true riches; or, wealth without wings. by t.s. arthur. boston: l.p. crown & co., cornhill. . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by j.w. bradley, in the clerk's office of the district court of the united states in and for the eastern district of pennsylvania. stereotyped by l. johnson and co. philadelphia. introduction. the original title chosen for this book was "riches without wings;" but the author becoming aware, before giving it a permanent form, that a volume bearing a similar title had appeared some years ago, of which a new edition was about to be issued, thought it best to substitute therefor, "true riches; or, wealth without wings," which, in fact, expresses more accurately the character and scope of his story. the lessons herein taught are such as cannot be learned too early, nor dwelt on too long or too often, by those who are engaged in the active and all-absorbing duties of life. in the struggle for natural riches--the wealth that meets the eye and charms the imagination--how many forget that _true_ riches can _only_ be laid up in the heart; and that, without these true riches, which have no wings, gold, the god of this world, cannot bestow a single blessing! to give this truth a varied charm for young and old, the author has made of it a new presentation, and, in so doing, sought to invest it with all the winning attractions in his power to bestow. to parents who regard the best interests of their children, and to young men and women just stepping upon the world's broad stage of action, we offer our book, in the confident belief that it contains vital principles, which, if laid up in the mind, will, like good seed in good ground, produce an after-harvest, in the garnering of which there will be great joy. true riches. chapter i. "a fair day's business. a _very_ fair day's business," said leonard jasper, as he closed a small account-book, over which he had been poring, pencil in hand, for some ten minutes. the tone in which he spoke expressed more than ordinary gratification. "to what do the sales amount?" asked a young man, clerk to the dealer, approaching his principal as he spoke. "to just two hundred dollars, edward. it's the best day we've had for a month." "the best, in more than one sense," remarked the young man, with a meaning expression. "you're right there, too," said jasper, with animation, rubbing his hands together as he spoke, in the manner of one who is particularly well pleased with himself. "i made two or three trades that told largely on the sunny side of profit and loss account." "true enough. though i've been afraid, ever since you sold that piece of velvet to harland's wife, that you cut rather deeper than was prudent." "not a bit of it--not a bit of it! had i asked her three dollars a yard, she would have wanted it for two. so i said six, to begin with, expecting to fall extensively; and, to put a good face on the matter, told her that it cost within a fraction of what i asked to make the importation--remarking, at the same time, that the goods were too rich in quality to bear a profit, and were only kept as a matter of accommodation to certain customers." "and she bought at five?" "yes; thinking she had obtained the velvet at seventy-five cents a yard less than its cost. generous customer, truly!" "while you, in reality, made two dollars and a half on every yard she bought." "precisely that sum." "she had six yards." "yes; out of which we made a clear profit of fifteen dollars. that will do, i'm thinking. operations like this count up fast." "very fast. but, mr. jasper"-- "but what, edward?" "is it altogether prudent to multiply operations of this character? won't it make for you a bad reputation, and thus diminish, instead of increasing, your custom?" "i fear nothing of the kind. one-half the people are not satisfied unless you cheat them. i've handled the yardstick, off and on, for the last fifteen or twenty years, and i think my observation during that time is worth something. it tells me this--that a bold face, a smooth tongue, and an easy conscience are worth more in our business than any other qualities. with these you may do as you list. they tell far better than all the 'one-price' and fair-dealing professions, in which people have little faith. in fact, the mass will overreach if they can, and therefore regard these 'honest' assumptions with suspicion." the young man, edward claire, did not make a reply for nearly a minute. something in the words of mr. jasper had fixed his thought, and left him, for a brief space of time, absorbed in his own reflections. lifting, at length, his eyes, which had been resting on the floor, he said-- "our profit on to-day's sales must reach very nearly fifty dollars." "just that sum, if i have made a right estimate," replied jasper; "and that is what i call a fair day's business." while he was yet speaking, a lad entered the store, and laid upon the counter a small sealed package, bearing the superscription, "leonard jasper, esq." the merchant cut the red tape with which it was tied, broke the seal, and opening the package, took therefrom several papers, over which he ran his eyes hurriedly; his clerk, as he did so, turning away. "what's this?" muttered jasper to himself, not at first clearly comprehending the nature of the business to which the communication related. "executor! to what? oh! ah! estate of ruben elder. humph! what possessed him to trouble me with this business? i've no time to play executor to an estate, the whole proceeds of which would hardly fill my trousers' pocket. he was a thriftless fellow at best, and never could more than keep his head out of water. his debts will swallow up every thing, of course, saving my commissions, which i would gladly throw in to be rid of this business." with this, jasper tossed the papers into his desk, and, taking up his hat, said to his clerk--"you may shut the store, edward. before you leave, see that every thing is made safe." the merchant than retired, and wended his way homeward. edward claire seemed in no hurry to follow this example. his first act was to close the window-shutters and door--turning the key in the latter, and remaining inside. entirely alone, and hidden from observation, the young man seated himself, and let his thoughts, which seemed to be active on some subject, take their own way. he was soon entirely absorbed. whatever were his thoughts, one thing would have been apparent to an observer--they did not run in a quiet stream. something disturbed their current, for his brow was knit, his compressed lips had a disturbed motion, and his hands moved about at times uneasily. at length he arose, not hurriedly, but with a deliberate motion, threw his arms behind him, and, bending forward, with his eyes cast down, paced the length of the store two or three times, backward and forward, slowly. "fifty dollars profit in one day," he at length said, half audibly. "that will do, certainly. i'd be contented with a tenth part of the sum. he's bound to get rich; that's plain. fifty dollars in a single day! leonard jasper, you're a shrewd one. i shall have to lay aside some of my old-fashioned squeamishness, and take a few lessons from so accomplished a teacher. but, he's a downright cheat!" some better thought had swept suddenly, in a gleam of light, across the young man's mind, showing him the true nature of the principles from which the merchant acted, and, for the moment, causing his whole nature to revolt against them. but the light faded slowly; a state of darkness and confusion followed, and then the old current of thought moved on as before. slowly, and now with an attitude of deeper abstraction, moved the young man backward and forward the entire length of the room, of which he was the sole occupant. he _felt_ that he was alone, that no human eye could note a single movement. of the all-seeing eye he thought not--his spirit's evil counsellors, drawn intimately nigh to him through inclinations to evil, kept that consciousness from his mind. at length claire turned to the desk upon which were the account-books that had been used during the day, and commenced turning the leaves of one of them in a way that showed only a half-formed purpose. there was an impulse to something in his mind; an impulse not yet expressed in any form of thought, though in the progress toward something definite. "fifty dollars a day!" he murmurs. ah, that shows the direction of his mind. he is still struggling in temptation, and with all his inherited cupidities bearing him downward. suddenly he starts, turns his head, and listens eagerly, and with a strange agitation. some one had tried the door. for a few moments he stood in an attitude of the most profound attention. but the trial was not repeated. how audibly, to his own ears, throbbed his heart! how oppressed was his bosom! how, in a current of fire, rushed the blood to his over-excited brain! the hand upon the door was but an ordinary occurrence. it might now be only a customer, who, seeing a light within, hoped to supply some neglected want, or a friend passing by, who wished for a few words of pleasant gossip. at any other time claire would have stepped quickly and with undisturbed expectation to receive the applicant for admission. but guilty thoughts awakened their nervous attendants, suspicion and fear, and these had sounded an instant alarm. still, very still, sat edward claire, even to the occasional suppression of his breathing, which, to him, seemed strangely loud. several minutes elapsed, and then the young man commenced silently to remove the various account-books to their nightly safe deposite in the fire-proof. the cash-box, over the contents of which he lingered, counting note by note and coin by coin, several times repeated, next took its place with the books. the heavy iron door swung to, the key traversed noiselessly the delicate and complicated wards, was removed and deposited in a place of safety; and, yet unrecovered from his mood of abstraction, the clerk left the store, and took his way homeward. from that hour edward claire was to be the subject of a fierce temptation. he had admitted an evil suggestion, and had warmed it in the earth of his mind, even to germination. already a delicate root had penetrated the soil, and was extracting food therefrom. oh! why did he not instantly pluck it out, when the hand of an infant would have sufficed in strength for the task? why did he let it remain, shielding it from the cold winds of rational truth and the hot sun of good affections, until it could live, sustained by its own organs of appropriation and nutrition? why did he let it remain until its lusty growth gave sad promise of an evil tree, in which birds of night find shelter and build nests for their young? let us introduce another scene and another personage, who will claim, to some extent, the reader's attention. there were two small but neatly, though plainly, furnished rooms, in the second story of a house located in a retired street. in one of these rooms tea was prepared, and near the tea-table sat a young woman, with a sleeping babe nestled to-her bosom. she was fair-faced and sunny-haired; and in her blue eyes lay, in calm beauty, sweet tokens of a pure and loving heart. how tenderly she looked down, now and then, upon the slumbering cherub whose winning ways and murmurs of affection had blessed her through the day! happy young wife! these are thy halcyon days. care has not thrown upon thee a single shadow from his gloomy wing, and hope pictures the smiling future with a sky of sunny brightness. "how long he stays away!" had just passed her lips, when the sound of well-known footsteps was heard in the passage below. a brief time, and then the room-door opened, and edward claire came in. what a depth of tenderness was in his voice as he bent his lips to those of his young wife, murmuring-- "my edith!" and then touching, with a gentler pressure, the white forehead of his sleeping babe. "you were late this evening, dear," said edith, looking into the face of her husband, whose eyes drooped under her earnest gaze. "yes," he replied, with a slight evasion in his tone and manner; "we have been busier than usual to-day." as he spoke the young wife arose, and taking her slumbering child into the adjoining chamber, laid it gently in its crib. then returning, she made the tea--the kettle stood boiling by the grate--and in a little while they sat down to their evening meal. edith soon observed that her husband was more thoughtful and less talkative than usual. she asked, however, no direct question touching this change; but regarded what he did say with closer attention, hoping to draw a correct inference, without seeming to notice his altered mood. "mr. jasper's business is increasing?" she said, somewhat interrogatively, while they still sat at the table, an expression of her husband's leading to this remark. "yes, increasing very rapidly," replied claire, with animation. "the fact is, he is going to get rich. do you know that his profit on to-day's sales amounted to fifty dollars?" "so much?" said edith, yet in a tone that showed no surprise or particular interest in the matter. "fifty dollars a day," resumed claire, "counting three hundred week-days in the year, gives the handsome sum of fifteen thousand dollars in the year. i'd be satisfied with as much in five years." there was more feeling in the tone of his voice than he had meant to betray. his young wife lifted her eyes to his face, and looked at him with a wonder she could not conceal. "contentment, dear," said she, in a gentle, subdued, yet tender voice, "is great gain. we have enough, and more than enough, to make us happy. natural riches have no power to fill the heart's most yearning affections; and how often do they take to themselves wings and fly away." "enough, dear!" replied edward claire, smiling. "o no, not enough, by any means. five hundred dollars a year is but a meagre sum. what does it procure for us? only these two rooms and the commonest necessaries of life. we cannot even afford the constant service of a domestic." "why, edward! what has come over you? have i complained?" "no, dear, no. but think you i have no ambition to see my wife take a higher place than this?" "ambition! do not again use that word," said edith, very earnestly. "what has love to do with ambition? what have we to do with the world and its higher places? will a more elegant home secure for us a purer joy than we have known and still know in this our eden? oh, my husband! do not let such thoughts come into your mind. let us be content with what god in his wisdom provides, assured that it is best for us. in envying the good of another, we destroy our own good. there is a higher wealth than gold, edward; and it supplies higher wants. there are riches without wings; they lie scattered about our feet; we may fill our coffers, if we will. treasures of good affections and true thoughts are worth more than all earthly riches, and will bear us far more safely and happily through the world; such treasures are given to all who will receive them, and given in lavish abundance. let us secure of this wealth, edward, a liberal share." "mere treasures of the mind, edith, do not sustain natural life, do not supply natural demands. they build no houses; they provide not for increasing wants. we cannot always remain in the ideal world; the sober realities of life will drag us down." the simple-hearted, true-minded young wife was not understood by her husband. she felt this, and felt it oppressively. "have we not enough, edward, to meet every real want?" she urged. "do we desire better food or better clothing? would our bodies be more comfortable because our carpets were of richer material, and our rooms filled with costlier furniture? o no! if not contented with such things as providence gives us to-day, we shall not find contentment in what he gives us to-morrow; for the same dissatisfied heart will beat in our bosoms. let mr. jasper get rich, if he can; we will not envy his possessions." "i do not envy him, edith," replied claire. "but i cannot feel satisfied with the small salary he pays me. my services are, i know, of greater value than he estimates them, and i feel that i am dealt by unjustly." edith made no answer. the subject was repugnant to her feelings, and she did not wish to prolong it. claire already regretted its introduction. so there was silence for nearly a minute. when the conversation flowed on again, it embraced a different theme, but had in it no warmth of feeling. not since they had joined hands at the altar, nearly two years before, had they passed so embarrassed and really unhappy an evening as this. a tempting spirit had found its way into their paradise, burning with a fierce desire to mar its beauty. chapter ii. "oh, what a dream i have had!" exclaimed mrs. claire, starting suddenly from sleep, just as the light began to come in dimly through the windows on the next morning; and, as she spoke, she caught hold of her husband, and clung to him, frightened and trembling. "oh, such a dream!" she added, as her mind grew clearer, and she felt better assured of the reality that existed. "i thought, love, that we were sitting in our room, as we sit every evening--baby asleep, i sewing, and you, as usual, reading aloud. how happy we were! happier, it seemed, than we had ever been before. a sudden loud knock startled us both. then two men entered, one of whom drew a paper from his pocket, declaring, as he did so, that you were arrested at the instance of mr. jasper, who accused you with having robbed him of a large amount of money." "why, edith!" ejaculated edward claire, in a voice of painful surprise. he, too, had been dreaming, and in his dream he had done what his heart prompted him to do on the previous evening--to act unfaithfully toward his employer. "oh, it was dreadful! dreadful!" continued edith. "rudely they seized and bore you away. then came the trial. oh, i see it all as plainly as if it had been real. you, my good, true, noble-hearted husband, who had never wronged another, even in thought--you were accused of robbery in the presence of hundreds, and positive witnesses were brought forward to prove the terrible charge. all they alleged was believed by those who heard. the judges pronounced you guilty, and then sentenced you to a gloomy prison. they were bearing you off, when, in my agony, i awoke. it was terrible, terrible! yet, thank god! only a dream, a fearful dream!" claire drew his arms around his young wife, and clasped her with a straining embrace to his bosom. he made no answer for some time. the relation of a dream so singular, under the circumstances, had startled him, and he almost feared to trust his voice in response. at length, with a deeply-drawn, sighing breath, nature's spontaneous struggle for relief, he said-- "yes, dear, that was a fearful dream. the thought of it makes me shudder. but, after all, it was only a dream; the whispering of a malignant spirit in your ear. happily, his power to harm extends no further. the fancy may be possessed in sleep, but the reason lies inactive, and the hands remain idle. no guilt can stain the spirit. the night passes, and we go abroad in the morning as pure as when we laid our heads wearily to rest." "and more," added edith, her mind fast recovering itself; "with a clearer perception of what is true and good. the soul's disturbed balance finds its equilibrium. it is not the body alone that is refreshed and strengthened. the spirit, plied with temptation after temptation through the day, and almost ready to yield when the night cometh, finds rest also, and time to recover its strength. in the morning it goes forth again, stronger for its season of repose. how often, as the day dawned, have i lifted my heart and thanked god for sleep!" thus prompted, an emotion of thankfulness arose in the breast of claire, but the utterance was kept back from the lips. he had a secret, a painful and revolting secret, in his heart, and he feared lest something should betray its existence to his wife. what would he not have given at the moment to have blotted out for ever the memory of thoughts too earnestly cherished on the evening before, when he was alone with the tempter? there was a shadow on the heart of edith claire. the unusual mood of her husband on the previous evening, and the dream which had haunted her through the night, left impressions that could not be shaken off. she had an instinct of danger--danger lurking in the path of one in whom her very life was bound up. when edward was about leaving her to go forth for the day, she lingered by his side and clung to him, as if she could not let him pass from the safe shelter of home. "ah! if i could always be with you!" said edith--"if we could ever move on, hand in hand and side by side, how full to running over would be my cup of happiness!" "are we not ever side by side, dear?" replied claire, tenderly. "you are present to my thought all the day." "and you to mine. o yes! yes! we _are_ moving side by side; our mutual thought gives presence. yet it was the bodily presence i desired. but that cannot be." "good-bye, love! good-bye, sweet one!" said claire, kissing his wife, and gently pressing his lips upon those of the babe she held in her arms. he then passed forth, and took his way to the store of leonard jasper, in whose service he had been for two years, or since the date of his marriage. a scene transpired a few days previous to this, which we will briefly describe. three persons were alone in a chamber, the furniture of which, though neither elegant nor costly, evinced taste and refinement. lying upon a bed was a man, evidently near the time of his departure from earth. by his side, and bending over him, was a woman almost as pale as himself. a little girl, not above five years of age, sat on the foot of the bed, with her eyes fixed on the countenance of her father, for such was the relation borne to her by the sick man. a lovely creature she was--beautiful even beyond the common beauty of childhood. for a time a solemn stillness reigned through the chamber. a few low-spoken words had passed between the parents of the child, and then, for a brief period, all was deep, oppressive silence. this was interrupted, at length, by the mother's unrestrained sobs, as she laid her face upon the bosom of her husband, so soon to be taken from her, and wept aloud. no word of remonstrance or comfort came from the sick man's lips. he only drew his arm about the weeper's neck, and held her closer to his heart. the troubled waters soon ran clear: there was calmness in their depths. "it is but for a little while, fanny," said he, in a feeble yet steady voice; "only for a little while." "i know; i feel that here," was replied, as a thin, white hand was laid against the speaker's bosom. "and i could patiently await my time, but"---- her eyes glanced yearningly toward the child, who sat gazing upon her parents, with an instinct of approaching evil at her heart. too well did the dying man comprehend the meaning of this glance. "god will take care of her. he will raise her up friends," said he quickly; yet, even as he spoke, his heart failed him. "all that is left to us is our trust in him," murmured the wife and mother. her voice, though so low as to be almost a whisper, was firm. she realized, as she