Poorly Rich by Rose Terry Cooke

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, Cal. · Feb 23, 1882

Poorly Rich.

By Rose Terry Cooke

"Oh dear, how I do hate to be poor!" sighed Mrs. Manners, as she laid down the fifth shirt she was making.

There are various kinds of poverty. Mrs. Manners would have been called rich by any shopgirl in New York, but she felt very poor, and Scripture, as well as common sense, tells us that as a man "thinketh in his heart, so is he." Her husband was book-keeper in a great iron manufactory; they had no children, they were not in debt, and on their pleasant flat, keeping one servant, Mrs. Manners need not even have made her husband's shirts if she preferred to put them out or buy them. Still she was unhappy; she wanted a house of her own, a sealskin sacque, a velvet dress, a library full of books, plenty of silver, china, pictures, for her tastes were refined as well as luxurious. She was discontented, in fact; and it went to John Manners' heart to see the line deepen on her white forehead and gloom gather in her bright eyes day by day; but he could not help it.

"Just look at Mr. C. and Mr. D.," she often said to him. "They began as poor boys, and now they are rolling in money. I am sure you're just as smart as they are, John. Why don't we get rich?"

John Manners could not answer. The truth was, such people as Mr. C. and Mr. D. are exceptional; they had remarkable business talent and great energy. John Manners had neither; he was rather a slow-molded man, industrious, patient, honest, and good-tempered; a man most attentive to and careful of his wife, and painfully anxious to make her happy and contented.

Caroline Dart was a farmer's daughter, a neighbor of Parson Manners, and when the clergyman's son went into the Thor Iron Works, instead of studying for the ministry, everybody in Stafford was surprised; but John had no wish to be a clergyman, and he did wish to marry Carry Dart, whom he had loved ever since their school-days. It had seemed great promotion to Carry to leave teaching district school and go to live in the city, when John got a rise in his salary, and could ask her to marry him at last; and it seemed to him nobody could be happier than he, with enough to live on and lay by, and a dear, thrifty, smiling wife to welcome him home from work. But when the novelty wore off Carry was by no means smiling or happy. She had been a personage in Stafford; here she was nobody. There all knew her, and her dark red silk wedding-dress, which she had earned by teaching, was almost too gorgeous to wear to church; here it was hardly good enough, and her bonnet was entirely out of style. However, she had good taste and nimble fingers, and soon wore as fashionable garments as other people, if they were of poor material. But she wanted better things, and to that end saved, spared, pinched in food and fire, and fretted in a helpless sort of way, at last sending her servant away and undertaking the work herself. But city air, stairs, want of outdoor exercise, and hard work, soon told on her aspect, at least. She grew thin and sallow, and did not like to look in the glass; still, she consoled herself with thinking of the handsome set of furniture she had at last been able to buy—a set of heavy, carved walnut with damask upholstery, that filled up that tiny parlor in the most comfortless fashion. Then John began to have dyspepsia. Why not? She gave him the poorest sort of meat, badly cooked; bread from a cheap bakery that, of course, had to be adulterated to be sold cheaply; stale vegetables, bought at half price; no fruit, eggs, fresh fish, or savory soups; and, besides these dreary meals, her dreary face at the other end of the table did not add to that cheerfulness so necessary to assist digestion. After a few years John's work became very much harder. The heads of the firm proposed to him to have a clerk, but he saw here a prospect to make more money, and, as he thought of Carry, his heart grew light, and he offered to do the extra work at night if they would give him the extra salary. Of course they consented. John was better fitted for their wants than any stranger, who would have to be taught, drilled, admitted into their private affairs, and, perhaps, after all, prove untrustworthy. If Carry was lonely evenings she did not say so; it was so good to have John making more money! And, as she was not now obliged to spend her evenings playing backgammon with him or talking over the daily news, or going to the evening meetings of the church to which they belonged, she had just so much more time, and, to improve it, got copying to do from a lawyer's office. She did so hope they would have a house of their own some time; and if ever the lovely, rosy children she met with their nurses, walking out on the avenue, as she traversed it on her way to get her work, sent a pang of covetous admiration through her human heart, she sternly repressed it; children were such a dreadful expense, they could never, never afford it.

So things went on for five years. John grew thin and haggard every year; his hair began to show grey threads, and his skin was lifeless and sallow. He never had time to go anywhere. If his Sunday-school class asked him to go with them on any church excursion, he had no time. If a friend called in on Sunday evening after church—for they had made a few acquaintances—and asked if he were going to some cheap concert, or free lecture, the answer was invariably "No, I have no time; I have so much to do." And Carry gave the same answer. Even on the legal holidays they took no outings, except to wander up into the park if it was summer—a pleasure free to the poorest; or to attend church on Thanksgiving Days, and Christmas at some other church than their own, with better music and finer decorations than they should see elsewhere. To tell the truth, most of these holidays John spent on the sofa, half asleep; rest was more to him than pleasure. He had long been obliged when ten years of his married life were over, to give up Sunday-school and second service; indeed, he nodded so often during the morning sermon that he came home with a very vague idea of its subject; and Carry could not help him much, for she too was worn, sallow, weary all the time, but still crying out for money, breathing a secret aspiration for wealth in her heart continually, and speaking aloud from that abundance. It seemed to her the one solid good of this world. Of course, you couldn't carry it to the next, that she knew, but oh, what pleasure it would give her here! What was there money could not give and bring?

