Two Christmas Stories: Sam Franklin's Savings-Bank; A Miserable Christmas and a Happy New Year

SAM FRANKLIN’S SAVINGS-BANK.

If any one had told Sam Franklin before he married that he would ever save money out of his wages, he would have laughed the idea to scorn; they had never been more than enough when he had only himself to keep, and when there was a wife into the bargain, what chance would there be for him to have a penny to put by? Yet, before he had been a husband many weeks, he had made the discovery that the wages which had only been enough for one were rather more than enough for two. There were no dinners at the cookshops to be paid for, no long evenings spent in the public-houses, no laundresses’ bills to meet. He had a great deal more comfort with a somewhat smaller outlay.

When Sam found half-a-crown in his pocket over and above the sum he allowed his wife for housekeeping and rent, he hardly knew what to do with it. His own fireside was very comfortable, and he did not care to leave it for the tavern. He and his wife were living on the first-floor of a house in a decent, quiet street, mostly occupied by artisans like himself, though the houses were from three to four stories high, and had been built for richer people. They had a sitting-room, with a bedroom behind it, and the use of a back kitchen for cooking and washing; so the place was quite large enough for comfort. Ann Franklin had notions of cleanliness and smartness, which made her take great pride in herself and all her belongings. The parlour, as she liked it to be called, was kept bright and cheerful, and that man must have had a strange idea of comfort who preferred the noise and smoke of a public-house taproom.

What, then, was Sam to do with his spare half-crown? It doubled itself into five shillings, and by-and-by a golden half-sovereign lay among the silver and copper he carried loose in his pocket. He was a man of few words--a close man, his comrades called him--and silent as the grave concerning his own affairs. Had he told one of them when he was about to be married? Not his best friend amongst them! Had he mentioned it as a piece of news interesting to himself that he had a son born? Never! He despised men who could not keep a still tongue in their heads, but must prate about all they did or thought. Even with his wife he was sparing of words, though he liked her to tell him everything she did, and keep no secret from him. But then Ann was only a woman; a man should have more control over his tongue.

So Sam Franklin did not say a word about his savings, though they seemed to grow like seed sown in good ground. Every week he gave his wife the sum they had first agreed upon, and she made the best of it cheerfully, letting him know how every penny was spent, and sometimes wondering to him how his comrades’ wives managed to be so much smarter than she was. At first he had thoughts of buying her a new bonnet or shawl, but he scarcely liked to own that he had been keeping back the money from her. This difficulty became greater as the sum grew larger; and, besides that, the possession of it began to get a hold upon him. It gave to him a secret consciousness of wealth among his fellow-workmen, which was very pleasant for a time; but by-and-by this feeling passed away, and a strange, unaccountable dread of being poor took possession of him. He began to talk about bad times, and the high prices of provisions and clothing, and the expenses of a family, though his own consisted of his cheery, managing wife, and one boy only. But this change in Sam Franklin was so gradual, that neither himself nor his wife had any idea what was going on. He spent his evenings at home, and went nearly every Sunday to the place of worship which Ann and Johnny constantly attended. Ann was very proud of her tall, fine-looking husband, whose clothes she kept in such good order that he looked, in her eyes at least, quite a gentleman. No one had a word to say against him, though if it had been otherwise, Ann was too true a wife to let it be said in her presence. He was industrious and steady, and kind to her and the boy; and if she had to work hard to keep them both tidy and respectable, why, it was the fault of the bad times, not her husband’s.

When Sam Franklin had saved ten pounds, and had two Bank of England notes to take care of, his difficulty and perplexity had very much increased. There was no Post-office Savings-bank, and he had no faith in the old savings-banks, for he could remember how his poor old mother had lost every penny of her painful savings by the breaking of the one she had put her money into. He dare not tell Ann about it, after keeping such a secret so long. The money became a trouble to him, though perhaps it was his most cherished possession. Certainly he thought of it oftener than of Ann or Johnny, for wherever he hid it, it could not but be a source of anxiety to him. If he took it to the work-yard with him he was fearful of losing it, whilst if he left it at home he was quite as much alarmed lest Ann should find it. How it would alter the face of things if she discovered that he was the owner of all that money, and had never told her!

At length, when his savings mounted up to twenty pounds, a bright idea struck him one day. He stayed at home the next Sunday evening, and having found his old wedding waistcoat, which was lined with a good strong linen lining, he carefully unpicked a part of one of the seams large enough to take in a folded bank-note, and spread them as high as he could reach with his finger up and down the breast of it. He could not stitch it up again as neatly as it had been sewn before, but he was obliged to trust to Ann not noticing it, for it was a worn-out waistcoat and past her regard altogether: yet when she came home the first thing she saw was that he had it on with his coat buttoned across it.

