentally. She takes the gold pen inher right hand, adjusting the paper with her left, she _paused_ tothank from the bottom of her heart old Ben Robertson, who in the countryschool had taught her the art of penmanship. _Hush!_ did the hall bellring? In a few minutes a servant appeared at the door and announced thename of Aunt Patsy Perkins.
“Admit Aunt Patsy--tell her your mistress is at home,” said Roxie,rising from the table.
Aunt Patsy Perkins was floating upon the surface of upper-tendomin Chicago. She understood all of the late styles; a queen in thedrawing-room, understood the art precisely of entertaining company; thegrandest ladies in the city would listen to the council of Aunt Patsy,for she could talk faster and more of it than any woman west of theAlleghany Mountains.
The visitor enters the room; Roxie offers Aunt Patsy an easy chair;Aunt Patsy is wiping away the perspiration with a fancy kerchief, in onehand, and using the fan with the other. When seated she said:
“I must rest a little, for I have something to tell you, and I willtell you now what it is before I begin. Old Perkins has no more love forstyle than I have for his _dratted poor kin_. But as I was going to tellyou, Perkins received a letter from Indiana, stating this Cousin Sallywished to make us a visit. She’s a plain, poor girl, that knows no moreof style than Perkins does of a woman’s comforts. I’ll tell you whatit is, Mrs. Daymon, if she does come, if I don’t make it hot for oldPerkins, it’ll be because I can’t talk. A woman has nothing but hertongue, and while I live I will use mine.”
Then pointing her index finger at Roxie, continued: “I will tell youwhat it is Mrs. Daymon, take two white beans out of one hull, and placethem on the top of the garden fence, and then look at ‘em across thegarden, and if you can tell which one is the largest, you can seen whatdifference there is in the way old Perkins hates style and I hate his_dratted poor kin_. What wealthy families are to do in this city, Godonly knows. I think sometimes old Perkins is a _wooden man_, for, withall my style, I can make no more impression on h-i-m, than I can uponan oak stump, Mrs. Daymon. What if he did make a thousand dollars lastweek, when he wants to stick his _poor kin_ ‘round me, like stumps in aflower garden.” At this point Roxie ventured to say a word. “Aunt Patsy,I thought Jim was kinsfolk on your side of the house.”
“Yes, but honey, I am good to Jim, poor soul, he knows it,” said AuntPatsy gravely, and then she paused.
Jim was a poor boy, eighteen years old, and the son of Aunt Patsy’s dearbrother, long since laid under the dark green sod of Indiana. The poorboy, hearing of the wealth of his Aunt Patsy, had come to Chicago andwas working on the streets, poorly clad.
Aunt Patsy would sometimes give him a few dollars, as you would throwa bone to a dog, requesting him at the same time to always come to theback door, and never be about the house when she had company.
Aunt Patsy said emphatically, as she left the Daymon palace, “I’ll tellyou what it is, Mrs. Daymon, I’m goin’ home to study human nature,and if I don’t find s
ome avenue to reach old Perkim, I shall take theliberty to insult the first one of his _dratted poor kin_ that sets footin my house.”
After Aunt Patsy left, Roxie thought no more of her letter of inquiry,and company engaged her attention for some days until the subject passedentirely out of her mind.
Soon after these events Roxie died with the cholera--leaving an onlydaughter--and was buried as ignorant of the fate of her sister as thestone that now stands upon her grave.
We must now turn back more than a decade, which brings us to the burningof the steamboat Brandywine, on the Mississippi river. The boat washeavily freighted, with a large number of passengers on board; theorigin of the fire has never been positively known; it was late inthe night, with a heavy breeze striking the boat aft, where the fireoccurred. In a short time all on board was in confusion; the pilot, fromthe confusion of the moment, or the lack of a proper knowledge of theriver, headed the boat for the wrong shore, and she ran a-ground ona deep sand bar a long way from shore and burned to the waters’ edge;between the two great elements of fire and water many leaped into theriver and were drowned, and some reached the shore on pieces ofthe wreck. Among those fortunate enough to reach the shore was anEnglishman, who was so badly injured he was unable to walk; by the morefortunate he was carried to the cabin of a wood cutter, where he soonafter died.