She meant to be a good woman, she meant to do her duty; any clothes she could not possibly cut over or turn any more she gave to the woman who washed for her, who had five small children; she sometimes gave stale food to a beggar. Money she could not give, it was too precious; so when the contribution box was passed in church she did not see it, and when the collector called she was always out of change; but meantime her bank-book grew more and more agreeable to look at, and she wrote for two lawyers, she had drilled herself so faithfully to write clearly and fast.

Then John was offered still another chance to increase his income; he could draw well—that is, copy; and the engineer of the Thor Iron Works was perfecting a new invention; some draughtsman was necessary to duplicate his drawings of machinery, and write out specifications and directions. John could do this if he could be helped in his writing. So Carry went up town with him every morning, and did his work while he worked for the engineer. This involved cold meals with the exception of breakfast, which she rose early to prepare, leaving her dishes to wash at her return. And after an evening of copying briefs, she was too tired to make John the hot coffee, the bit of milk-toast, or the dropped egg he had been accustomed to. It was cheaper and easier to give him a glass of beer, a bun, and a pickle.

But after that year John grew more pale and thin; his eyes troubled him, his back began to

ache; and Carry was too irritable herself to pity or comfort him. One day he went alone to see a doctor. It was Sunday, and the people were coming home from the second service. He felt so giddy and queer, that he turned out of the avenue, down which he was walking, into a side street to avoid them; and as he passed an open window in a house on the corner, he heard a clear voice singing to an organ accompaniment that most beautiful of sentences,

"Rest in the Lord! oh, rest in the Lord! Wait patiently for him, and he shall give thee thy heart's desire."

John leaned against the railing of the garden for a moment. "Rest in the Lord?" Why, he had almost forgotten him! He had worked so hard for his heart's desire—no, for Carry's—that he had not had time to rest, even in the fatherhood of his God. He thought of his boyhood; of his good old father so long unseen; of his Christian experience and hope so rusted and corroded; of the treasure not laid up in heaven,—and his heart smote him. He found his way to the doctor's office as if he were walking in a dream; his waxy yellow pallor told a sure story to the experienced eye fastened upon him; but Dr. Blair made his examination and listened to his patient's story with forbearing silence.

"You are not at all well," he said quietly, as he laid John's hand down. "You have worked yourself out; a man can't do more than he can, Mr. Manners, and you have tried to do it for years. You must have absolute rest, country air, plenty of fresh milk; and you must not worry."

John laughed, but the laughter was hollow.

"That is to say, doctor, I must give up my work, and my prospects,—and everything!"—he meant Carry.

"A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things that he possesseth," said the doctor solemnly. "I tell you frankly Mr. Manners, it is a matter of life and death with you."

John fainted. Dr. Blair rang the bell.

"Sam, fetch a spoonful of brandy, quick! then send round the carriage."

And when John was able to be taken home, the doctor carried him there in his coupe, and helped him up the stair. Carry was shocked to see him. Whatever love her small heart held for him awoke now, and alarmed her. She put him on the sofa tenderly enough, and made him a cup of tea. But she thought the faintness and weakness he still showed would pass away, for the doctor had not time to stop and explain the case, and John could not, in his deep love for her, bring himself yet to tell her of his sentence. He had loved her with all the strength of his nature, but the love had shown itself in deeds instead of words and caresses, and she had entertained the angel unaware. "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends," and in his weak, human measure John had indeed laid down his life without being conscious of his utter sacrifice. He lay there half awake, not thinking now of Carry or his money—her money, rather. Through his mind ran the perfect cadence, "Rest in the Lord." In the grasp of fatal disease, ignorant yet that it was fatal, the straying child came back to his Father. Old words thronged his mind, old prayers stirred his pale lips, the prodigal's humble utterance, the cry of the publican, the agonized outcry of the sinking disciple,—all these he whispered, so softly no mortal ear could hear. Then a dream of peace seemed to steal upon his weariness; a sense of rest and relief relaxed all his tense nerves, and soothed his whirling brain; he smiled and put his hand out, groping for One invisible and fell asleep. When Carry came to rouse him at bed-time, he was dead.

Now she had plenty of money! John had insured his life heavily, and paid his premiums so punctually and so long that even the insurance companies dared not try to contest payment: then they had both put their savings into good investments by advice, and doubled their capital over and over. Mrs. John Manners was worth at least sixty thousand dollars, owing to her husband's death and the rise in stocks recently.

But where was John? She knew now how he had guarded and cherished and sweetened her poor, toiling, selfish life; how he had given up home and peace and pleasure, all that makes life sweet to a man, in order to satisfy her eager, wretched hunger for wealth; she had made herself loveless and friendless in her devotion to the muck-rake, and the crown over her head had been so long unseen, unvalued, it was at last taken away. Where now was her omnipotent money? It could not bring back John. She had herself helped him surely and steadily into his grave, for the doctor told her frankly and sharply that he had worked himself to death. Sixty thousand pangs of remorse and regret lay in her hoarded dollars, and could not be evaded. She must take up her desolate life, her irreparable loss, her tormenting money, and carry them all out of the city she could no longer endure, back to the home she now dreaded. One more awful lesson to the hungerer for this world's goods, that now, as of old, "There is that maketh himself rich yet hath nothing"!—Rose Terry Cooke, in S. S. Times.