‘Good gracious, Sam!’ she cried, ‘whatever made you put on that old thing?’

‘It’s warmer than any I’ve got,’ he answered, putting his hand up against the breast of it where the bank-notes lay safe and hidden.

‘It’s so old-fashioned,’ she said, discontentedly; ‘but it doesn’t matter much if you won’t go out of doors in it. Men have no notion of things.’

‘What was the text, Ann?’ he inquired, simply to turn away her attention from the old waistcoat.

‘Oh! it hadn’t anything to do with us,’ she replied, more cheerfully; ‘it was, ‘The love of money is the root of all evil.’ Nothing for us in that, you know, though the preacher did say we might love it as much from craving after it as having it. Well, I neither have it, nor crave it.’

Sam felt uncomfortable, and did not make any further remark. He told his wife he should always put on his old waistcoat when he came in from his work; and he continued to do so regularly for some time, then occasionally, until after awhile the waistcoat simply hung on a nail behind the bedroom door, only being taken down once a week by Ann, to have the dust brushed from it. Every now and then he had another note to add to those he had already secured; and he became so skilled in opening and sewing the seam, that there was no fear of Ann noticing any difference. Even yet he would wear it upon a rainy Sunday, feeling a deep satisfaction in his admirable scheme for concealing and taking care of his savings.

Month after month, and year after year, the old waistcoat kept his secret faithfully. His eyes rested upon it first thing in the morning and last thing at night, hanging behind the door, as if it would hang there for ever. He grew more stingy then ever, grudging his wife her bits of blue and pink ribbon, with which she made herself smart, and altogether refused to send Johnny to a school where the fee was sixpence a week, instead of the threepence he had paid hitherto at a dame’s-school. He was longing to make up fifty pounds; he had already forty-five in his waistcoat, and how much more fifty pounds sounded than forty-five!

He had between three and four pounds towards this very desirable end, when one night, upon his return from work, he went as usual into the back room to wash his hands and face, and glanced at once towards the familiar object behind the door. But it was not there! The place was bare, and the nail empty. The mere sight of an empty nail in that place filled him with terror; but no doubt Ann had laid it away in some drawer. His voice, as he called to her, was broken and tremulous.

‘Where have you put my old waistcoat?’ he asked. He could hear her pouring the boiling water over the tea in the next room, and she did not answer before clicking down the lid of the teapot.

‘Oh, it was only harbouring the dust,’ she answered, in a cheerful voice, ‘so I made a right good bargain, and sold it for ninepence to an old-clothesman.’

The shock was so sudden that Sam staggered as if he had received a heavy blow, and fell on the floor. He did not quite lose his senses, for he felt Ann trying to lift him up, and heard her asking what ailed him. In a minute or two he managed to get up and sit down on the foot of the bed, but still he found himself giddy and stunned.

‘Where is it?’ he cried, bursting into tears and sobs, like a child; ‘where is it?’

‘The old waistcoat?’ she asked, thinking he was gone out of his mind.

‘Yes!’ he said. ‘There was nine five-pound notes in it; forty-five pounds in Bank of England notes!’

At first Ann thought his head had been hurt by his fall, and he was rambling; but as he kept on moaning over his loss, and confessing how he had concealed the notes from her, she began to believe him, and all the sooner when he pulled out the three sovereigns he had saved towards the tenth note and flung them on the floor in angry despair.

‘And I don’t know the man from Adam!’ cried Ann. ‘I never saw him before; and he’ll take very good care I never see him again. Oh, Sam! how could you? how could you keep it a secret all these years, when I never bought as much as a yard of ribbon or a collar on the sly? I can’t forgive it, or forget it either.’

She felt it very hard that Sam should not have trusted her. The loss of the money was hard, and she could not help thinking what a large sum it was, and what it might have done for Johnny. But the loss of faith in her husband was ten times worse. How could she ever believe in him again? or how could she ever be sure again that he really loved and trusted her?

It was a very miserable evening. Sam bewailed his money so bitterly that Ann began to fancy he would rather have lost her or his child. She sat silent and indignant, whilst he, unlike himself, was almost raving with angry sorrow. She did not speak to him the next morning before he set off to the yard, though she knew he had lain awake all night like herself, and had not swallowed a morsel of breakfast. It was a cold, wintry day, with a drizzling mist filling the air. Sam was wet through before he reached his work, and there was no chance of drying his clothes. He was wet through when he came home, but there were no dry, warm things laid out for him. He might wait upon himself, thought Ann; it would be well for him to see the difference between a good wife and a bad one. He would not condescend to find a change of clothing for himself, and he sat shivering on the hearth all night, in spite of the warm, cheerful blaze of the bright fire.