When he fully realized the situation he called for ink and paper; therewas none on the premises; a messenger was dispatched to the nearestpoint where it was supposed the articles could be obtained, but he wastoo late. When the last moments came the dying man made the followingstatement: “My name is John A. Lasco. I have traveled for three yearsin this country without finding the slightest trace of the object ofmy search--an only and a dear sister. Her name is Susan Lasco; with ourfather she left the old country many years ago. They were poor.--thefamily fortune being held in abeyance by the loss of some papers. Iremained, but our father gave up all hope and emigrated to America,taking Susan with him. In the course of nature the old man is dead,and my sister Susan, if she is living, is the last, or soon will be thelast, link of the family. I am making this statement as my last will andtestament. Some years ago the post-master in my native town receiveda letter from America stating that by the confession of one, AlonzoPhelps, who was condemned to die, that there was a bundle of papersconcealed in a certain place by him before he left the country. Searchwas made and the papers found which gave me the possession of the familyestate. The letter was subscribed D. C., which gave a poor knowledge ofthe writer. I sold the property and emigrated to this country in searchof my sister; I have had poor success. She probably married, and theceremony changed her name, and I fear she is hopelessly lost to herrights; her name was Susan Lasco--what it is now, God only knows. Butto Susan Lasco, and her descendants, I will the sum of twenty thousanddollars, now on deposit in a western bank; the certificate of depositnames the bank; the papers are wet and now upon my person; the money inmy pocket, $110, I will to the good woman of this house--with a requestthat she will carefully dry and preserve my papers, and deliver themto some respectable lawyer in Memphis----” at this point the speaker wasbreathing hard--his tone of voice almost inaudible. At his request,made by signs, he was turned over and died in a few moments without anyfurther directions.
The inmates of the cabin, besides the good woman of the house, were onlya few wood cutters, among whom stood Brindle Bill, of Shirt-TailBend notoriety. Bill, to use his own language, was _strap’d_, and waschopping wood at this point to raise a little money upon which to makeanother start. Many years had passed away since he left Shirt Tail Bend.He had been three times set on shore, from steamboats, for playing sharptricks at three card monte upon passengers, and he had gone to work,which he never did until he was entirely out of money. Brindle Bill leftthe cabin, _ostensibly_ to go to work; but he sat upon the log, rubbedhis hand across his forehead, and said mentally, “Susan La-s-co. By thelast card in the deck, _that is the name_; if I didn’t hear Simon’swife, in Shirt-Tail Bend, years ago, say her mother’s name was S-u-s-a-nL-a-s-c-o. I will never play another game; and--and _twenty thousand inbank_. By hell, I’ve struck a lead.”
The ever open ear of the Angel of observation was catching the sound ofa conversation in the cabin of Sundown Hill in Shirt-Tail Bend. It wasas follows--
“Many changes, Bill, since you left here; the Carlo wood yard has play’dout; Don Carlo went back to Kentucky. I heard he was blowed up on asteamboat; if he ever come down again I did’nt hear of it.”
“Hope he never did,” said Bill, chawing the old grudge with his eyeteeth.
Hill continued: “You see, Bill, the old wood yards have given place toplantations. Simon, your old friend, is making pretentions to be calleda planter,” said Sundown Hill to Brindle Bill, in a tone of confidence.
“Go slow, Hill, there is a hen on the nest. I come back here to play astrong game; twenty thousand in bank,” and Brindle Bill winked with hisright eye, the language of which is, I deal and you play the cards Igive you. “You heard of the burning of the Brandywine; well, there wasan Englishman went up in that scrape, and he left twenty thousand inbank, and Rose Simon is the _heir_,” said Bill in a tone of confidence.
“And what can that profit y-o-u?” said Hill rather indignantly.
“I am playing this game; I want you to send for Simon,” said Bill rathercommandingly.
“Simon has changed considerably since you saw him; and, besides,fortunes that come across the water seldom prove true. Men who havefortunes in their native land seldom seek fortunes in a strangecountry,” said Hill argumentatively.
“There is no mistake in this case, for uncle John had-the _di-dappereggs_ in his pocket,” said Bill firmly.
Late that evening three men, in close council, were seen, in Shirt-TailBend. S. S. Simon had joined the company of the other two. After BrindleBill had related to Simon the events above described, the followingquestions and answers, passed between the two:
“Mrs. Simon’s mother was named Susan Lasco?”