spoke, how much of bitterness was in the parting hours of the dying one, and she felt that duty required her to sustain him, so far as she had the strength to do so. and so she nerved her woman's heart, almost breaking as it was, to bear and hide her own sorrows, while she strove to comfort and strengthen the failing spirit of her husband. "god is good," said she, after a brief silence, during which she was striving for the mastery over her weakness. as she spoke, she leaned over the sick man, and looked at him lovingly, and with the smile of an angel on her countenance. "yes, god is good, fanny. have we not proved this, again and again?" was returned, a feeble light coming into the speaker's pale face. "a thousand times, dear! a thousand times!" said the wife, earnestly. "he is infinite in his goodness, and we are his children." "yes, his children," was the whispered response. and over and over again he repeated the words, "his children;" his voice falling lower and lower each time, until at length his eyes closed, and his in-going thought found no longer an utterance. twilight had come. the deepening shadows were fast obscuring all objects in the sick-chamber, where silence reigned, profound almost as death. "he sleeps," whispered the wife, as she softly raised herself from her reclining position on the bed. "and dear fanny sleeps also," was added, as her eyes rested upon the unconscious form of her child. two hours later, and the last record was made in ruben elder's book of life. for half an hour before the closing scene, his mind was clear, and he then spoke calmly of what he had done for those who were to remain behind. "to leonard jasper, my old friend," said he to his wife, "i have left the management of my affairs. he will see that every thing is done for the best. there is not much property, yet enough to insure a small income; and, when you follow me to the better land, sufficient for the support and education of our child." peacefully, after this, he sank away, and, like a weary child falling into slumber, slept that sleep from which the awakening is in another world. how leonard jasper received the announcement of his executorship has been seen. the dying man had referred to him as an old friend; but, as the reader has already concluded, there was little room in his sordid heart for so pure a sentiment as that of friendship. he, however, lost no time in ascertaining the amount of property left by elder, which consisted of two small houses in the city, and a barren tract of about sixty acres of land, somewhere in pennsylvania, which had been taken for a debt of five hundred dollars. in view of his death, elder had wound up his business some months before, paid off what he owed, and collected in nearly all outstanding accounts; so that little work remained for his executor, except to dispose of the unprofitable tract of land and invest the proceeds. on the day following the opening of our story, jasper, who still felt annoyed at the prospect of more trouble than profit in the matter of his executorship, made a formal call upon the widow of his old friend. the servant, to whom he gave his name, stated that mrs. elder was so ill as not to be able to leave her room. "i will call again, then, in a few days," said he. "be sure you give her my name correctly. mr. jasper--leonard jasper." the face of the servant wore a troubled aspect. "she is very sick, sir," said she, in a worried, hesitating manner. "won't you take a seat, for a moment, until i go up and tell her that you are here? maybe she would like to see you. i think i heard her mention your name a little while ago." jasper sat down, and the domestic left the room. she was gone but a short time, when she returned and said that mrs. elder wished to see him. jasper arose and followed her up-stairs. there were some strange misgivings in his heart--some vague, troubled anticipations, that oppressed his feelings. but he had little time for thought ere he was ushered into the chamber of his friend's widow. a single glance sufficed to tell him the whole sad truth of the case. there was no room for mistake. the bright, glazed eyes, the rigid, colourless lips, the ashen countenance, all testified that the hour of her departure drew nigh. how strong, we had almost said, how beautiful, was the contrasted form and features of her lovely child, whose face, so full of life and rosy health, pressed the same pillow that supported her weary head. feebly the dying woman extended her hand, as mr. jasper came in, saying, as she did so-- "i am glad you have come; i was about sending for you." a slight tremor of the lips accompanied her words, and it was plain that the presence of jasper, whose relation to her and her child she understood, caused a wave of emotion to sweep over her heart. "i am sorry, mrs. elder, to find you so very ill," said jasper, with as much of sympathy in his voice as he could command. "has your physician been here to-day?" "it is past that, sir--past that," was replied. "there is no further any hope for me in the physician's art." a sob choked all further utterance. how oppressed was the cold-hearted, selfish man of the world! his thoughts were all clouded, and his lips for a time sealed. as the dying woman said, so he felt that it was. the time of her departure had come. an instinct of self-protection--protection for his feelings--caused him, after a few moments, to say, and he turned partly from the bed as he spoke-- "some of your friends should be with you, madam, at this time. let me go for them. have you a sister or near relative in the city?" the words and movement of mr. jasper restored at once the conscious self-possession of the dying mother, and she raised herself partly up with a quick motion, and a gleam of light in her countenance. "oh, sir," she said eagerly, "do not go yet. i have no sister, no near relative; none but you to whom i can speak my last words and give my last injunction. you were my husband's friend while he lived, and to you has he committed the care of his widow and orphan. i am called, alas, too soon! to follow him; and now, in the sight of god, and in the presence of his spirit--for i feel that he is near us now--i commit to you the care of this dear child. oh, sir! be to her as a father. love her tenderly, and care for her as if she were your own. her heart is rich with affection, and upon you will its treasures be poured out. take her! take her as your own! here i give to you, in this the solemn hour of my departure, that which to me is above all price." and as she said this, with a suddenly renewed strength, she lifted the child, and, ere jasper could check the movement, placed her in his arms. then, with one long, eager, clinging kiss pressed upon the lips of that child, she sank backward on the bed; and life, which had flashed up brightly for a moment, went out in this world for ever. chapter iii. leonard jasper would have been less than human had he borne such an assault upon his feelings without emotion; less than human had his heart instantly and spontaneously rejected the dying mother's wildly eloquent appeal. he was bewildered, startled, even deeply moved. the moment he could, with propriety and a decent regard for appearances, get away from the house where he had witnessed so painful a scene, he returned to his place of business in a sobered, thoughtful state of mind. he had not anticipated so direct a guardianship of ruben elder's child as it was evident would now devolve upon him, in consequence of the mother's death. here was to be trouble for him--this was his feeling so soon as there was a little time for reaction--and trouble without profit. he would have to take upon himself the direct charge of the little girl, and duly provide for her maintenance and education. "if there is property enough for this, well and good," he muttered to himself; he had not yet become acquainted with the real state of affairs. "if not," he added, firmly, "the loss will be hers; that is all. i shall have sufficient trouble and annoyance, without being put to expense." for some time after his return to his store, jasper refrained from entering upon any business. during at least fifteen or twenty minutes, he sat at his desk, completely absorbed in thought. at length he called to edward claire, his principal clerk, and said that he wished to speak a few words with him. the young man came back from the counter to where he was sitting, wondering what had produced the very apparent change in his employer's state of mind. "edward," said mr. jasper, in a low, serious voice, "there is a little matter that i must get you to attend to for me. it is not very pleasant, it is true; though nothing more than people are required to do every day. you remember mr. elder, ruben elder, who formerly kept store in second street?" "very well." "he died last week." "i noticed his death in the papers." "he has appointed me his executor." "ah?" "yes; and i wish to my heart he had appointed somebody else. i've too much business of my own to attend to." "of course," said claire, "you will receive your regular commissions for attending to the settlement of his estate." "poor picking there," replied jasper, shrugging his shoulders. "i'd very cheerfully give up the profit to be rid of the trouble. but that doesn't signify now. elder has left his affairs in my hands, and i must give them at least some attention. i'm not coming to the point, however. a little while ago i witnessed the most painful scene that ever fell under my eyes." "ah!" "yes, truly. ugh! it makes the chills creep over me as i think of it. last evening i received regular notification of my appointment as executor to elder's estate, and to-day thought it only right to call upon the widow, and see if any present service were needed by the family. such a scene as i encountered! mrs. elder was just at the point of death, and expired a few moments after my entrance. besides a single domestic and a child, i was the only witness of her last extremity." "shocking!" "you may well say shocking, edward, unprepared as i was for such an occurrence. my nerves are quivering yet." "then the widow is dead also?" "yes; both have gone to their long home." "how many children are left?" "only one--a little girl, not, i should think, above four years of age." "some near relative will, i presume, take charge of her." "in dying, the mother declared that she had no friend to whom she could leave the child. on me, therefore, devolves the care of seeing to its maintenance." "no friend. poor child! and of so tender an age!" "she is young, certainly, to be left alone in the world." jasper uttered these words, but felt nothing of the sad meaning they involved. "what disposition will you make of her?" asked claire. "i've had no time to think of that yet. other matters are first to be regarded. so let me come to the point. mrs. elder is dead; and, as far as i could see, there is no living soul, beyond a frightened servant, to do any thing. whether she will have the presence of mind to call in the neighbours, is more than i can say. i left in the bewilderment of the moment; and now remember me that something is to be done for the dead. will you go to the house, and see what is needed? in the next block is an undertaker; you had better call, on your way, and ask him to go with you. all arrangements necessary for the funeral can be left in his hands. just take this whole matter off of me, edward, and i will be greatly obliged to you. i have a good many things on my mind, that must receive close attention." the young man offered no objection, although the service was far from being agreeable. on his return, after the absence of an hour, jasper had, of course, many inquiries to make. claire appeared serious. the fact was, he had seen enough to touch his feelings deeply. the grief of the orphaned child, as he was a witness thereto, had brought tears upon his cheeks, in spite of every manly effort to restrain them. her extreme beauty struck him at the first glance, even obscured as it was under a vail of sorrow and weeping. "there were several persons in, you say?" remarked jasper, after claire had related a number of particulars. "yes, three or four." "ladies, of course?" "yes." "did any of them propose to take the child home with them?" "not directly. one woman asked me a number of questions about the little girl." "of what nature?" "as to whether there were any relatives or particular friends who would take charge of her?" "and you told her there were none?" "yes; none of whom i had any knowledge." "well? what had she to say to that?" "she wanted to know if there would be any thing for the child's support. i said that there would, in all probability." "well?" "then she gave me to understand, that if no one took the child, she might be induced to board her for a while, until other arrangements were made." "did you give her to understand that this was practicable?" "no, sir." "why not? she will have to be boarded, you know." "i neither liked the woman's face, manner, nor appearance." "why not?" "oh, she was a vulgar, coarse, hard-looking creature to my eyes." "kind hearts often lie concealed under unpromising externals." "true; but they lie not concealed under that exterior, be well assured, mr. jasper. no, no. the child who has met with so sad a loss as that of a mother, needs the tenderest guardianship. at best, the case is hard enough." jasper did not respond to this humane sentiment, for there was no pity in him. the waves of feeling, stirred so suddenly a few hours before, had all subsided, and the surface of his heart bore no ripple of emotion. he thought not of the child as an object claiming his regard, but as a trouble and a hinderance thrown in his way, to be disposed of as summarily as possible. "i'm obliged to you, edward, for the trouble you have taken in my stead," he remarked, after a slight pause. "to-morrow, i may wish you to call there again. of course, the neighbours will give needful attention until the funeral takes place. by that time, perhaps, the child will have made a friend of some one of them, and secure, through this means, a home for the present. it is, for us, a troublesome business at best, though it will soon be over." a person coming in at the moment, claire left his employer to attend at the counter. the new customer, it was quickly perceived by the clerk, was one who might readily be deceived into buying the articles for which she inquired, at a rate far in advance of their real value; and he felt instantly tempted to ask her a very high price. readily, for it was but acting from habit, did he yield to this temptation. his success was equal to his wishes. the woman, altogether unsuspicious of the cheat practised upon her, paid for her purchases the sum of ten dollars above their true value. she lingered a short time after settling her bill, and made some observation upon a current topic of the day. one or two casually-uttered sentiments did not fall like refreshing dew upon the feelings of claire, but rather stung him like words of sharp rebuke, and made him half regret the wrong he had done to her. he felt relieved when she retired. it so happened that, while this customer was in, jasper left the store. soon after, a clerk went to dinner. only a lad remained with claire, and he was sent up-stairs to arrange some goods. the hour of temptation had again come, and the young man's mind was overshadowed by the powers of darkness. "ten dollars clear gain on that transaction," said he to himself, as he drew open the money-drawer in which he had deposited the cash paid to him by his late customer. for some time his thoughts were busy, while his fingers toyed with the gold and bills in the drawer. two five-dollar pieces were included in the payment just received. "jasper, surely, ought to be satisfied with one of these." thus he began to argue with himself. "i drove the bargain; am i not entitled to a fair proportion of the profit? it strikes me so. what wrong will it be to him? wrong? humph! wrong? the wrong has been done already; but it falls not on his head. "if i am to do this kind of work for him,"--the feelings of claire now commenced running in a more disturbed channel; there were deep contractions on his forehead, and his lips were shut firmly,--"this kind of work, i must have a share of the benefit. if i am to sell my soul, leonard jasper shall not have the whole price." deliberately, as he spoke this within himself, did claire take from the drawer a five-dollar gold piece, and thrust it into his pocket. "mine, not his," were the words with which he approved the act. at the same instant jasper entered. the young man's heart gave a sudden bound, and there was guilt in his face, but jasper did not read its true expression. "well, edward," said he, cheerfully, "what luck did you have with the old lady? did she make a pretty fair bill?" "so-so," returned claire, with affected indifference; "about thirty dollars." "ah! so much?" "yes; and, what is better, i made her pay pretty strong. she was from the country." "that'll do." and jasper rubbed his hands together energetically. "how much over and above a fair percentage did you get?" "about five dollars." "good, again! you're a trump, edward." if edward claire was relieved to find that no suspicion had been awakened in the thoughts of jasper, he did not feel very strongly flattered by his approving words. the truth was, at the very moment he was relating what he had done, there came into his mind, with a most startling distinctness, the dream of his wife, and the painful feelings it had occasioned. "what folly! what madness! whither am i going?" these were his thoughts now, born of a quick revulsion of feeling. "it is your dinner-time, edward. get back as soon as possible. i want to be home a little earlier than usual to-day." thus spoke mr. jasper; and the young man, taking up his hat, left the store. he had never felt so strangely in his life. the first step in crime had been taken; he had fairly entered the downward road to ruin. where was it all to end? placing his fingers, almost without thought, in his pocket, they came in contact with the gold-piece obtained by a double crime--the robbery both of a customer and his employer. quickly, as if he had touched a living coal, was the hand of claire withdrawn, while a low chill crept along his nerves. it required some resolution for the young man to meet his pure-hearted, clear-minded wife, whose quick intuitions of good or evil in others he had over and over again been led to remark. once, as he moved along, he thrust his hand into his pocket, with the suddenly-formed purpose of casting the piece of money from him, and thus cancelling his guilt. but, ere the act was accomplished, he remembered that in this there would be no restoration, and so refrained. edward claire felt, while in the presence of his young wife, that she often looked into his face with more than usual earnestness. this not only embarrassed but slightly fretted him, and led him to speak once in a way that brought tears to her eyes. not a minute longer than necessary did claire remain at home. the fact that his employer had desired him to return to the store as quickly as possible, was an all-sufficient reason for his unusual hurry to get away. the moment the door closed upon him, his wife burst into tears. on her bosom lay a most oppressive weight, and in her mind was a vague, troubled sense of approaching evil. she felt that there was danger in the path of her husband; but of its nature she could divine little or nothing. all day her dream had haunted her; and now it reproduced itself in her imagination with painful distinctness. vainly she strove to drive it from her thoughts; it would not be gone. slowly the hours wore on for her, until the deepening twilight brought the period when her husband was to return again. to this return her mind looked forward with an anxiety that could not be repressed. the dreaded meeting with his wife over, claire thought with less repugnance of what he had done, and was rather inclined to justify than condemn himself. "it's the way of the world," so he argued; "and unless i do as the world does, i must remain where i am--at the bottom of the ladder. but why should i stay below, while all around me are struggling upward? as for what preachers and moralists call strictly fair dealing, it may be all well enough in theory, pleasant to talk about, and all that; but it won't do in practice, as the world now is. where each is grasping all that he can lay his hands on, fair or foul, one must scramble with the rest, or get nothing. that is so plain that none can deny the proposition. so, edward claire, if you wish to rise above your present poor condition, if you wish to get rich, like your enterprising neighbours, you must do as they do. if i go in for a lamb, i might as well take a sheep: the morality of the thing is the same. if i take a large slice off of a customer, why shall not a portion of that slice be mine; ay, the whole of it, if i choose to make the appropriation? all jasper can fairly ask, is a reasonable profit: if i, by my address, get more than this, surely i may keep a part thereof. who shall say nay?" justifying himself by these and similar false reasonings, the young man thrust aside the better suggestions, from which he was at first inclined to retrace the false step he had taken; and wilfully shutting his eyes, resolved to go forward in his evil and dangerous course. during the afternoon of that day a larger number of customers than usual were in, and claire was very busily occupied. he made three or four large sales, and was successful in getting several dollars in excess of fair profit from one not very well skilled in prices. in making an entry of this particular transaction in the memorandum sales-book, the figures recorded were three dollars less than the actual amount received. so, on this, the first day of the young man's lapse from honesty, he had appropriated the sum of eight dollars--nearly equal to his entire week's salary! for such a recent traveller in this downward road, how rapid had already become his steps! evening found him again alone, musing and debating with himself, ere locking up the store and returning home. the excitement of business being over, his thoughts flowed in a calmer current; and the stillness of the deserted room gave to his feelings a hue of sobriety. he was not altogether satisfied with himself. how could he be? no man ever was satisfied with himself, when seclusion and silence found him after his first departure from the right way. ah, how little is there in worldly possessions, be it large or small, to compensate for a troubled, self-accusing spirit! how little to throw in the balance against the heavy weight of conscious villany! how tenderly, how truly, how devotedly had edward claire loved the young wife of his bosom, since the hour the pulses of their spirits first beat in joyful unity! how eager had he ever been to turn his face homeward when the shadows of evening began to fall! but now he lingered--lingered, though all the business of the day was over. the thought of his wife created no quick impulse to be away. he felt more like shunning her presence. he even for a time indulged a motion of anger toward her for what he mentally termed her morbid sensitiveness in regard to others' right--her dreamy ideal of human perfection. "we are in the world, and we must do as it does. we must take it as it is, not as it should be." so he mused with himself, in a self-approving argument. yet he could not banish the accusing spirit; he could not silence the inward voice of warning. once there came a strong revulsion. good impulses seemed about to gain the mastery. in this state of mind, he took from his pocket his ill-gotten gains, and threw them into the money-box, which had already been placed in the fire-closet. "what good will that do?" said he to himself, as the wave of better feelings began to subside. "all the sales-entries have been made, and the cash balanced; jasper made the balance himself. so the cash will only show an excess to be accounted for; and from this may come suspicion. it is always more hazardous to go backward than forward--(false reasoner!)