“Undoubtedly; and her father’s name was Tom Fairfield. She is the bravewoman who broke up, or rather burned up, the gambling den in Shirt-TailBend. We were married in Tennessee. Mrs. Simon was the adopted daughterof Mrs. Evaline Estep, her parents having died when she was quite young.The old lady Estep tried to horn me off; but I _beat her_. Well the oldChristian woman gave Rose a good many things, among which was a box offamily keep sakes; she said they were given to her in consideration ofher taking the youngest child of the orphan children. There may besomething in that box to identify the family.”
At this point Brindle Bill winked his right eye--it is my deal, you playthe cards I give you. As Simon was about to’ leave the company, to breakthe news to his wife, Brindle Bill said to him very confidentially:“You find out in what part of the country this division of the orphanchildren took place, and whenever you find that place, be where itwill, right there is where I was raised--the balance of them children is_dead_, Simon,” and he again winked his right eye.
“I understand,” said Simon, and as he walked on towards home to appriseRose of her good fortune, he said mentally, “This is Bill’s deal, I willplay the cards he gives me.” Simon was a shifty man; he stood in the_half-way house_ between the honest man and the rogue: was always readyto take anything he could lay hands on, as long as he could hold someone else between himself and danger. Rose Simon received the news withdelight. She hastened to her box of keepsakes and held before Simon’sastonished eyes an old breast-pin with this inscription: “Presented toSusan Lasco by her brother, John A. Lasco, 1751.”
“That’s all the evidence we want,” said Simon emphatically. “Now,” continued Simon, coaxingly, “What became of your sisters?”
“You know when Mrs. Estep moved to Tennessee I was quite small. I haveheard nothing of my sisters since that time. It has been more thanfifteen years,” said Rose gravely. .
“At what point in Kentucky were you separated?” said Simon inquiringly.<
br />
“Port William, the mouth of the Kentucky river,” said Rose plainly.
“Brindle Bill says they are dead,” said Simon slowly.
“B-r-i-n-d-l-e B-i-l-l, why, I would not believe him on oath,” said Roseindignantly.
“Yes, but he can prove it,” said Simon triumphantly, and he thencontinued, “If we leave any gaps down, _my dear_, we will not be able todraw the money until those sisters are hunted up, and then it would cutus down to less than seven thousand dollars--and that would hardly buildus a fine house,” and with many fair and coaxing words Simon obtained apromise from Rose that she would permit him to manage the business.
At the counter of a western bank stood S. S. Simon and party presentingthe certificate of deposit for twenty thousand dollars. In addition tothe breast-pin Rose had unfolded an old paper, that had laid for yearsin the bottom of her box. It was a certificate of the marriage of TomFairfield and Susan Lasco. Brindle Bill and Sundown Hill were sworn andtestified that Rose Simon _alias_ Rose Fairfield was the only survivingchild of Tom Fairfield and Susan Lasco. Brindle Bill said he was raisedin Port William, and was at the funeral of the little innocent yearsbefore, The money was paid over. Rose did not believe a word thatBill said but she had promised Simon that she would let him manage thebusiness, and few people will refuse money when it is thrust upon them.
The party returned to Shirt-Tail Bend. Simon deceived Rose with the pleaof some little debts, paid over to Brindle Bill and Sundown Hill threehundred dollars each. Brindle Bill soon got away with three hundreddollars; “Strop’d again,” he said mentally, and then continued, “Somecall it blackmailin’ or backmailin’, but I call it a _back-handed_ game.It is nothing but making use of power, and if a fellow don’t use powerwhen it’s put in his hands he had better bunch tools and quit.” Brindle Bill said to S. S. Simon, “I have had a streak of bad luck; lostall my money; want to borrow three hundred dollars. No use to say youhavn’t got it, for I can find them sisters of your wife in less thanthree weeks,” and he winked his right eye.
Simon hesitated, but finally with many words of caution paid over themoney.
Soon after these events S. S. Simon was greatly relieved by reading ina newspaper the account of the sentence of Brindle Bill to the stateprison for a long term of years.
S. S. Simon now stood in the front rank of the planters of hisneighborhood; had built a new house and ready to furnish it; Rose waspersuaded by him to make the trip with him to New Orleans and select herfurniture for the new house. While in the city Rose Simon was attackedwith the yellow fever and died on the way home. She was buried inLouisiana, intestate and childless.