--to retrace our steps than to press boldly onward. no, no. this will not mend the matter." and claire replaced the money in his pocket. in a little while afterward, he left the store, and took his way homeward. chapter iv. as on the previous evening, mrs. claire was alone for some time later than usual, but now with an anxious, almost fearful looking for her husband's return. suddenly she had taken the alarm. a deep, brooding shadow was on her heart, though she could not see the bird of night from whose wings it had fallen. frequently, during the afternoon, tears had wet her cheek; and when an old friend of her mother's, who lived in the country, and who had come to the city in order to make a few purchases, called to see her, it was with difficulty she could hide her disturbed feelings from observation. the absent one came in at last, and with so much of the old, frank, loving spirit in his voice and manner, that the troubled heart of mrs. claire beat with freer pulsations. and yet something about her husband appeared strange. there was a marked difference between his state of mind now, and on the evening before. even at dinner-time he was silent and abstracted. in fact, edward claire was, for the first time, acting a part toward his wife; and, as in all such cases, there was sufficient over-action to betray the artifice, or, at least, to awaken a doubt. still, edith was greatly relieved by the change, and she chided herself for having permitted doubt and vague questionings to find a harbour in her thoughts. during tea-time, claire chatted freely, as was his custom; but he grew serious as they sat together, after the table was cleared away, and edith had taken her sewing. then, for the first time, he thought out of himself sufficiently to remember his visit to the house of death in the morning, and he said-- "i witnessed something this morning, dear, that has made me feel sad ever since." "what was that, edward?" inquired the wife, looking instantly into his face, with a strongly manifested interest. "i don't think you knew mr. elder or his family--ruben elder?" "i have heard the name, nothing more." "mr. elder died last week." "ah! what family did he leave?" "a wife and one child." mrs. claire sighed. "did he leave them comfortably off in the world?" she asked, after a brief silence. "i don't know; but i'm afraid, he's not left much, if any thing. mr. jasper has been appointed the executor." "mr. jasper!" "yes. this morning he called to see mrs. elder, and found her in a very low state. in fact, she died while he was there." "edward! died?" "yes, died; and her only child, a sweet little girl, not five years old, is now a friendless orphan." "how very sad!" "sad enough, edith, sad enough. mr. jasper, who has no taste for scenes of distress, wished me to look after the funeral arrangements; so i went to the house, and attended to matters as well as i could. ah me! it has cast a gloom over my feelings that i find it hard to cast off." "did you see the child?" inquired mrs. claire, the mother's impulse giving direction to her thoughts. "yes; and a lovely child it is. poor thing!" "there are near relatives, i presume?" "none; at least, so jasper says." "what is to become of the child?" "dear above knows! as for her legal guardian, she has nothing to hope from his humanity. she will naturally find a home somewhere--a home procured for money. but her future comfort and well-being will depend more on a series of happy accidents than on the good-will of the hard-hearted man to whose tender mercies the dying parents have committed her." "not happy accidents, edward," said mrs. claire, with a tender smile; "say, wise providences. there is no such thing as chance." "as you will, dear," returned the husband, with a slight change in his tone. "i would not call that providence wise by which leonard jasper became the guardian of a friendless child." "this is because you cannot see the end from the beginning, edward. the lord's providence does not regard merely the external comfort and well-being of his creatures; it looks far beyond this, and regards their internal interests. it permits evil and suffering to-day, but only that good, a higher than earthly good, may come on the morrow. it was no blind chance, believe me, my husband, that led to the appointment of mr. jasper as the guardian of this poor child. eternal purposes are involved therein, as surely as god is infinitely wise and good. good to one, perhaps to many, will grow out of what now seems a deeply to be regretted circumstance." "you're a happy reasoner, edith. i wish i could believe in so consoling a philosophy." "edward!" there was a change in mrs. claire's voice, and a look blending surprise with a gentle rebuke in her countenance. "edward, how can you speak so? is not mine the plain christian doctrine? is it not to be found everywhere in the bible?" "doubtless, edith; but i'm not one of the pious kind, you know." claire forced a smile to his face, but his wife looked serious, and remarked-- "i don't like to hear you talk so, edward. there is in it, to me, something profane. ah, my dear husband, in this simple yet all-embracing doctrine of providence lies the whole secret of human happiness. if our creator be infinite, wise, and good, he will seek the well-being of his creatures, even though they turn from him to do violence to his laws; and, in his infinite love and wisdom, will so order and arrange events as to make every thing conspire to the end in view. both bodily and mental suffering are often permitted to take place, as the only agencies by which to counteract hereditary evils that would otherwise destroy the soul." "ah, edie! edie!" said claire, interrupting his wife, in a fond, playful tone, "you are a wise preacher, and as good as you are wise. i only wish that i could see and feel as you do; no doubt it would be better for me in the end. but such a wish is vain." "oh, say not so, dear husband!" exclaimed edith, with unexpected earnestness; "say not so! it hurts me almost like words of personal unkindness." "but how can i be as good as you are? it isn't in me." "i am not good, edward. there is none good but god," answered the wife solemnly. "oh yes, yes! you are an angel!" returned claire, with a sudden emotion that he could not control. "and i--and i--" he checked himself, turned his face partly away to conceal its expression, sat motionless for a moment, and then burying his face on the bosom of his wife, sobbed for the space of nearly a minute, overcome by a passion that he in vain struggled to master. never had edith seen her husband so moved. no wonder that she was startled, even frightened. "oh, edward, dear edward! what ails you?" were her eager, agitated words, so soon as she could speak. "what has happened? oh, tell me, my husband, my dear husband!" but claire answered not, though he was gaining some control over his feelings. "oh, edward! won't you speak to me? won't you tell me all your troubles, all your heart? am i not your wife, and do i not love you with a love no words can express? am i not your best and closest friend? would i not even lay down my life for your good? dear edward, what has caused this great emotion?" thus urged, thus pleaded the tearful edith. but there was no reply, though the strong tremor which had thrilled through the frame of claire had subsided. he was still bowed forward, with his face hid on her bosom, while her arm was drawn lovingly around him. so they remained for a time longer. at length, the young man lifted himself up, and fixed his eyes upon her. his countenance was pale and sad, and bore traces of intense suffering. "my husband! my dear husband!" murmured edith. "my wife! my good angel!" was the low, thrilling response; and claire pressed his lips almost reverently upon the brow of his wife. "i have had a fearful dream, edith!" said he; "a very fearful dream. thank god, i am awake now." "a dream, edward?" returned his wife, not fully comprehending him. "yes, love, a dream; yet far too real. surely, i dreamed, or was under some dire enchantment. but the spell is gone--gone, i trust, for ever." "what spell, love? oh, speak to me a plainer language!" "i think, edith," said the young man, after remaining thoughtfully silent for some time, "that i will try and get another place. i don't believe it is good for me to live with leonard jasper. gold is the god he worships; and i find myself daily tempted to bend my knee in the same idolatry." "edward!" a shadow had fallen on the face of edith. "you look troubled at my words, edith," resumed the young man; "yet what i say is true, too true. i wish it were not so. ah! this passage through the world, hard and toilsome as it is, has many, many dangers." "if we put our trust in god, we need have no fear," said edith, in a gentle yet earnest and penetrating voice, laying her hand lovingly on the hot forehead of her husband, and gazing into his eyes. "nothing without can harm us. our worst enemies are within." "within?" "yes, love; within our bosoms. into our distrusts and unsatisfied desires they enter, and tempt us to evil." "true, true," said claire, in an abstracted manner, and as if speaking to himself. "what more do we want to make us happy?" asked edith, comprehending still more clearly her husband's state of mind. claire sighed deeply, but made no answer. "more money could not do it," she added. "money would procure us many comforts that we do not now possess," said the young man. "i doubt this, edward. it might give more of the elegancies of life; but, as i have often said, these do not always produce corresponding pleasure. if they come, without too ardent seeking, in the good pleasure of providence, as the reward of useful and honest labour, then they may increase the delights of life; but never otherwise. if the heart is set on them, their acquirement will surely end in disappointment. possession will create satiety; and the mind too quickly turns from the good it has toiled for in hope so long, to fret itself because there is an imagined higher good beyond. believe me, edward, if we are not satisfied with what god gives us as the reward of useful toil to-day, we will not be satisfied with what he gives to-morrow." "perhaps you are right, edith; i believe you are. my mind has a glimpse of the truth, but to fully realize it is hard. ah, i wish that i possessed more of your trusting spirit!" "we are both cared for, edward, by the same infinite love--cared for, whether we doubt and fear, or trust confidingly." "it must be so. i see it now, i feel it now--see it and feel it in the light of your clearer intuitions. ah, how different from this pure faith is the faith of the world! men worship gold as their god; they trust only in riches." "and their god is ever mocking them. to-day he smiles upon his votary, and to-morrow hides his face in darkness. to-day he gives full coffers, that are empty to-morrow. but the true riches offered so freely to all by the living god are blessed both in the getting and in the keeping. these never produce satiety, never take to themselves wings. good affections and true thoughts continually nourish and re-create the mind. they are the soul's wealth, the perennial fountains of all true enjoyment. with these, and sufficient for the body's health and comfort, all may be happy: without them, the riches of the world have no power to satisfy." a pause ensued, during which the minds of both wandered back a little. "if you feel," said edith, recalling the words of her husband, "that there is danger in remaining where you are"-- "that was hastily spoken," edward claire interrupted his wife, "and in a moment of weakness. i must resist the evil that assaults me. i must strive with and overcome the tempter. i must think less of this world and its riches; and in my thoughts place a higher value upon the riches without wings of which you have spoken to me so often." "can you remain where you are, and be out of danger?" asked edith. "there is danger everywhere." "ay; but in some positions more imminent danger. is it well to court temptation?" "perhaps not. but i cannot afford to give up my place with jasper." "yet, while remaining, you will be strongly tempted." "jasper is dishonest at heart. he is ever trying to overreach in dealing, and expects every one in his employment to be as keen as himself." "oh, edward, do not remain with him a day longer! there is death to the spirit in the very atmosphere around such a man. you cannot serve such a master, and be true to yourself and to god. it is impossible." "i believe you are right in that, edith; i know you are right," said the young man, with a strong emphasis on the last sentence. "but what am i to do? five hundred dollars a year is little enough for our wants; i have, as you know, been dissatisfied with that. i can hardly get as much in another situation. i know of but one opening, and that is with melleville." "go back to him, edward," said his wife. "and get but four hundred a year? it is all he can pay." "if but three hundred, it were a situation far to be preferred to the one you now hold." "a hundred dollars a year, edith, taken from our present income, would deprive us of many comforts." "think of how much we would gain in true inward enjoyment, edward, by such a change. have you grown happier since you entered the store of mr. jasper?" the young man shook his head sadly, and murmured, "alas! no." "can anything compensate for the anguish of mind we have both suffered in the last few hours, edward?" there was a quick flushing of the face, as edith said this. "both suffered!" exclaimed edward, with a look of surprise. "ay, both, love. can the heart of my husband feel a jar of discord, and mine not thrill painfully? can he be in temptation, without an overshadowing of my spirit? can he be in darkness, and i at the same time in light? no, no; that were impossible. you have been in great peril; i knew that some evil threatened you, even before you confessed it with your lips. oh, edward, we have both tasted, in the last few hours, a bitterer cup than has yet been placed to our lips. may we not be called upon to drink it to the very dregs!" "amen!" fell solemnly from the lips of edward claire, as a cold shudder crept along his nerves. if there had been any wavering in his mind before, there was none now. he resolved to make restitution in the morning, and, as soon as opportunity offered, to leave a place where he was so strongly tempted to step aside from the path of integrity. the virtue of his wife had saved him. chapter v. "edward," said mr. jasper, on the next morning, soon after he came to the store, "was any time fixed for the funeral yesterday?" "i believe not." "that was an oversight. it might as well take place to-day as to-morrow, or a week hence, if there are no intimate friends or relatives to be thought of or consulted. i wish you would take the forenoon to see about this troublesome matter. the undertaker will, of course, do every thing according to your directions. let there be as little expense as possible." while they were yet speaking, the undertaker came in to make inquiry as to the funeral arrangements to be observed. "is the coffin ready?" asked jasper, in a cold, business manner. "it is," was the reply. "what of the ground? did you see to her husband's funeral?" "yes. i have attended to all these matters. nothing remains but to fix the time, and notify the clergyman." "were you at the house this morning?" asked jasper. "i was." "who did you find there?" "one or two of the neighbours were in." "no near relatives of the deceased?" "not to my knowledge." "was any thing said about the time for burying mrs. elder?" "no. that matter, i suppose, will rest with you." "in that case, i see no reason for delay," said jasper. "what end is served?" "the sooner it is over the better." "so i think. suppose we say this afternoon?" "very well. the time might be fixed at five. the graveyard is not very distant. how many carriages shall i order?" "not many. two, i should think, would be enough," replied jasper. "there will not be much left, i presume; therefore, the lighter the funeral expenses the better. by the way, did you see the child, when you were there this morning?" "no, sir." "some neighbour has, in all probability, taken it." "very likely. it is a beautiful child." "yes--rather pretty," was jasper's cold response. "so young to be left alone in the world. ah, me! but these things will happen. so, you decide to have the funeral at five this afternoon?" "yes; unless something that we do not now know of, interferes to prevent. the quicker a matter like this is over the better." "true. very well." "you will see to every thing?" "certainly; that is my business. will you be at the house this afternoon?" "at the time of the funeral?" "yes." "i think not. i can't do any good." "no,--only for the looks of the thing." the undertaker was already beginning to feel the heartless indifference of jasper, and his last remark was half in irony, half in smothered contempt. "looks! oh! i never do any thing for looks. if i can be of any service, i will be there--but, if not, not. i'm a right up-and-down, straight-forward man of the world, you see." the undertaker bowed, saying that all should be as he wished. "you can step around there, after a while, edward," said jasper, as soon as the undertaker had retired. "when you go, i wish you would ascertain, particularly, what has been done with the child. if a neighbour has taken her home, make inquiry as to whether she will be retained in the family; or, better still, adopted. you can hint, in a casual way, you know, that her parents have left property, which may, some time or other, be valuable. this may be a temptation, and turn the scale in favour of adoption; which may save me a world of trouble and responsibility." "there is some property left?" remarked claire. "a small house or two, and a bit of worthless land in the mountains. all, no doubt, mortgaged within a trifle of their value. still, it's property you know; and the word 'property' has a very attractive sound in some people's ears." a strong feeling of disgust toward jasper swelled in the young man's heart, but he guarded against its expression in look or words. a customer entering at the moment, claire left his principal and moved down behind the counter. he was not very agreeably affected, as the lady approached him, to see in her the person from whom he had taken ten dollars on the previous day, in excess of a reasonable profit. her serious face warned him that she had discovered the cheat. "are you the owner of this store?" she asked, as she leaned upon the counter, and fixed her mild, yet steady eyes, upon the young man's face. "i am not, ma'am," replied claire, forcing a smile as he spoke. "didn't i sell you a lot of goods yesterday?" "you did, sir." "i thought i recognised you. well, ma'am, there was an error in your bill--an overcharge." "so i should think." "a overcharge of five dollars." claire, while he affected an indifferent manner, leaned over toward the woman and spoke in a low tone of voice. inwardly, he was trembling lest jasper should became cognizant of what was passing. "will you take goods for what is due you; or shall i hand you back the money?" said he. "as i have a few more purchases to make, i may as well take goods," was replied, greatly to the young man's relief. "what shall i show you, ma'am?" he asked, in a voice that now reached the attentive ears of jasper, who had been wondering to himself as to what was passing between the clerk and customer. a few articles were mentioned, and, in a little while, another bill of seven dollars was made. "i am to pay you two dollars, i believe?" said the lady, after claire had told her how much the articles came to. as she said this, jasper was close by and heard the remark. "right, ma'am," answered the clerk. the customer laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter. claire saw that the eyes of jasper were on him. he took it up, placed it in the money-drawer, and stood some time fingering over the change and small bills. then, with his back turned toward jasper, he slipped a five dollar gold piece from his pocket. this, with a three dollar bill from the drawer, he gave to the lady, who received her change and departed. other customers coming in at the moment, both jasper and his clerk were kept busy for the next hour. when they were alone again, the former said-- "how large a bill did you sell the old lady from the country, who was in this morning?" "the amount was seven dollars, i believe." "i thought she said two dollars?" "she gave me a ten-dollar bill, and i only took three from the drawer," said the young man. "i thought you gave her a piece of gold?" "there was no gold in the drawer," was replied, evasively. much to the relief of claire, another customer entered, thus putting an end to the conference between him and jasper. the mind of the latter, ever suspicious, was not altogether satisfied. he was almost sure that two dollars was the price named for the goods, and that he had seen a gold coin offered in change. and he took occasion to refer to it at the next opportunity, when his clerk's positive manner, backed by the entry of seven dollars on the sales' book, silenced him. as for claire, this act of restitution, so far as it was in his power to make it, took from his mind a heavy burden. he had, still, three dollars in his possession that were not rightfully his own. it was by no means probable that a similar opportunity to the one just embraced would occur. what then was it best for him to do? this question was soon after decided, by his throwing the money into the cash-drawer of jasper. on his way home to dinner that day, claire called into the store of a mr. melleville, referred to in the conversation with his wife on the previous evening. this gentleman, who was somewhat advanced in years, was in the same business with jasper. he was known as a strictly upright dealer--"too honest to get along in this world," as some said. "old stick-in-the-mud," others called him. "a man behind the times," as the new-comers in the trade were pleased to say. claire had lived with him for some years, and left him on the offer of jasper to give him a hundred dollars more per annum than he was getting. "ah, edward! how do you do to-day?" said mr. melleville, kindly, as the young man came in. "very well in body, but not so well in mind," was the frank reply, as he took the proffered hand of his old employer. "not well in mind, ah! that's about the worst kind of sickness i know of, edward. what's the matter?" "as i have dropped in to talk with you a little about my own affairs, i will come at once to the point." "that is right. speak out plainly, edward, and you will find in me, at least, a sincere friend, and an honest adviser. what is the matter now?" "i don't like my present situation, mr. melleville!" "ah! well? what's the trouble? have you and jasper had a misunderstanding?" "oh no! nothing of that. we get on well enough together. but i don't think its a good place for a young man to be in, sir!" "why not?" "i can be plain with you. in a word, mr. jasper is not an honest dealer; and he expects his clerks to do pretty much as he does." mr. melleville shook his head and looked grave. "to tell the truth," continued edward, "i have suffered myself to fall, almost insensibly, into his way of doing business, until i have become an absolute cheat--taking, sometimes, double and treble profit from a customer who happened to be ignorant about prices." "edward!" exclaimed the old man, an expression of painful surprise settling on his countenance. "it is all too true, mr. melleville--all too true. and i don't think it good for me to remain with mr. jasper." "what does he give you now?" "the same as at first. five hundred dollars." the old man bent his head and thought for a few moments. "his system of unfair dealing toward his customers is your principal objection to mr. jasper?" "that is one objection, and a very serious one, too: particularly as i am required to be as unjust to customers as himself. but there is still another reason why i wish to get away from this situation. mr. jasper seems to think and care for nothing but money-getting. in his mind, gold is the highest good. to a far greater extent than i was, until very recently, aware, have i fallen, by slow degrees, into his way of thinking and feeling; until i have grown dissatisfied with my position. temptation has come, as a natural result; and, before i dreamed that my feet were wandering from the path of safety, i have found myself on the brink of a fearful precipice." "my dear young friend!" said mr. melleville, visibly moved, "this is dreadful!" "it is dreadful. i can scarcely realize that it is so," replied claire, also exhibiting emotion. "you ought not to remain in the employment of leonard jasper. that, at least, is plain. better, far better, to subsist on bread and water, than to live sumptuously on the ill-gotten gold of such a man." "yes, yes, mr. melleville, i feel all the truth of what you affirm, and am resolved to seek for another place. did you not say, when we parted two years ago, that if ever i wished to return, you would endeavour to make an opening for me?" "i did, edward; and can readily bring you in now, as one of my young men is going to leave me for a higher salary than i can afford to pay. there is one drawback, however." "what is that, mr. melleville?" "the salary will be only four hundred dollars a year." "i shall expect no more from you." "but can you live on that sum now? remember, that you have been receiving five hundred dollars, and that your wants have been graduated by your rate of income. let me ask--have you saved any thing since you were married?" "nothing." "so much the worse. you will find it difficult to fall back upon a reduced salary. how far can you rely on your wife's co-operation?" "to the fullest extent. i have already suggested to her the change, and she desires, above all things, that i make it." "does she understand the ground of this proposed change?" asked mr. melleville. "clearly." "and is willing to meet privation--to step down into even a humbler sphere, so that her husband be removed from the tempting influence of the god of this world?" "she is, mr. melleville. ah! i only wish that i could look upon life as she does. that i could see as clearly--that i could gather, as she is gathering them in her daily walk, the riches that have no wings." "thank god for such a treasure, edward! she is worth more than the wealth of the indies. with such an angel to walk by your side, you need feel no evil." "you will give me a situation, then, mr. melleville?" "yes, edward," replied the old man. "then i will notify mr. jasper this afternoon, and enter your service on the first of the coming month. my heart is lighter already. good day." and edward hurried off home. during the afternoon he found no opportunity to speak to mr. jasper on the subject first in his thoughts, as that individual wished him to attend mrs. elder's funeral, and gather for him all possible information about the child. it was late when he came back from the burial-ground--so late that he concluded not to return, on that evening, to the store. in the carriage in which he rode, was the clergyman who officiated, and the orphan child who, though but half comprehending her loss, was yet overwhelmed with sorrow. on their way back, the clergyman asked to be left at his own dwelling; and this was done. claire was then alone with the child, who shrank close to him in the carriage. he did not speak to her; nor did she do more than lift, now and then, her large, soft, tear-suffused eyes to his face. arrived, at length, at the dwelling from which they had just borne forth the dead, claire gently lifted out the child, and entered the house with her. two persons only were within, the domestic and the woman who, on the day previous, had spoken of taking to her own home the little orphaned one. the former had on her shawl and bonnet, and said that she was about going away. "you will not leave this child here alone," said edward. "i will take her for the present," spoke up the other. "would you like to go home with me, fanny?" addressing the child. "come,"--and she held out her hands. but the child shrank closer to the side of edward, and looked up into his face with a silent appeal that his heart could not resist. "thank you, ma'am," he returned politely. "but we won't trouble you to do that. i will take her to my own home for the present. would you like to go with me, dear?" fanny answered with a grateful look, as she lifted her beautiful eyes again to his face. and so, after the woman and the domestic had departed, edward claire locked up the house, and taking the willing child by the hand, led her away to his own humble dwelling. having turned himself resolutely away from evil, already were the better impulses of his nature quickened into active life. a beautiful humanity was rising up to fill the place so recently about to be consecrated to the worship of a hideous selfishness. chapter vi. edward claire was in no doubt as to the reception the motherless child would receive from his kind-hearted wife. a word or two of explanation enabled her to comprehend the feeling from which he had acted. "you were right, edward," said she in hearty approval. "i am glad you brought her home. come, dear," speaking to the wondering, partly shrinking orphan, "let me take off your bonnet." she kissed the child's sweet lips and then gazed for some moments into her face, pleased, yet half surprised, at her remarkable beauty. little fanny felt that she was among friends. the sad expression of her face soon wore off, light came back to her eyes, and her prattling tongue released itself from a long silence. an hour afterward, when she was laid to sleep in a temporary bed, made for her on the floor, her heavy eyelids fell quickly, with their long lashes upon her cheeks, and she was soon in the world of dreams. then followed a long and serious conference between edward and his wife. "i saw mr. melleville to-day," said the former. "did you? i am glad of that," was answered. "he will give me a place." "glad again." "but, edith, as i supposed, he can only pay me a salary of four hundred dollars." "no matter," was the prompt reply; "it is better than five hundred where you are." "can we live on it, edith?" edward spoke in a troubled voice. "why not? it is but to use a little more economy in our expenses--to live on two dollars a week less than we now spend; and that will not be very hard to do. trust it to me, dear. i will bring the account out even. and we will be just as happy. as happy? oh, a thousand times happier! a hundred dollars! how poorly will that compensate for broken peace and a disquieted conscience. edward, is it possible for you to remain where you are, and be innocent?" "i fear not, edith," was the unhesitating reply. "and yet, dear, i should be man enough, should have integrity enough, to resist the temptations that might come in my way." "do not think of remaining where you are," said the young wife earnestly. "if mr. melleville will pay you four hundred dollars a year, take his offer and leave mr. jasper. it will be a gain rather than a loss to us." "a gain, edith?" "yes, a gain in all that is worth having in life--peace of mind flowing from a consciousness of right action. will money buy this? no, edward. highly as riches are esteemed--the one great good in life as they are regarded--they never have given and never will give this best of all blessings. how little, how very little of the world's happiness, after all, flows from the possession of money. did you ever think of that, edward?" "perhaps not." "and yet, is it not worth a passing thought? mr. and mrs. casswell are rich--we are poor. which do you think the happiest?" "oh, we are happiest, a thousand times," said edward warmly. "i would not exchange places with him, were he worth a million for every thousand." "nor i with his wife," returned edith. "so money, in their case, does not give happiness. now look at william everhart and his wife. when we were married they occupied two rooms, at a low rent, as we now do. their income was just what ours has been. well, they enjoyed life. we visited them frequently, and they often called to see us. but for a little ambition on the part of both to make some show, they would have possessed a large share of that inestimable blessing, contentment. after a while, william's salary was raised to one thousand dollars. then they must have a whole house to themselves, as if their two nice rooms were not as large and comfortable, and as well suited to their real wants as before. they must, also, have showy furniture for their friends to look at. were they any happier for this change?--for this marked improvement in their external condition? we have talked this over before, edward. no, they were not. in fact, they were not so comfortable. with added means had come a whole train of clamorous wants, that even the doubled salary could not supply." "everhart gets fifteen hundred a year, now," remarked claire. "that will account, then," said edith, smiling, "for emma's unsettled state of mind when i last saw her. new wants have been created; and they have disturbed the former tranquillity." "all are not so foolish as they have been. i think we might bear an increased income without the drawbacks that have attended theirs." "if it had been best for us, my husband, god would have provided it. it is in his loving-kindness that he has opened the way so opportunely for you to leave the path of doubt and danger for one of confidence and safety; and, in doing it, he has really increased your salary." "increased it, edith! why do you say that?" "will we not be happier for the change?" asked edith, smiling. "i believe so." "then, surely, the salary is increased by so much of heartfelt pleasure. why do you desire an increase rather than a diminution of income?" "in order to procure more of the comforts of life," was answered. "comfort for the body, and satisfaction for the mind?" "yes." "could our bodies really enjoy more than they now enjoy? they are warmly clothed, fully fed, and are in good health. is it not so?" "it is." "then, if by taking mr. melleville's offer, you lose nothing for the body, and gain largely for the mind, is not your income increased?" "ah, edith!" said claire, fondly, "you are a wonderful reasoner. who will gainsay such arguments?" "do i not argue fairly? are not my positions sound, and my deductions clearly brought forth?" "if i could always see and feel as i do now," said claire, in a low, pleased tone of voice, "how smoothly would life glide onward. money is not every thing. ah! how fully that is seen. there are possessions not to be bought with gold." "and they are mental possessions--states of the mind, edward," spoke up edith quickly. "riches that never fade, nor fail; that take to themselves no wings. oh, let us gather of these abundantly, as we walk on our way through life." "heaven has indeed blessed me." such was the heartfelt admission of edward claire, made in the silence of his own thoughts. "with a different wife--a lover of the world and its poor vanities--how imminent would have been my danger! alas! scarcely any thing less than a miracle would have saved me. i shudder as i realize the fearful danger through which i have just passed. i thank god for so good a wife." the first inquiry made by jasper, when he met edward on the next morning, was in relation to what he had seen at the funeral, and, particularly, as to the disposition that had been made of the child. "i took her home with me," was replied, in answer to a direct question. "you did!" jasper seemed taken by surprise. "how came that, edward?" "when i returned from the cemetery, i found the domestic ready to leave the house. of course the poor child could not remain there alone; so i took her home with me for the night." "how did your wife like that?" asked jasper, with something in his tone that showed a personal interest in the reply. "very well. i did just what she would have done under the circumstances." "you have only one child, i believe?" said jasper, after a pause of some moments. "that is all." "only three in family?" "only three." "how would you like to increase it? suppose you keep this child of elder's, now she is with you. i have been looking a little into the affairs of the estate, and find that there are two houses, unincumbered, that are rented each for two hundred and fifty dollars a year. of course, you will receive a reasonable sum for taking care of the child. what do you say to it? as executor, i will pay you five dollars a week for boarding and clothing her until she is twelve years of age. after that, a new arrangement can be made." "i can't give an answer until i consult my wife," said claire, in reply to so unexpected a proposition. "urge her to accept the offer, edward. just think what it will add to your income. i'm sure it won't cost you one-half the sum, weekly, that i have specified, to find the child in every thing." "perhaps not. but all will depend on my wife. we are living, now, in two rooms, and keep no domestic. an addition of one to our family might so increase her care and labour as to make a servant necessary. then we should have to have an additional room; the rent of which and the wages and board of the servant would amount to nearly as much as we would receive from you on account of the child." "yes, i see that," returned jasper. and he mused for some moments. he was particularly anxious that claire should take the orphan, for then all the trouble of looking after and caring for her would be taken from him, and that would be a good deal gained. "i'll tell you what, edward," he added. "if you will take her, i will call the sum six dollars a week--or three hundred a year. that will make the matter perfectly easy. if your wife does not seem at first inclined, talk to her seriously. this addition to your income will be a great help. to show her that i am perfectly in earnest, and that you can depend on receiving the sum specified, i will draw up a little agreement, which, if all parties are satisfied, can be signed at once." claire promised to talk the matter over with his wife at dinner-time. the morning did not pass without varied assaults upon the young man's recent good resolutions. several times he had customers in from whom it would have been easy to get more than a fair profit, but he steadily adhered to what he believed to be right, notwithstanding jasper once or twice expressed dissatisfaction at his not having made better sales, and particularly at his failing to sell a piece of cloth, because he would not pledge his word as to its colour and quality--neither of which were good. the proposition of jasper for him to make, in his family, a place for the orphan, caused claire to postpone the announcement of his intention to leave his service, until after he had seen and conferred with his wife. at the usual dinner-hour, claire returned home. his mind had become by this time somewhat disturbed. the long-cherished love of money, subdued for a brief season, was becoming active again. here were six dollars to be added, weekly, to his income, provided his wife approved the arrangement,--and it was to come through jasper. the more he thought of this increase, the more his natural cupidity was stirred, and the less willing he felt to give up the proposed one hundred dollars in his salary. if he persisted in leaving jasper, there would, in all probability, be a breach between them, and this would, he felt certain, prevent an arrangement that he liked better and better the more he thought about it. he was in this state of mind when he arrived at home. on pushing open the door of their sitting-room, the attention of claire was arrested by the animated expression of his wife's face. she raised her finger to enjoin silence. tripping lightly to his side, she drew her arm within his, and whispered-- "come into the chamber, dear--tread softly--there, isn't that sweet?--isn't it lovely?" the sight was lovely indeed. a pillow had been thrown on the floor, and upon this lay sleeping, arm in arm, the two children. pressed close together were their rosy checks; and the sunny curls of fanny elder were mixed, like gleams of sunshine, amid the darker ringlets that covered profusely the head of little edith. "did you ever see any thing so beautiful?" said the delighted mother. "what a picture it would make!" remarked edward, who was charmed with the sight. "oh, lovely! how i would like just such a picture! "she is a beautiful child," said edward. "very," was the hearty response. "very--and so sweet-tempered and winning in her ways. do you know, i am already attached to her. and little edie is so delighted. they have played all the morning like kittens; and a little while ago lay down, just as you see them--tired out, i suppose--and fell off to sleep. it must have been hard for the mother to part with that child--hard, very hard." and mrs. claire sighed. "you will scarcely be willing to give her up, if she remains here long," said edward. "i don't know how i should feel to part from her, even now. oh, isn't it sad to think that she has no living soul to love or care for her in the world." "mr. jasper is her guardian, you know." "yes; and such a guardian!" "i should not like to have my child dependent on his tender mercies, certainly. but he will have little to do with her beyond paying the bills for her maintenance. he will place her in some family to board; and her present comfort and future well-being will depend very much upon the character of the persons who have charge of her." edith sighed. "i wish," said she, after a pause, "that we were able to take her. but we are not." and she sighed again. "mr. jasper will pay six dollars a week to any one who will take the entire care of her until she is twelve years of age." "will he?" a sudden light had gleamed over the face of mrs. claire. "yes; he said so this morning." "then, why may not we take her? i am willing," was edith's quick suggestion. "it is a great care and responsibility," said edward. "i shall not feel it so. when the heart prompts, duty becomes a pleasure. o yes, dear, let us take the child by all means." "can we make room for her?" "why not? her little bed, in a corner of our chamber, will in noway incommode us; and through the day she will be a companion for edie. if you could only have seen how sweetly they played together! edie has not been half the trouble to-day that she usually is." "it will rest altogether with you, edith," said claire, seriously. "in fact, mr. jasper proposed that we should take fanny. i did not give him much encouragement, however." "have you any objection, dear?" asked edith. "none. the sum to be paid weekly will more than cover the additional cost of housekeeping. if you are prepared for the extra duties that must come, i have nothing to urge against the arrangement." "if extra duties are involved, i will perform them as a labour of love. without the sum to be paid for the child's maintenance, i would have been ready to take her in and let her share our home. she is now in the special guardianship of the father of the fatherless, and he will provide for her, no matter who become the almoners of his bounty. this is my faith, edward, and in this faith i would have freely acted even without the provision that has been made." "let it be then, as you wish, edith." "how providential this increase of our income, edward!" said his wife, soon afterward, while the subject of taking fanny into their little household was yet the burden of their conversation. "we shall gain here all, and more than all that will be lost in giving up your situation with mr. jasper. did i not say to you that good would come of this guardianship; and is there not, even now, a foreshadowing of things to come?" "perhaps there is," replied edward thoughtfully. "but my eye of faith is not so clear as yours." "let me see for you then, dear," said edith, in a tender voice. "i am an earnest confider in the good purposes of our heavenly father. i trust in them, as a ship trusts in its well-grounded anchor. that, in summing up the events of our life, when the time of our departure comes, we shall see clearly that each has been wisely ordered or provided for by one who is infinitely good and wise, i never for an instant doubt. oh, if you could only see with me, eye to eye, edward! but you will, love, you will--that my heart assures me. it may be some time yet--but it will come." "may it come right speedily!" was the fervent response of edward claire. chapter vii. "well, edward, what does your wife say?" such was the inquiry of jasper, immediately on the return of his clerk from dinner. "there will be no difficulty, so far as she is concerned," the young man answered. "none, did you say, edward?" "none. she is willing to take the child, under the arrangement you propose." "that is, for three hundred dollars a year, to find her in every thing?" "yes; until she is twelve years of age." "so i understand it. after that, as the expense of her clothing and education will increase, we can make a new arrangement. very well. i'm glad you have decided to take the child. it won't cost you six dollars a week, for the present, i am sure: so the additional income will be quite a help to you." "i don't know how that will be. at any rate, we are willing to take the child into our family." "suppose then, edward, we mutually sign this little agreement to that effect, which i have drawn up." and jasper took a paper from his desk, which he handed to edward. "i've no objection," said the latter, after he had read it over. "it binds me to the maintenance of the child until she is twelve years of age, and you to the payment therefor of three hundred dollars a year, in quarterly payments of seventy-five dollars each." "yes, that is the simple statement of the matter. you see, i have prepared duplicates: one for you, and one for myself. i will sign them first." and jasper took a pen and placed upon each of the documents his sign-manual. claire did the same; and a clerk witnessed the signatures. each, then, took a copy. thus, quickly and fully, was the matter arranged. this fact of giving to the contract a legal form, was, under the circumstances, the very thing claire most desired. he had already begun to see difficulties ahead, so soon as he announced his intention of leaving jasper's service; particularly, as no reason that he could give would satisfy the merchant--difficulties growing out of this new relation as the personal guardian of little fanny elder. the signing of a regular contract for the payment of a certain sum of money, quarterly, for the child's maintenance, gave him a legal right to collect that sum, should jasper, from any change of feeling, be disposed at some future time to give him trouble. this was something gained. it was with exceeding reluctance that claire forced himself, during the afternoon, to announce his intention to leave mr. jasper. had he not promised mr. melleville and his wife to do this, it would certainly have been postponed for the present; perhaps altogether. but his word was passed to both of them, and he felt that to defer the matter would be wrong. so, an opportunity offering, he said-- "i believe, mr. jasper, that i shall have to leave you." "leave me, edward!" mr. jasper was taken altogether by surprise. "what is the meaning of this? you have expressed no dissatisfaction. what is wrong?" the position of edward was a trying one. he could not state the true reasons for wishing to leave his present situation, without giving great offence, and making, perhaps, an enemy. this he wished, if possible, to avoid. a few days before he would not have scrupled at the broadest equivocation, or even at a direct falsehood. but there had been a birth of better principles in his mind, and he was in the desire to let them govern his conduct. as he did not answer promptly the question of jasper as to his reasons for wishing to leave him, the latter said-- "this seems to be some sudden purpose, edward. are you going to receive a higher salary?" still edward did not reply; but looked worried and irresolute. taking it for granted that no motive but a pecuniary one could have prompted this desire for change, jasper continued-- "i have been satisfied with you, edward. you seem to understand me, and to comprehend my mode of doing business. i have found you industrious, prompt, and cheerful in performing your duties. these are qualities not always to be obtained. i do not, therefore, wish to part with you. if a hundred, or even a hundred and fifty dollars a year, will be any consideration, your salary is increased from to-day." this, to edward, was unexpected. he felt more bewildered and irresolute than at first. so important an advance in his income, set against a reduction of the present amount, was a strong temptation, and he felt his old desires for money arraying themselves in his mind. "i will think over your offer," said he. "i did not expect this. in the morning i will be prepared to decide." "very well, edward. if you remain, your salary will be increased to six hundred and fifty dollars." to claire had now come another hour of darkness. the little strength, just born of higher principles, was to be sorely tried. gold was in one scale, and the heavenly riches that are without wings in the other. which was to overbalance? the moment claire entered the presence of his wife, on returning home that evening, she saw that a change had taken place--an unfavourable change; and a shadow fell upon her pure spirit. "i spoke to mr. jasper about leaving him," he remarked, soon after he came in. "what did he say?" inquired edith. "he does not wish me to go." "i do not wonder at that. but, of course, he is governed merely by a selfish regard to his own interests." "he offers to increase my salary to six hundred and fifty dollars," said edward, in a voice that left his wife in no doubt as to the effect which this had produced. "a thousand dollars a year, edward," was the serious answer, "would be a poor compensation for such services as he requires. loss of self-respect, loss of honour, loss of the immortal soul, are all involved. think of this, my dear husband! and do not for a moment hesitate." but edward did hesitate. this unexpected offer of so important an increase in his salary had excited his love of money, temporarily quiescent. he saw in such an increase a great temporal good; and this obscured his perception of a higher good, which, a little while before, had been so clear. "i am not so sure, edith," said he, "that all these sad consequences are necessarily involved. i am under no obligation to deal unfairly with his customers. my duty will be done, when i sell to them all i can at a fair profit. if he choose to take an excess of profit in his own dealing, that is his affair. i need not be partaker in his guilt." "edward!" returned his wife, laying her hand upon his arm, and speaking in a low, impressive voice--"do you really believe that you can give satisfaction to mr. jasper in all things, and yet keep your conscience void of offence before god and man? think of his character and requirements--think of the kind of service you have, in too many instances, rendered him--and then say whether it will be possible to satisfy him without putting in jeopardy all that a man should hold dear--all that is worth living for? oh, edward! do not let this offer blind you for a moment to the real truth." "then you would have me reject the offer?" "without an instant's hesitation, edward." "it is a tempting one. and then, look at the other side, edith. only four hundred dollars a year, instead of six hundred and fifty." "i feel it as no temptation. the latter sum, in the present case, is by far the better salary, for it will give us higher sources of enjoyment. what are millions of dollars, and a disquiet mind, compared to a few hundreds, and sweet peace? if you remain with jasper, an unhappy spirit will surely steal into our dwelling--if you take, for the present, your old place with mr. melleville, how brightly will each morning's sun shine in upon us, and how calmly will the blessed evening draw around her curtains of repose!" edith had always possessed great influence over her husband. he loved her very tenderly; and was ever loth to do any thing to which she made opposition. she was no creature of mere impulse--of weak caprices--of captious, yet unbending will. if she opposed her husband in any thing, it was on the ground of its non-agreement with just principles; and she always sustained her positions with the clearest and most direct modes of argumentation. not with elaborate reasonings, but rather in the declaration of things self-evident--the quick perceptions of a pure, truth-loving mind. how inestimable the blessing of such a wife! "no doubt you have the better reason on your side, edith," replied her husband, his manner very much subdued. "but it is difficult for me to unclasp my hand to let fall therefrom the natural good which i can see and estimate, for the seemingly unreal and unsubstantial good that, to your purer vision, looms up so imposingly." "unreal--unsubstantial--edward!" said edith, in reply to this. "are states of mind unreal?" "i have not always found them so," was answered. "is happiness, or misery, unreal? oh, are they not our most palpable realizations? it is not mere wealth that is sought for as an end--that is not the natural good for which the many are striving. it is the mental enjoyment that possession promises--the state of mind that would be gained through gold as a means. is it not so? think." "yes--that is, undoubtedly, the case." "but, is it possible for money to give peace and true enjoyment, if, in the spirit, even though not in the letter, violence is done to the laws of both god and man? can ill-gotten gain produce heavenly beatitudes?--and there are none others. the heart never grows truly warm and joyous except when light from above streams through the darkened vapours with which earth-fires have surrounded it. oh, my husband! turn yourself away from this world's false allurements, and seek with me the true riches. whatever may be your lot in life--i care not how poor and humble--i shall walk erect and cheerful by your side if you have been able to keep a conscience void of offence; but if this be not so, and you bring to me gold and treasure without stint, my head will lie bowed upon my bosom, and my heart throb in low, grief-burdened pulsations. false lights, believe me, edward, are hung out by the world, and they lure life's mariner on to dangerous coasts. let us remain on a smooth and sunny sea, while we can, and not tempt the troubled and uncertain wave, unless duty requires the venture. then, with virtue at the helm, and the light of god's love in the sky, we will find a sure haven at last." "it shall be as you wish, edith," said claire, as he gazed with admiring affection into the bright and glowing face of his wife, that was lovely in her beautiful enthusiasm. "no--no, edward! don't say as _i_ wish," was her quick reply. "i cannot bear that you should act merely under my influence as an external pressure. if i have seemed to use persuasion, it has not been to force you over to my way of thinking. but, cannot you see that i am right? does not your reason approve of what i say?" "it does, edith. i can see, as well as feel, that you are right. but, the offer of a present good is a strong temptation. i speak freely." "and i thank you for doing so. oh! never conceal from me your inmost thoughts. you say that you can see as well as feel that i am right?" "yes; i freely acknowledge that." "your reason approves what i have said?" "fully." "this tells you that it will be better for you in the end to accept of four hundred dollars from mr. melleville, than to remain with mr. jasper at six hundred and fifty?" "it does, edith." "then, my husband, let the reason which god has given to you as a guide, direct you now in the right way. do not act under influence from me--for then the act will not be freely your own--but, as a truly rational, and, therefore, a wise man, choose now the way in which an enlightened reason tells you that you ought to walk." "i have chosen, edith," was the young man's low, but firm reply. "how?" the wife spoke with a sudden, trembling eagerness, and held her breath for an answer. "i will leave my present place, and return to mr. melleville." "god be thanked!" came sobbing from the lips of edith, as she threw herself in unrestrained joy upon the bosom of her husband. chapter viii. "i don't just understand this," said jasper to himself, after the interview with his clerk described in another chapter. "i thought him perfectly satisfied. he didn't say he was offered a higher salary. ah! guess i've got it now. it's only a bit of a ruse on his part to get me to increase his wages. i didn't think of this before. well, it has succeeded; and, in truth, he's worth all i've offered him. shrewd, quick, and sharp; he's a young man just to my mind. should he grow restless again, i must tempt him with the idea of a partnership at some future period. if business goes on increasing, i shall want some one with me whom i can trust and depend on more fully than on a clerk." thus, in the mind of jasper, all was settled; and he was fully prepared, on the next morning, when he met edward to hear from him that he would remain in his service. a different decision took him altogether by surprise. "where are you going?" he asked. edward hesitated a moment ere replying. "back to mr. melleville's." "to melleville's! will he give you more salary than i have agreed to pay?" "no," was the answer; "but i have reasons for wishing to accept the place he offers me." "well, just as you please," said jasper, coldly. "every one must suit himself." and, with the air of a person offended, he turned himself from the young man. soon after he went out, and did not come back for two or three hours. when he re-entered the store there was an angry flash in his eyes, which rested somewhat sternly upon claire. "let me say a word with you, edward." there happened to be no customer in to engage the clerk's attention, and he retired, with his employer, to the back part of the store. jasper then turned and confronted him with a stern aspect. "well, young man!" said he sharply, "it seems that you have been making rather free with my good name, of late; representing me as a cheat and a swindler." for a few moments the mind of claire was strongly excited and in a perfect maze of confusion. the blood mounted to his face, and he felt a rising and choking sensation in his throat. wisely he forbore any answer until he had regained his self-possession. then, with a coolness that surprised even himself, he said-- "that's a broad accusation, mr. jasper. will you go with me to your authority?" jasper was not just prepared for a response like this; and he cooled down, instantly, several degrees. "my authority is quite satisfactory," he returned, still manifesting angry feeling. "that you have been slandering me is plain; and, also, betraying the confidential transactions of the house. it is full time we parted--full time. i didn't dream that i was warming an adder to sting me?" "i must insist, mr. jasper," said claire firmly, "that you give me your authority for all this. let me stand face to face with the man who has so broadly accused me." "then you deny it all?" "i shall neither affirm nor deny any thing. you have angrily accused me of having done you a great wrong. all i ask is your authority, and the right to stand face to face with that authority. this is no light matter, mr. jasper." "well said, young man. it is no light matter, as you will, perhaps, know to your sorrow in the end. don't suppose, for a moment, that i shall either forget or forgive this outrage. leave me because i cheat in my business!" an expression of unmitigated contempt was on his face. "poh! what hypocrisy! i know you! and let mr. melleville beware. he, i more than suspect, is at the bottom of this. but he'll rue the day he crossed my path--he will!" and jasper ground his teeth in anger. by this time, claire had become entirely self-possessed. he was both surprised and troubled; yet concealed, as far as possible, the real state of his feelings. "so far as mr. melleville is concerned," said he, "i wish you to understand, that i applied to _him_ for the situation." "exactly! that is in agreement with what i heard. i was such a rogue that you could not live with me and keep a clear conscience--so you sought for a place with an honest man." claire dropped his eyes to the floor, and stood musing for some considerable time. when he raised them, he looked steadily at his employer and said-- "mr. jasper, i never made use of the words you have repeated." "if not the very words, those of a like signification?" "to whom? there is no need of concealment, mr. jasper." claire was feeling less and less anxious for the result of this conference every moment. "speak out freely, and you will find me ready to do the same. there had been some underhand work here--or some betrayal of an ill-advised confidence. the former, i am most ready to believe. in a word, sir, and to bring this at once to an issue--your informant in this matter is henry parker, who lives with mr. melleville." the change instantly perceptible in the manner of jasper showed that edward's suspicion was right. he had, all at once, remembered that, during his conversation with melleville, this young man was near. "i see how it is," he continued. "an eavesdropper has reported, with his own comments and exaggerations, a strictly confidential interview. such being the case, i will state the plain truth of the matter. are you prepared to hear it?" "oh, certainly," replied jasper, with a covert sneer in his voice. "i'm prepared to hear any thing." "very well. what i have to say is now wrung from me. i did not wish to leave you in anger. i did not wish to draw upon me your ill-will. but, what is unavoidable must be borne. it is true, mr. jasper, as you have been informed, that i am not satisfied with your way of doing business." "how long since, pray?" asked jasper, with ill-disguised contempt. "i did not like it in the beginning, but gradually suffered myself to think that all was fair in trade, until i found i was no better than a common cheat! happily, i have been able to make a sudden pause in the way i was going. from this time, i will serve no man who expects me to overreach a customer in dealing. so soon as my mind was fully made up to leave your employment, i called to see my old friend, mr. melleville; stated to him, frankly and fully, what i thought and felt; and asked him if he could not make room for me in his store. parker doubtless overheard a part of what we were saying, and reported it to you. i would, let me say in passing, much rather hold my relation to this unpleasant business than his. mr. melleville offered me my old salary--four hundred dollars--and i agreed to enter his service." "four hundred dollars!" jasper said this in unfeigned surprise. "yes, sir; that is all he can afford to pay, and of course all i will receive." "and i offered you six hundred and fifty." "true." "edward, you are the most consummate fool i ever heard of." "time will show that," was the undisturbed reply. "i have made my election thoughtfully, and am prepared to meet the result." "you'll repent of this; mark my word for it." "i may regret your ill-will, mr. jasper; but never repent this step. i'm only thankful that i possessed sufficient resolution to take it." "when are you going?" "not before the end of this month, unless you wish it otherwise. i would like to give you full time to supply my place." "you can go at once, if it so please you. in fact, after what has just passed, i don't see how you can remain, or i tolerate your presence." "i am ready for this, mr. jasper," coolly replied the young man. "how much is due you?" was inquired, after a brief silence. "twenty-five dollars, i believe," answered claire. jasper threw open a ledger that lay on the desk, and, turning to the young man's account, ran his eyes up the two columns of figures, and then struck a balance. "just twenty-seven dollars," said he, after a second examination of the figures. "and here's the money," he added, as he took some bills from the desk and counted out the sum just mentioned. "now sign me a receipt in full to date, and that ends the matter." the receipt was promptly signed. "and now," sneered jasper, bowing with mock deference, "i wish you joy of your better place. you will, in all probability, hear from me again. i haven't much faith in your over-righteous people; and will do myself the justice to make some very careful examinations into your doings since you entered my service. if all is right, well; if not, it won't be good for you. i'm not the man to forgive ingratitude, injury, and insult--of all three of which you have been guilty." "we will not bandy words on that subject, mr. jasper," said claire--"i simply deny that i have been guilty of either of the faults you allege. as for an investigation into my business conduct, that you can do as early and as thoroughly as you please. i shall feel no anxiety for the result." jasper did not reply. for a few moments the young man stood as if expecting some remark; none being made, he turned away, gathered together a few articles that were his own private property, tied them into a bundle and marked his name thereon. then bowing to the merchant, he retired--oppressed from recent painful excitement, yet glad, in his inmost feelings, that a connection so dangerous as that with jasper had been dissolved--dissolved even at the cost of making an enemy. chapter ix. as no event of particularly marked interest occurred with those whose histories we are writing, during the next few years, we will pass over that time without a record. some changes of more or less importance have taken place, in the natural progress of things; but these will become apparent as we pursue the narrative. a dull, damp november day was losing itself in the sombre twilight, when edward claire left the store of mr. melleville, and took his way homeward. an errand for his wife led him past his old place of business. as he moved along the street, opposite, he noticed a new sign over the door, the large gilt letters of which were strongly reflected in the light of a gas-lamp. it bore the words, jasper & parker. involuntarily the young man sighed. if he had remained with jasper, there was little doubt but that his name would have been the one now associated with his in a copartnership. parker was the young man who had betrayed the conversation between claire and mr. melleville. his end in doing this was to gain the favour of jasper, and thus secure the place left vacant by the departing clerk. he had succeeded in his purpose. jasper offered him the situation, and he took it. five years afterward, in which time jasper had made money rapidly, he was elevated to the position of partner, with a fair interest in the business. he had been honest toward his employer, because he saw that through him there was a chance to rise. honest in heart he was not, for he never scrupled to overreach a customer. edward claire, as we have remarked, sighed involuntarily. his own prospects in life were not what are called flattering. his situation with mr. melleville was now worth five hundred dollars a year, but his family had increased, and with the increase had come new wants. the condition of mr. melleville's business gave him no encouragement to hope for a larger income while in his service. several times during the last two years he had made application for vacant places, but without success. sometimes he felt restless and discouraged, as his vision penetrated the future; but there was ever a cheerful light at home that daily dispelled the coming shadows. scarcely had the sigh lost itself on the air, when a hand was laid on his arm, and an old acquaintance said-- "ah, edward! how are you?" claire seeing the face of his friend, returned the greeting cordially. "what have you been doing with yourself?" asked the latter. "it is months, i believe, since i had the pleasure of meeting you." "busy all day," returned clare, "and anchored at home in the evening. so the time is passing." "pleasantly and profitably, i hope," said the friend. "pleasantly enough, i will own," was answered; "as to the profit--if you mean in a money sense--there is not much to boast of." "you are still with melleville?" "yes." "at what salary?" "five hundred." "is that all? how much family have you?" "three children; or, i might say four; but the fourth brings us three hundred dollars a year for her maintenance." "that is something." "oh yes. it is quite a help." "by the way, edward--the new store we just past reminds me of it--your old friend jasper has just given one of his clerks, named parker, an interest in his business." "so i am aware." "jasper is doing first-rate." "he is making money, i believe." "coining it. the fact is, edward, you never should have left him. had you kept that situation, you would have been the partner now. and, by the way, there was rather a strange story afloat at the time you took it into your head to leave jasper." "ah! what was it?" "it is said that you thought him a little too close in his dealings, and left him on that account. i hadn't given you credit for quite so tender a conscience. how was it, edward?" "i didn't like his modes of doing business, and, therefore, left him. so far you heard truly." "but what had you to do with _his_ modes of doing business?" "a great deal. as one of his employées, i was expected to carry out his views." "and not being willing to do that, you left his service." "that is the simple story." "excuse me, edward, but i can't help calling you a great fool. just see how you have stood in your own light. but for this extra bit of virtue, for which no one thinks a whit the better of you, you might this day have been on the road to fortune, instead of parker." "i would rather be in my own position than in his," replied claire firmly. "you would!" his companion evinced surprise. "he is in the sure road to wealth." "but not, i fear, in the way to happiness." "how can you say that, edward?" "no man, who, in the eager pursuit of money, so far forgets the rights of others as to trample on them, can be in the way to happiness." "then you think he tramples on the rights of others?" "i know but little, if any thing, about him," replied claire; "but this i do know, that unless leonard jasper be a different man from what he was five years ago, fair dealing between man and man is a virtue in a clerk that would in nowise recommend him to the position of an associate in business. his partner must be shrewd, sharp, and unscrupulous--a lover of money above every thing else--a man determined to rise, no matter who is trampled down or destroyed in the ascent." "in business circles such men are by no means scarce." "i am aware of it." "and it is unhesitatingly affirmed by many whom i know, that, as the world now is, no really honest man can trade successfully." "that is more than i am ready to admit." "the sharpest and shrewdest get on the best." "because it is easier to be sharp and shrewd than to be intelligent, persevering, industrious, patient, and self-denying. the eagerness to get rich fast is the bane of trade. i am quite ready to admit that no man can get rich at railroad speed, and not violate the law of doing as you would be done by." "doing as you would be done by! o dear!" said the friend; "you certainly don't mean to bring that law down into the actual life of the world?" "it would be a happier world for all of us if this law were universally obeyed." "that may be. but, where all are selfish, how is it possible to act from an unselfish principle?" "do you approve of stealing?" said claire, with some abruptness. "of course not," was the half-indignant answer. "i need not have asked the question, for i now remember to have seen the fact noticed in one of our papers, that an unfaithful domestic in your family had been handed over to the police." "true. she was a thief. we found in her trunk a number of valuable articles that she had stolen from us." "and you did right. you owed this summary justice as well to the purloiner as to the public. now, there are many ways of stealing, besides this direct mode. if i deprive you of your property with design, i steal from you. isn't that clear?" "certainly." "and i am, to use plain words, a thief. well, now take this easily to be understood case. i have a lot of goods to sell, and you wish to purchase them. in the trade i manage to get from you, through direct misrepresentation, or in a tacit advantage of your ignorance, more than the goods are really worth. do i not cheat you?" "undoubtedly." "and having purposely deprived you of a portion of your money, am i not a thief?" "in all that goes to make up the morality of the case, you are." "the truth, unquestionably. need i proceed further? by your own admission, every businessman who takes undue advantage of another in dealing, steals." "pretty close cutting, that, friend claire. it wouldn't do to talk that right out at all times and in all places." "why not?" "i rather think it would make some people feel bad; and others regard themselves as insulted." "i can believe so. but we are only talking this between ourselves. and now i come back to my rather abrupt question--do you approve of stealing? no, you say, as a matter of course. and yet, you but just now were inclined to justify sharp dealing, on the ground that all were sharpers--quoting the saying of some, that no honest man could trade successfully in the present time. for the direct stealing of a few articles of trifling value, you hand a poor, ignorant domestic over to the police, yet feel no righteous indignation against the better-taught man of business, who daily robs his customers in some one form or another." "you are too serious by far, edward," returned his companion, forcing a laugh. "your mind has fallen into a morbid state. but you will get over this one of these times. good evening! our ways part here. good evening!" and the young man turned off abruptly. "a morbid state," mused claire to himself, as he continued on alone. "so thousands would say. but is it so? is honesty or dishonesty the morbid state? how direct a question! how plain the answer! honesty is health--dishonesty the soul's sickness. to be honest, is to live in obedience to social and divine laws; dishonesty is the violation of these. is it possible for a diseased body to give physical enjoyment? no! nor can a diseased mind give true mental enjoyment. to seek happiness in the possession of wealth obtained through wrong to the neighbour, is as fruitless as to seek bodily pleasure in those practices which inevitably destroy the health. to me, this is self-evident, and may god give me strength to live according to my clear convictions!" the very earnestness with which claire mentally confirmed himself in his honest convictions, and especially his upward looking for strength in conscious weakness, showed that his mind was in temptation. he had felt somewhat depressed during the day, in view of his external relation to the world; and this feeling was increased by his observation of the fact that parker had been advanced to the position of a partner to his old employer. it seemed like a reward for unfair dealing, while honesty was suffered to remain poor. the young man's enlightened reason--enlightened during five years' earnest search after and practice of higher truths than govern in the world's practice--strongly combated all the false arguments that were presented to his mind, during this season of his overshadowing. the combat was severe, and still continued on his arrival at home--causing his mind to be in a measure depressed. chapter x. the increase of claire's family had caused him, some time before, to remove from the two comfortable rooms in which were passed the first pleasant years of his married life. he now occupied a small house in a retired street, the rent of which, though moderate, drew pretty heavily on his income. but he had managed, through the prudent co-operation of his wife, not only to keep even with the world, but to lay by a small sum of money. few homes, in the large city wherein dwelt this obscure family, were so full of all the elements of happiness. if, sometimes, the spirit of claire was overshadowed by passing clouds--as would unavoidably happen from his contact with the world, and his own variant states--the evening's return to the bosom of his family, generally made all bright again. little fanny elder, now ten years of age, had been steadily growing into his affections from the first. it is questionable whether his love for his own children was a purer passion. older, by several years, than edith, she had been to him more companionable; and had ever greeted his return at evening with warmer expressions of pleasure than were manifested by edith, or the two younger children who had been added to the number of his household treasures. on this evening, as claire drew nearer and nearer to his home, and his thoughts began to make pictures of the scene within, its light and warmth penetrated his feelings, and when he opened, at length, the door, he was himself again. first to bound into his arms was fanny elder. what a beautiful, fairy-like creature she was! how more than fulfilled the promise of her early childhood! next came edith, now six years of age, side by side with her brother harry, a wild little rogue, and were only a few seconds behind fanny in throwing themselves upon their father; while little baby mary, as she sat on the carpet, fluttered her tiny arms, and crowed out her joyous welcome. what a merry romp they all had for the next two or three minutes. when quiet came back again, baby was sitting on one knee, harry on the other, and fanny leaning her face on the shoulder of her "father"--for so she called him with the rest--while her glossy curls were resting in sunny clusters upon his bosom. the memory of the child's former home and parents seemed to have faded almost entirely. if the past ever came back to her, like a dream, with its mingled web of sunshine and tears, she never spoke of it. fully had she been taken into the hearts and home of her now parents; and she rested there as one having a right to her position. and the pure spirit who presided over this little paradise, where was she? present--observing all, and sharing in the delight her husband's return had occasioned. the expected kiss had not long been kept from her loving lips. happy household! what have its inmates to envy in those around them? within the circle of many squares were none so rich in all the elements of happiness. soon after the evening meal was over, the children, after another merry romp with their father, went off to bed. when mrs. claire returned from the chamber, whither she had accompanied them, she held a letter in her hand. "i had forgotten all about this letter, edward," said she. "it was left here for you, this afternoon." claire took the letter and broke the seal, running his eye down to the signature as he unfolded it. "leonard jasper! what is this?" his brow contracted instantly, as he commenced reading the letter. it was brief, and in these words-- "mr. edward claire--_sir_: from this time i relieve you of the burden of my ward, fanny elder. mrs. jasper and myself have determined to take her into our own family, in order that we may give the needful care to her education. call around and see me to-morrow, and we will arrange this matter. yours, &c. leonard jasper." the face of the young man had become pale by the time he had finished reading this letter; but that of his wife, who did not yet know a word of its contents, was almost white--the effect produced on her husband filling her with a vague alarm. "what is it, edward?" she asked, in a low, eager whisper. "jasper wants us to give up fanny." edith sank into a chair, exclaiming-- "oh, edward!" "but she is only ten years of age," said the husband, "and our contract is to keep her until she is twelve." "we cannot give her up," murmured edith, tears already beginning to flow over her cheeks. "i never thought of this. what can it mean?" "some sudden determination on the part of jasper, and based on nothing good," was the reply. "but, as i said, our contract is binding until fanny is twelve years of age, and i will never consent to its being broken. he was over anxious to hold me in writing. he did not value his own word, and would not trust mine. it was well. the dear child shall remain where she is." "but, after she is twelve, edward? what then? oh, i can never part with her," said mrs. claire, now weeping freely. "two years will pass ere that time. jasper may have other purposes in view when our present contract expires." "you will see him in the morning?" "o yes. i must understand all about this matter. what can it mean? 'needful care to her education!' a mere hypocritical pretence. what does he care for her, or her education? what, in fact, does he know of her? nothing at all. has he ever called to see her? has he ever made the first inquiry after her? no. there is something wrong, without doubt. this movement bodes no good to our dear child. but she has one friend who will stand between her and harm--who will protect her, if need be, at the risk of his own life." claire, as his words indicate, had suffered himself to become much excited. seeing this, his wife recovered, to some extent, her own self-possession, and spoke to him soothingly. "we will wait and see what it means," said she. "mr. jasper cannot force her away from us now, if he would." "after seeing him to-morrow, you can understand better what we are to expect. this note may have been written from some momentary feeling. i cannot think that he has a settled purpose to take the child from us." "time will show," was the abstracted response. not for years had so unhappy an evening been spent by edward claire and his wife; and when they retired, it was to pass the night in broken intervals of sleep. early on the next morning, claire called at the store of jasper, who received him with cold politeness, and at once came to the matter uppermost in both their thoughts, by saying-- "you received my note?" "i did," was the reply. "well? all right, i suppose?" "fanny is not twelve years of age yet!" "isn't she? well, what of that?" there was some impatience in the manner of jasper. "i agreed to take the care of her until she was twelve." "well--well--suppose you did? i'm her guardian, and wish to have her now in my own family. if you agreed to keep her, i did not say that she should positively remain." "there was a contract signed to that effect," firmly replied claire. "a contract! humph! are you sure?" "very sure. you drew it yourself." "have you a copy of it?" "i have." jasper seemed thrown aback by this. he had not forgotten the contract, for all his affected ignorance thereof. he only hoped that edward had, through carelessness, lost his copy. but he was mistaken. "a contract! a contract?" said jasper, as if communing with his own thoughts. "i do remember, now, something of the kind. and so there was a written contract?" "yes, sir; and i have a copy in your own hand." "and i am to understand, edward, that notwithstanding my wish, as the child's legal guardian, and, therefore, the representative of her parents, to have her in my own family, that you will interpose a hasty-signed contract?" "mr. jasper," said the young man, changing his manner, "we have had this child in our family for over five years, and have grown strongly attached to her. in fact, she seems to us as one of our own children; and we, to her, are in the place of parents. to remove her would, therefore, be doing a great violence to our feelings, and i know it would make her unhappy. let her remain where she is, and you may rest assured that she will be cared for as tenderly as our own." "no, edward, it is no use to talk of that," replied jasper, positively. "i wish, now, to have her in my own family, and trust that you will not stand for a moment in the way." "but, mr. jasper"-- "it will be of no avail to argue the point, edward," said the merchant, interrupting him. "i was fully in earnest when i wrote to you, and am no less in earnest now. i am certainly entitled to the possession of my ward, and will not bear, patiently, any attempt on your part to deprive me of that right." there was an angry quivering of the lips, and a stern knitting of the brows, on the part of jasper, as he closed this emphatic sentence. claire felt excited, yet was so fully conscious of the necessity of self-control, that he quieted down his feelings, and endeavoured to think calmly. "well, what do you say?" imperatively demanded jasper, after waiting some moments for a reply. "we cannot part with the child," said the young man, in a low, appealing voice. "you _must_ part with her!" was the quick, resolute response. "must? that is a strong word, mr. jasper." claire's manner underwent another change, as was shown by the firm compression of his lips, and the steady gaze of his eyes, as he fixed them on the merchant. "i know it is strong, but no stronger than my purpose; and i warn you not to stand in my way. i've got an old grudge against you, so don't provoke me too far in this matter. a pretty affair, indeed, when _you_ attempt to come between me and my legal rights and duties." "duties!" there was a stinging contempt in the young man's voice. the manner of jasper had chafed him beyond all manner of self-control. "you forget to whom you are speaking," said the latter, offended now, as well as angry. "but we will not bandy words. will you, without further trouble, give into my hands the child of mr. elder?" "i cannot do it, mr. jasper." "speak positively. will you, or will you not do as i wish?" "i will not," was the decided answer. "enough." and jasper turned away, muttering in an undertone, "we'll soon see who is to be master here." claire lingered a short time, but, as jasper showed no disposition to renew the conversation, he left the store, greatly disturbed and troubled in his mind. chapter xi. when edward claire and his wife drew together on the evening of that day, after the children were in bed, both were calmer than at their previous interview on a subject that necessarily brought with it strong excitement of feeling. both had thought much and felt much, and were now prepared to look calmly at the new relation affairs had so suddenly assumed. at dinner-time, edward had related the substance of his interview with jasper. "what can he do?" asked edith, referring now to the muttered threat of that individual. "i don't know that he can do any thing more than withhold the regular sums heretofore paid for the support of fanny. if he does that, i will collect them legally." "can't he take her away by force? won't the law compel us to give her up?" asked edith, in a troubled voice. "our contract gives us a right to her possession until she is twelve years of age. in that, the law will undoubtedly sustain us." "the law is very uncertain, edward." "but our contract is plainly worded, and, in this state, private written contracts between parties to an agreement are good in law. at best, however, we can only keep her two years longer; that is what troubles me most." "we must do our duty by her," said edith, endeavouring to speak calmly, "during that time; and wean our hearts from her as much as possible, so that the giving of her up, when it has to be done, will cause as little grief as possible. poor child! it will be hard for her to leave us, and go to her new home. that thought is beginning to pain me most." "and such a home! i have seen mrs. jasper frequently, and, if my observation is correct, she is no true woman. dress, it seemed to me, was all she cared for; and there was a captiousness and ill-temper about her, at times, that was, to say the least of it, very unbecoming." "and to her care we must resign this precious one," said edith, with a sigh. "oh, how the thought pains me! dear, dear child!" "the time is yet distant," remarked claire--"distant by nearly two years. let it be our duty to prepare her as fully for the new relation as possible. two years is a long time--many changes will take place, and among them, it may be, a change in the purpose of mr. jasper. we will hope for this, at least; yet wisely prepare for a different result." "as things now appear, i do not see what else remains for us to do. ah me! how like lightning from a summer sky has this flashed suddenly over us. but, edward, we must not, in the strong trial of our natural feelings, permit ourselves to forget that dear fanny is in the higher guardianship of one who is infinitely wise and good. if she is to pass from our care to that of mr. jasper and his family, it is through his permission, and he will bring out of it good to all." "i can see that in my understanding, edith," replied her husband; "but, it is hard to _feel_ that it is so." "very hard, edward. yet, it is something--a great deal--to have the truth to lean upon, even though it seems to bend under our weight. oh! without this truth, it seems as if i would now fall to the ground helpless. but, let us try and view this painful subject in its brightest aspect. it is our duty to the child to keep her, if we can, until she passes her twelfth year." "clearly," replied the husband. "and you think we can do so?" "we have two advantages--possession and a written contract guaranteeing the possession." "true." "these on our side, i think we have little to fear from jasper. the great trial will come afterward." to this conclusion, that is, to retain fanny until her twelfth year, if possible--they came, after once more carefully reviewing the whole subject; and, resting here, they patiently awaited the result. with what a new interest was the child regarded from this time! how the hearts of claire and his wife melted toward her on all occasions! she seemed to grow, daily, more and more into their affections; and, what to them appeared strange--it might only have been imagination--manifested a more clinging tenderness, as if conscious of the real truth. weeks elapsed and nothing further was heard from jasper. claire and his wife began to hope that he would make no attempt to separate fanny from them; at least not until her twelfth year. let us turn to him, and see what he is doing, or proposing to do, in the case. two or three days subsequent to the time when claire received the notification from jasper, just referred to, two men sat, in close conference, in the office of an attorney noted for his legal intelligence, but more noted for his entire want of principle. for a good fee, he would undertake any case, and gain for his client, if possible, no matter how great the wrong that was done. his name was grind. the two men here introduced, were this lawyer and jasper. "do you really think," said the latter, "that, in the face of my guardianship, he can retain possession of the child?" "he has, you say, a copy of this contract?" grind held a sheet of paper in his hand. "yes. to think that i was such a fool as to bind myself in this way! but i did not dream, for a moment, that things were going to turn up as they have." "it is a contract that binds you both," said the lawyer, "and i do not see that you can go round it." "i must go round it!" replied jasper, warmly. "you know all the quirks and windings of the law, and i look to you for help in this matter. the possession of that child, is, to me, a thing of the first importance." "after two years she will come into your hands without trouble, mr. jasper. why not wait?" "wait! i will not hear the word. no! no! i must have her now." "the law will not give her to you, mr. jasper," returned grind, with the utmost self-possession. "the contract is clearly expressed; and it is binding." "is there no way to accomplish my end?" said jasper, impatiently. "there must be. i cannot be foiled in this matter. even pride would forbid this. but, there are stronger motives than pride at work now." "can you allege ill-treatment against the young man or his wife? or neglect of your ward's comfort? have they failed to do their duty by her in any respect?" "i should not wonder; but, unfortunately, i can prove nothing." "you might call for an investigation." "and if every thing was proved right on their part?" "the court would, most probably, return the child to their care. i am ready to take all necessary steps for you; but, mr. jasper, i very strongly incline to the opinion that the least noise you make in this matter, the better. couldn't you--for a consideration in money, for instance--overcome the reluctance of claire and his wife to part with the child? honey, you know, catches more flies than vinegar." "buy him off, you mean?" "yes." "no--no! i hate him too cordially for that. he's a villain in disguise; that's my opinion of him. a low, canting hypocrite. buy him off for money. oh no!" "could he be bought?" asked the lawyer. "could he?" a flush of surprise lit up, for a moment, the face of jasper. "what a question for _you_ to ask. hasn't every man his price? bought! yes, i could buy him fifty times over." "then do so, and in the quietest manner. that is my advice." "i'll steal the child!" exclaimed jasper, rising up in his excitement, and moving uneasily about the room. grind shook his head, as he replied-- "all folly. no man ever did a wise thing while he was in a passion. you must permit yourself to cool down a great many degrees before you can act judiciously in this matter." "but to be thwarted by him!" an expression of the deepest disgust was in the face of jasper. "all very annoying, of course," was the response of grind. "still, where we can't make things bend exactly to our wishes, it is generally the wisest policy to bend a little ourselves. we often, in this way, gain a purchase that enables us to bring all over to our side." it must not be supposed that grind, in giving his client advice that was to prevent an appeal to law, did so from any unselfish friendliness. nothing of the kind. he saw a great deal to gain, beyond; and, in his advice, regarded his own interests quite as much as he did those of jasper. he was not, however, at this interview, able to induce the merchant to attempt to settle the matter with claire by compromise. the most he could do was to get him to promise, that, for the present, he would make no effort to get the person of the child into his possession. jasper, when he left his lawyer, was less satisfied with him than he had ever been. in previous cases, he had found grind ready to prosecute or defend, and to promise him the fullest success--though success did not always come. several more consultations were held during the succeeding two or three weeks, and, finally, jasper was brought over fully to his lawyer's way of thinking. chapter xii. the minds of claire and his wife were yet in a state of suspense, when, some weeks after the first interview, the former received a politely worded note from jasper, requesting him to call at his store. he went, accordingly, and jasper received him with marked suavity and kindness of manner, and, after making a few inquiries about his family, said-- "edward: i believe i must confess to having been a little over-excited at our last interview. the fact is, i had forgotten all about that contract; and when you brought it to my mind so abruptly, i was thrown somewhat off of my guard, and said things for which i have since felt regret. so let what is past go. i now wish to have another talk with you about fanny elder. how is the child?" "she is very well." "and she has grown, i presume, finely?" "yes. she's now quite a stout girl." "what kind of a child is she? docile and obedient?" "none could be more so. a sweeter disposition i have never seen." "how are you getting on now, edward?" mr. jasper's voice was kind and insinuating. "comfortably," was answered. "what is your salary?" there was a momentary hesitation on the part of claire, and then he replied-- "five hundred dollars." "is that all? i was under the impression that you received a thousand. i am very certain that some one told me so. too little, edward--too little. you are worth more than that to any one. are you acquainted at edgar & co.'s?" "no." "i wish you were. one of their young men is going to leave, and they will have to fill his place immediately. the salary is twelve hundred." claire's heart gave a quick bound. "shall i speak to edgar for you?" added the merchant. "if you will do so, mr. jasper," said edward, with a sudden earnestness of manner, "i shall be greatly indebted to you. i find it a little difficult to get along on five hundred dollars a year." "how much family have you now?" "three children." "indeed. oh yes, you should have a higher salary. i know you would just suit edgar & co., and i think the place may be secured for you." a few moments of silence followed, and then jasper resumed-- "but, as just said, i wish to talk with you about this ward of mine. your salary is so light that you, no doubt, find the income received through her quite a help to you?" "no--no," replied claire; "it costs for her boarding, clothes, schooling, etc., quite as much as we receive." "it does?" jasper manifested some surprise. "oh yes. we have no wish to make any profit out of her." "that being the case, edward," said the merchant, "why are you so reluctant to give her up?" "because," was the reply, "both myself and wife have become strongly attached to her. in fact, she seems like one of our own children." "when she is twelve, you know," edward, returned jasper, "you will have to resign her. our agreement only extends to that time." he spoke in a mild, insinuating, friendly tone of voice. so much so, in fact, that claire, well as he knew him, was partially deceived and thrown off of his guard. "true; unless you have seen reason by that time, which we hope will be the case, to let her remain in her present home. believe me, mr. jasper,"--claire spoke earnestly--"that fanny will take the parting very hard, if ever it comes." "as come it must, edward, sooner or later," was the mild, yet firm response. "are you so earnest about this, mr. jasper? i have flattered myself that you did not really care a great deal about having fanny." "i am entirely in earnest, edward," was the reply. "i may have seemed to you indifferent about this child, but such has not been the case. i have feelings and purposes in regard to her which i cannot explain, but which are near my heart. i see your position and that of your wife, and i feel for you. if compatible with what i conceive to be my duty, i would let her remain under your care. but such is not the case. surely, it will be far better for both you and fanny for the change that must come to be made now." the calm, kind, insinuating manner of jasper disarmed claire, and made him wish that he could meet the desire of his old employer, without the painful breach in his home circle which must be the consequence. with his eyes cast upon the floor, he sat silently communing with his own thoughts for some time. the announcement of a vacancy in the house of edgar & co., and the offer to try and get the situation for him, had flattered his mind considerably. if he did not make some compromise in the present case, he could count nothing on the influence of jasper. but, how could he compromise? there was but one way--to give up fanny--and that he was not prepared to do. seeing that the young man remained silent, jasper said-- "edward, i will make you this very liberal offer. understand, now, that i am deeply in earnest--that the possession of fanny is a thing of great moment to me; and that to gain this desired object, i am prepared to go very far. if you will meet me in a spirit of compromise, i will become as i was some years ago, your friend; and i have the ability to aid any one materially. as just said, i will make you this liberal offer:--let me have the child now, and for the next two years i will pay you the same that you have been receiving for her maintenance." claire lifted his head quickly. there was already a flush on his cheeks and a sharp light in his eyes. "stay--one moment," interrupted jasper, who saw by the motion of his lips that he was about replying. "i will pay you the whole sum, six hundred dollars, in advance, and, in addition thereto, pledge myself to procure for you, within three mouths, a situation worth a thousand dollars per annum, at least." this was too broad an attempt to buy over the young man, and it failed. starting to his feet, with a feeling of indignation in his heart so strong that he could not repress it, he answered, with knit brows and eyes fixed sternly and steadily on the merchant--"leonard jasper! i thought you knew me better! i am not to be bought with your money." as sudden was the change that passed over the merchant. he, too, sprang to his feet, and conscious that his offer of bribery, which he had humiliated himself to make, had failed, with clenched hand and set teeth, he fairly hissed out-- "you'll rue this day and hour, edward claire--rue it even to the moment of death! i will never forget nor forgive the wrong and insult. don't think to escape me--don't think to foil me. the child is mine by right, and i will have her, come what will." feeling how useless it would be to multiply words, claire turned away and left the store. he did not go home immediately, as he had thought of doing, in order to relieve the suspense of his wife, who was, he knew, very anxious to learn for what purpose jasper had sent for him; but went to his place of business and laid the whole substance of his interview before his fast friend, mr. melleville, whose first response was one of indignation at the offer made by jasper to buy him over to his wishes with money. he then said-- "there is something wrong here, depend upon it. was there much property left by the child's parents?" "two houses in the city." "was that all?" "all, i believe, of any value. there was a tract of land somewhere in the state, taken for debt; but it was considered of little account." "regard for the child has nothing to do with this movement," remarked mr. melleville. "the character of jasper precludes the supposition." "entirely. what can it mean? the thing comes on me so suddenly that i am bewildered." claire was distressed. "you are still firm in your purpose to keep fanny until she is twelve years old?" "as firm as ever, mr. melleville. i love the child too well to give her up. if a higher good to her were to be secured, then i might yield--then it would be my duty to yield. but, now, every just and humane consideration calls on me to abide by my purpose--and there i will abide." "in my mind you are fully justified," was the reply of mr. melleville. "keep me fully advised of every thing that occurs, and i will aid you as far as lies in my power. to-day i will call upon edgar & co., and do what i can toward securing for you the place said by jasper to be vacant. i presume that i have quite as much influence in this quarter as he has." chapter xiii. scarcely had edward claire left the store of jasper, ere the latter went out hurriedly, and took his way to the office of grind, the lawyer, to whom he said, as he entered-- "it's just as i feared. the miserable wretch proved as intractable as iron." jasper was not only strongly excited, but showed, in his voice and manner, that he had suffered no ordinary disappointment. "couldn't you buy him over?" there was a mixture of surprise and incredulity in the lawyer's tones. "no," was the emphatic response. "that's strange! he's poor?" "he gets five hundred a year, and has a wife and three children to support." "why didn't you tempt him with the offer to get him a place worth a thousand?" "i did." "with what effect?" "he wouldn't give up the child." "humph!" "isn't it too bad, that a mean-souled fellow like him should stand in our way at such a point of time? i could spurn him with my foot! hah!" and jasper clenched his teeth and scowled malignantly. "i am disappointed, i confess", said grind. "but angry excitement never helped a cause, good or bad. we must have possession of this child somehow. martin came down from reading this morning. i saw him but an hour ago." "indeed! what does he say?" "the indications of coal are abundant. he made very careful examinations at a great number of points. in several places he found it cropping out freely; and the quality, as far as he was able to judge, is remarkably good." "will he keep our secret?" said jasper. "it is his interest to do so." "we must make it his interest, in any event. no time is now to be lost." "i agree with you there. a single week's delay may ruin every thing. the coal is our discovery, and we are, in all equity, entitled to the benefit." "of course we are. it's a matter of speculation, at best; the lucky win. if we can get an order for the sale, we shall win handsomely. but, without producing the child, it will be next to impossible to get the order. so we must have her, by fair means or by foul." "we must," said the lawyer, compressing his lips firmly. "and have her now." "now," responded grind. jasper rose to his feet. "it's easy enough to say what we must have," remarked grind, "but the means of gaining our ends are not always at hand. what do you propose doing?" "i shall get the child." "don't act too precipitately. violence will excite suspicion, and suspicion is a wonderful questioner." "we must play a desperate game, as things now are, or not play at all," said jasper. "true; but the more desperate the game, the more need of coolness, forethought, and circumspection. don't forget this. how do you mean to proceed?" "that is yet to be determined." "will you make another effort to influence claire?" "no." "do you regard him as altogether impracticable?" "no influence that i can bring would move him." "you will, then, resort to stratagem or force?" "one or the other--perhaps both. the child we must have." "let me beg of you, jasper, to be prudent. there is a great deal at stake." "i know there is; and the risk increases with every moment of delay." grind showed a marked degree of anxiety. "if the child were in our possession now," said jasper, "or, which is the same, could be produced when wanted, how soon might an order for the sale be procured?" "in two or three weeks, i think," replied the lawyer. "certain preliminary steps are necessary?" "yes." "if these were entered upon forthwith, how soon would the child be wanted?" "in about ten days." "very well. begin the work at once. when the child is needed, i will see that she is forthcoming. trust me for that. i never was foiled yet in any thing that i set about accomplishing, and i will not suffer myself to be foiled here." with this understanding, jasper and the lawyer parted. a week or more passed, during which time claire heard nothing from the guardian of fanny; and both he and his wife began to hope that no further attempt to get her into his possession would be made, until the child had reached her twelfth year. it was in the summer-time, and mrs. claire sat, late in the afternoon of a pleasant day, at one of the front-windows of her dwelling, holding her youngest child in her arms. "the children are late in coming home from school," said she, speaking aloud her thought. "i wonder what keeps them!" and she leaned out of the window, and looked for some time earnestly down the street. but the children were not in sight. for some five or ten minutes mrs. claire played with and talked to the child in her arms; then she bent from the window again, gazing first up and then down the street. "that's edie, as i live!" she exclaimed. "but where is fanny?" as she uttered this inquiry, a sudden fear fell like a heavy weight on her heart. retiring from the window, she hastened to the door, where, by this time, a lady stood holding little edie by the hand. the child's eyes were red with weeping. "is this your little girl?" asked the lady. "oh, mamma! mamma!" cried edie, bursting into tears, as she sprang to her mother's side and hid her face in her garments. "where did you find her, ma'am? was she lost?" asked mrs. claire, looking surprised as well as alarmed. "won't you walk in, ma'am?" she added, before there was time for a reply. the lady entered, on this invitation, and when seated in mrs. claire's little parlour, related that while walking through washington square, she noticed the child she had brought home, crying bitterly. on asking her as to the cause of her distress, she said that she wanted fanny: and then ran away to some distance along the walks, searching for her lost companion. the lady's interest being excited, she followed and persuaded the child to tell her where she lived. after remaining some time longer in the square, vainly searching for fanny, she was induced to let the lady take her home. after hearing this relation, mrs. claire said to edith, in as calm a voice as she could assume, in order that the child might think without the confusion of mind consequent upon excitement-- "where is fanny, dear?" "she went with the lady to buy some candies," replied the child. "what lady?" asked the mother. "the lady who took us to the square." "the lady who took you to the square?" said the mother, repeating the child's words from the very surprise they occasioned. "yes, mamma," was the simple response. "what lady was it?" "i don't know. she met us as we were coming home from school, and asked us to go down and walk in the square. she knew fanny." "how do you know, dear?" disked mrs. claire. "oh, she called her fanny; and said what a nice big girl she was growing to be." "and so you went down to the square with her?" "yes, ma'am." "and what then?" "we walked about there for a little while, and then the lady told me to wait while she took fanny to the candy-store to buy some candy. i waited, and waited ever so long; but she didn't come back; and then i cried." the meaning of all this, poor mrs. claire understood but too well. with what a shock it fell upon her. she asked no further question. what need was there? edie's artless story made every thing clear. fanny had been enticed away by some one employed by jasper, and was now in his possession! with pale face and quivering lips, she sat bending over edie, silent for several moments. then recollecting herself, she said to the lady--- "i thank you, ma'am, most sincerely, for the trouble you have taken in bringing home my little girl. this is a most distressing affair. the other child has, evidently, been enticed away." "you will take immediate steps for her recovery," said the lady. "oh, yes. i expect my husband home, now, every moment." while she was yet speaking, claire came in. seeing the white face of his wife, he exclaimed-- "mercy, edith! what has happened?" edith could only murmur the word "fanny," as she started forward, and buried her face, sobbing, on his bosom. "fanny! what of her? oh, edith! speak!" the agitation of the wife was, for the time, too overpowering to admit of words, and so claire turned to the lady and said, hurriedly-- "will you tell me, madam, what has happened?" "it appears, sir," she replied, "that a strange lady enticed the children to washington square, on their way from school"-- "and then carried off our dear, dear fanny!" sobbed out edith. "carried off fanny!" exclaimed claire. "this lady," said edith, growing calmer, "found our little edie crying, in the square, and brought her home. edie says the lady took them down there, and then told her to wait until she went with fanny to buy some candies. they went, but did not return." the meaning of all this was quite as clear to the mind of edward claire as it was to his wife. he understood, likewise, that this was the work of jasper, and that fanny was now in his possession. what was to be done? "our first step," said claire, after the stranger had retired, "must be to ascertain, if possible, whether what we believe to be true in regard to fanny is really true. we must know certainly, whether she be really in the hands of mr. jasper." "where else can she be?" asked edith, a new fear throwing its quick flash into her face. "we, naturally," replied her husband, "take it for granted that mr. jasper has put his threat into execution. there is a bare possibility that such is not the case; and we must not rest until we have, on this point, the most absolute certainty." "for what other purpose could she have been enticed away?" said mrs. claire, her face again blanching to a deadly paleness. "we know nothing certain, edith; and while this is the case, we cannot but feel a double anxiety. but, i must not linger here. be as calm as possible, my dear wife, in this painful trial. i will go at once to mr. jasper, and learn from him whether he has the child." "go quickly, edward," said edith. "oh! it will be such a relief to have a certainty; to know even that she is in his hands." without further remark, claire left his house and hurried off to the store of jasper. the merchant was not there. from one of his clerks he learned his present residence, which happened not to be far distant. thither he went, and, on asking to see him, was told by the servant that he was not at home. he then inquired for mrs. jasper, who, on being summoned, met him in one of the parlours. the manner of claire was very much agitated, and he said, with an abruptness that evidently disconcerted the lady-- "good evening, madam! my name is claire. you remember me, of course?" the lady bowed coldly, and with a frown on her brow. "is little fanny elder here?" was asked, and with even greater abruptness. "fanny elder? no! why do you ask that question?" there was something so positive in the denial of mrs. jasper, that claire felt her words as truth. "not here?" said he, catching his breath in a gasping manner. "not here?" "i said that she was not here," was the reply. "oh, where then is she, madam?" exclaimed the young man, evincing great distress. "how should i know? is she not in your possession? what is the meaning of this, mr. claire?" the lady spoke sternly, and with the air of one both offended and irritated. "somebody enticed her away, on her return from school this afternoon," said claire. "mr. jasper said that he would have her; and my first and natural conclusion was that he had executed his threat. oh, ma'am, if this be so, tell me, that my anxiety for the child's safety may have rest. as it is, i am in the most painful uncertainty. if she is here, i will feel, at least"-- "have i not told you that she is not here, and that i know nothing of her," said mrs. jasper, angrily, interrupting the young man. "this is insolent." "how soon do you expect mr. jasper home?" inquired claire. "not for several days," replied mrs. jasper. "days! is he not in the city?" "no, sir. he left town yesterday." claire struck his hands together in disappointment and grief. this confirmed to him the lady's assertion that she knew nothing of fanny. in that assertion she had uttered the truth. sadly disappointed, and in far deeper distress of mind than when he entered the house, edward claire retired. if mr. jasper left the city on the day previous, and his wife had, as he could not help believing, no knowledge whatever of fanny, then the more distressing inference was that she had been enticed away by some stranger. on his way home, claire called again at the store of jasper. it occurred to him to ask there as to his absence from the city. the reply he received was in agreement with mrs. jasper's assertion. he had left town on the previous day. "where has he gone?" he inquired. "to reading, i believe," was the answer. "will he return soon?" "not for several days, i believe." with a heavy heart, claire bent his way homeward. he cherished a faint hope that fanny might have returned. the hope was vain. here he lingered but a short time. his next step was to give information to the police, and to furnish for all the morning papers an advertisement, detailing the circumstances attendant on the child's abduction. this done, he again returned home, to console, the best he could, his afflicted wife, and to wait the developments of the succeeding day. utterly fruitless were all the means used by claire to gain intelligence of the missing child. two days went by, yet not the least clue to the mystery of her absence had been found. there was no response to the newspaper advertisements; and the police confessed themselves entirely at fault. exhausted by sleepless anxiety, broken in spirit by this distressing affliction, and almost despairing in regard to the absent one, mr. and mrs. claire were seated alone, about an hour after dark on the evening of the third day, when the noise of rumbling wheels ceased before their door. each bent an ear, involuntarily, to listen, and each started with an exclamation, as the bell rang with a sudden jerk. almost simultaneously, the noise of wheels was again heard, and a carriage rolled rapidly away. two or three quick bounds brought claire to the door, which he threw open. "fanny!" he instantly exclaimed; and in the next moment the child was in his arms, clinging to him, and weeping for joy at her return. with a wonderful calmness, mrs. claire received fanny from her husband, murmuring as she did so, in a subdued, yet deeply gratified voice-- "o, god! i thank thee!" but this calmness in a little while gave way, and her overstrained, but now joyful feelings, poured themselves forth in tears. poor child! she too had suffered during these three never-to-be-forgotten days, and the marks of that suffering were sadly visible in her pale, grief-touched countenance. to the earnest inquiries of her foster-parents, fanny could give no very satisfactory answer. she had no sooner left the square with the lady mentioned by little edith, than she was hurried into a carriage, and driven off to the cars, where a man met them. this man, she said, spoke kindly to her, showed her his watch, and told her if she would be a good girl and not cry, he would take her home again. in the cars, they rode for a long time, until it grew dark; and still she said the cars kept going. after a while she fell asleep, and when she awoke it was morning, and she was lying on a bed. the same lady was with her, and, speaking kindly, told her not to be frightened--that nobody would hurt her, and that she should go home in a day or two. "but i did nothing but cry," said the child, in her own simple way, as she related her story. "then the lady scolded me, until i was frightened, and tried to keep back the tears all i could. but they would run down my cheeks. a good while after breakfast," continued fanny, "the man who had met us at the cars came in with another man. they talked with the lady for a good while, looking at me as they spoke. then they all came around me, and one of the men said-- "'don't be frightened, my little dear. no one will do you any harm; and if you will be a right good girl, and do just as we want you to do, you shall go home to-morrow.' "i tried not to cry, but the tears came running down my face. then the other man said sharply-- "'come now, my little lady, we can't have any more of this! if you wish to go home again tomorrow, dry your tears at once. there! there! hush all them sobs. no one is going to do you any harm.' "i was so frightened at the way the man looked and talked, that i stopped crying at once. "'there!' said he, 'that is something like. now,' speaking to the lady, 'put on her things. it is time she was there.' "i was more frightened at this, and the men saw it; so one of them told me not to be alarmed, that they were only going to show me a large, handsome house, and would then bring me right back; and that in the morning, if i would go with them now, and be a good girl, i should go home again. "so i went with them, and tried my best not to cry. they brought me into a large house, and there were a good many men inside. the men all looked at me, and i was so frightened! then they talked together, and one of them kept pointing toward me. at last i was taken back to the house, where i stayed all day and all night with the lady. this morning we got into the cars, and came back to the city. the lady took me to a large house in walnut street, where i stayed until after dark, and then she brought me home in a carriage." such was the child's story; and greatly puzzled were claire and his wife to comprehend its meaning. their joy at her return was intense. she seemed almost as if restored to them from the dead. but, for what purpose had she been carried off; and who were the parties engaged in the act? these were questions of the deepest moment; yet difficult, if not impossible of solution--at least in the present. that jasper's absence from the city was in some way connected with this business, claire felt certain, the more he reflected thereon. but, that fanny should be returned to him so speedily, if jasper had been concerned in her temporary abduction, was something that he could not clearly understand. and it was a long time ere the mystery was entirely unravelled. chapter xiv. from that time claire and his wife heard no more from jasper, who regularly paid the sums quarterly demanded for fanny's maintenance. this demand was not now made in person by claire. he sent a written order, which the guardian never failed to honour on the first presentation. mr. melleville, according to promise, called upon the firm of edgar & co., in order to speak a good word for edward; but learned, not a little to his surprise, that no vacancy was anticipated in the house. "mr. jasper," said he, "told one of my young men that a clerk had left, or was about leaving you." "it's a mistake," was the positive answer. "he may have meant some other firm." "all a wicked deception on the part of jasper," said melleville to himself, as he left the store. "a lie told with sinister purpose. how given over to all baseness is the man!" claire was no little disappointed when this was told him; but his answer showed how he was gaining in just views of life; and how he could lean on right principles and find in them a firm support. "i would rather," said he, "be the deceived than the deceiver. the one most wronged in this is leonard jasper. ah! is he not preparing for himself a sad future? as for me, i am more and more satisfied, every day, that all events, even to the most minute, are in the direction or permission of providence; and that out of the very occurrences we deem afflictive and disastrous, will often arise our greatest good. for the moment i was disappointed; but now i feel that it is all right." no change of marked importance occurred in the family of claire during the next two years, to the close of which period both he and his wife looked with increasing earnestness of mind. fanny had grown rapidly during this time, and was now tall for her age--and still very beautiful. in character she was every thing the fondest parents could desire. at last came the child's twelfth birthday. neither clare nor his wife referred to the fact; though it was present to both their minds--present like an evil guest. must they now give her up? their hearts shrank and trembled at the bare idea. how plainly each read in the other's face the trouble which only the lips concealed! never had fanny looked so lovely in the eyes of claire as she did on that morning, when she bounded to his side and claimed a parting kiss, ere he left for his daily round of business. could he give her up? the thought choked in their utterance the words of love that were on his lips, and he turned from her and left the house. as claire, on his way to mr. melleville's store, came into the more business portions of the city, his thoughts on the child who was soon to be resigned, according to the tenor of his contract with her guardian, he was suddenly startled by seeing jasper a short distance ahead, approaching from the direction in which he was going. happening, at the moment, to be near a cross street, he turned off suddenly, in obedience to an instinct rather than a purpose, and avoided a meeting by going out of his way. "how vain," he sighed to himself, as the throbbing of his heart grew less heavy and his thoughts ran clear. "i cannot so avoid this evil. it will most surely find me out. dear, dear child! how shall we ever bear the parting!" all day long claire was in momentary dread of a visit or a communication from jasper. but none came. a like anxiety had been suffered by his wife, and it showed itself in the pallor of her cheeks, and the heavy, almost tearful, drooping of her eyelids. the next day and the next passed, and yet nothing was heard from the guardian. now, the true guardians of the child began to breathe more freely. a week elapsed, and all remained as before. another week was added; another and another. a month had gone by. and yet the days of a succeeding month came and went, the child still remaining in her old home. up to this time but brief allusions had been made by either claire or his wife to the subject first in their thoughts. they avoided it, because each felt that the other would confirm, rather than allay, fears already too well defined. "it is strange," said claire, as he sat alone with his wife one evening, some three months subsequent to the twelfth birthday of fanny, "that we have heard nothing yet from mr. jasper." edith looked up quickly, and with a glance of inquiry, into his face; but made no answer. "i've turned it over in my mind a great deal," resumed claire, thoughtfully; "but with little or no satisfactory result. once i thought i would call on him"-- "oh, no, no! not for the world!" instantly exclaimed edith. "i see, with you, dear, that such a step would be imprudent. and, yet, this suspense--how painful it is!" "painful, it is true, edward; yet, how in every way to be preferred to the certainty we so much dread." "o yes--yes. i agree with you there." then, after a pause, he said, "it is now three months since the time expired for which we agreed to keep fanny." "i know," was the sighing response. they both remained silent, each waiting for the other to speak. the same thought was in the mind of each. excited by the close pressure of want upon their income, edward was first to give it voice. "mr. jasper," said he, touching the subject at first remotely, "may have forgotten, in the pressure of business on his attention, the fact that fanny is now twelve years old." "so i have thought," replied edith. "if i send, as usual, for the sum heretofore regularly paid for her maintenance, it may bring this fact to his mind." "i have feared as much," was the low, half-tremulous response. "and yet, if i do not send, the very omission may excite a question, and produce the consequences we fear." "true, edward. all that has passed through my mind over and over again." "what had we better do?" "ah!" sighed edith, "if we only knew that." "shall i send the order, as usual?" edith shook her head, saying-- "i'm afraid." "and i hesitate with the same fear." "and yet, edith," said claire, who, as the provider for the family, pondered more anxiously the question of ways and means, "what are we to do? our income, with fanny's board added, is but just sufficient. take away three hundred dollars a year, and where will we stand? the thought presses like a leaden weight on my feelings. debt, or severe privation, is inevitable. if, with eight hundred dollars, we only come out even at the end of each year, what will be the result if our income is suddenly reduced to five hundred?" "let us do what is right, edward," said his wife, laying her hand upon his arm, and looking into his face in her earnest, peculiar way. her voice, though it slightly trembled, had in it a tone of confidence, which, with the words she had spoken, gave to the wavering heart of claire an instant feeling of strength. "but what is right, edith?" he asked. "we know not now," was her reply, "but, if we earnestly desire to do right, true perceptions will be given." "a beautiful faith; but oh, how hard to realize!" "no, edward, not so very hard. we have never found it so: have we?" love and holy confidence were in her eyes. "we have had some dark seasons, edith," said claire sadly. "but, through darkest clouds has come the sunbeam. our feet have not wandered for want of light. look back for a moment. how dark all seemed when the question of leaving jasper's service came up for decision. and yet how clear a light shone when the time for action came. have you ever regretted what was then done, edward?" "not in a sane moment," replied the young man. "o no, no, edith!" speaking more earnestly; "that, with one exception, was the most important act of my life." "with one exception?" edith spoke in a tone of inquiry. "yes." claire's voice was very tender, and touched with a slight unsteadiness. "the _most_ important act of my life was"-- he paused and gazed lovingly into the face of his wife. she, now comprehending him, laid, with a pure thrill of joy pervading her bosom, her cheek to his--and thus, for the space of nearly a minute, they sat motionless. "may god bless you, edith!" said claire at length, fervently, lifting his head as he spoke. "you are the good angel sent to go with me through life. ah! but for you, how far from the true path might my feet have strayed! and now," he added, more calmly, "we will look at the present difficulty steadily, and seek to know the right." "the right way," said edith, after she had to some extent repressed the glad pulses that leaped to her husband's loving words, "is not always the way in which we most desire to walk. thorns, sometimes, are at its entrance. but it grows pleasanter afterward." "if we can find the right way, edith, we will walk in it because it is the right way." "and we will surely find it if we seek in this spirit," returned the wife. "what, then, had we best do?" asked claire, his thought turning earnestly to the subject under consideration. "what will be best for fanny? that should be our first consideration," said his wife. "will it be best for her to remain with us, or to go into mr. jasper's family?" "that is certainly a grave question," returned claire, seriously, "and must be viewed in many aspects. mr. jasper's place in the world is far different from mine. he is a wealthy merchant; i am a poor clerk. if she goes into his family, she will have advantages not to be found with us--advantages of education, society, and position in life. to keep her with us will debar her from all these. taking this view of the case, edith, i don't know that we have any right to keep her longer, particularly as mr. jasper has signified to us, distinctly, his wish, as her guardian, to take her into his own family, and superintend her education." edith bent her head, thoughtfully, for some moments. she then said-- "do you believe that mr. jasper gave the true reason for wishing to have fanny?" "that he might superintend her education?" "yes." "no, edith, i do not. i believe a selfish motive alone influenced him." "you have good reasons for so thinking?" "the best of reasons. i need not repeat them; they are as familiar to you as they are to me." "do you believe that, under his superintendence, she will receive a better education than under ours?" "she will, undoubtedly, edith, if remaining with us she fails to bring the means of education. we are poor, edith, and the claims of our own children--bone of our bone and flesh of our flesh--must not be forgotten." a quick change passed over edith. her countenance became troubled. the difficulties in the way of retaining the child were suddenly magnified to her thoughts. ah! how painfully did she feel that often the first steps in the way of duty are among thorns. "can we be just to fanny and just also to our own children?" asked claire. "if we still received the old sum for her maintenance, we could. i would not ask its increase to the amount of a single dollar." "nor i, edith. were we certain of having this continued, there would be no doubt." "there would be none in my mind. as for the higher position in society which she would attain, as an inmate of mr. jasper's family, that might not be to her the greatest good; but prove the most direful evil. she could not be guarded there, in her entrance into life, as we would guard her. the same love would not surround her as a protecting sphere. i tremble at the thought, edward. how great would be her danger! fourfold would be her temptation, and tenfold her exposure." "we will keep her," said claire, firmly, as his wife ceased speaking. "she must not be so exposed. god has given her to us; she is our child, for we love her as tenderly as if she were of our own blood. when her mother was taken, god transferred the love she had borne her child into your bosom, and from that time you became her mother. no, edith, we must not let her go forth, in her tender innocence. we love her as our own; let us share with her the best we have; let her become more really our own than she has yet been." "if," said edith, after some moments, "we lose the regular income from mr. jasper, fanny will be deprived of most important advantages. just now we are about adding materially to the cost of her education." "i know," replied edward. "but if the income is withheld?" "we have not yet applied for it." claire looked, for some moments, steadily into his wife's face. "you think, then, that we should make the usual application?" "i have not said so, edward. my mind is far from clear. jasper may not, now, want the trouble of fanny. he doubtless had some purpose to subserve when he demanded her; a purpose gained, probably, at the time of her mysterious removal from the city, which i have always believed was through his agency. if you were to send for the money, as usual, it is more than probable that he would pay it." "but, if he should refuse, and demand the child?" "if his purpose to do this remains, and he has forgotten fanny's age, your omission to send for the money will be more likely to call his thought to the subject, than your regular demand for the price of her maintenance." "true." "and if he still means to have her, the execution of his purpose cannot in any event be long delayed." "no." "can _we_ unaided give her the education she is entitled to receive?" claire shook his head. "then had we not better continue to apply for the sum necessary to her support and education. if mr. jasper is indifferent about her, the money will be paid as usual; if he means to take her into his own family, our failure to apply will defer but for a very short season the evil day." edith's mind had become clear by this time. her husband not making an immediate reply, she added-- "this acting on mere policy, is never, i think, the wisest. does it not clearly involve a distrust in providence, and a weak reliance on mere human prudence? there is a provision for fanny's support and education, and she is justly entitled to all those natural advantages which this provision was designed to give. under providence, mr. jasper has been chosen her guardian; and under providence the personal care of the child has fallen to our lot. thus far we have endeavoured to discharge our duty faithfully--thus far we have done as well by the child as if she had been our own. now, if it is best for her to remain with us, the same providence will so dispose of events as to provide for her remaining; but if it is best for her to go into the family of mr. jasper, she will go there. let us not, therefore, in our practical distrust of providence, seek to hide ourselves from the observation of a mere creature." "i see much in this," said claire, as soon as his wife had ceased speaking. "man proposes; god disposes. with him are all our ways. out of the evil designs and selfish purposes of men, he is ever bringing forth good." "then let us not fear to trust him. as we have been doing, let us continue to do, confidently believing that he will overrule all for good. to our present sight, it seems, that, unless we receive, as heretofore, a sum of money for fanny's support and education, we cannot do for her what is right. this, at least, is my view." "and it is mine," replied the husband. "then let us act from the light we have. none can do better than this." and so it was determined to send an order to jasper, as usual. chapter xv. on the next day, a fellow-clerk, who had always performed this little service for claire, took the order to jasper. with a nervous impatience that he found it impossible to repress, claire awaited his return. on his appearance, he said, with ill-concealed anxiety-- "did he pay the order?" the young man shook his head. "what! didn't pay it?" though half-expecting such a result, he was none the more prepared for it, nor the less disturbed when it was known. "no; he said that the contract entered into with you for boarding the child was at an end three months ago." "what else did he say?" "nothing else." "did he send no message to me of any kind?" "none. when i handed him the order, he pushed it back, and used the words i have repeated. i waited a little while for some further remark, but he made none." "did he seem angry?" "not angry; but rather pleased, i should say. there was a heartless smile on his face, as if he enjoyed the act of refusal." claire made no further remark. for a time he groped about, mentally, like one in darkness and lost. it appeared as if there was no escape; as if the evil which had long dogged his steps was upon him. but in a short time, a ray of light shone in here and there, paths that might be walked in safely were dimly perceived--escape seemed possible. still, he was deeply depressed and sorely troubled. edith received the intelligence in a calmer spirit than her husband had expected. "the way will be made plain before us," said she. "it is plainer now than it was last night--much plainer." "how can you say that, edith?" "mr. jasper has refused to pay any thing more to us for fanny's support." "yes." "but in the refusal said nothing about our giving her up to him." "well?" "i gather from this, and the fact that he was aware of her being twelve years old, that he does not really want her now in his own family, but refuses to pay us for her board and education from a feeling of ill-will toward you. his manner to the young man who presented the order clearly indicates this." "you may be right there, edith," said claire, a further light breaking into his mind. "we have at least done our duty toward fanny in making this demand on her guardian. and now, the question left for us to decide may be whether it will be just toward her, and also toward our own children, still to keep her in our own family, and let her share, with the others, the best that it is in our power to give." "and will it be hard to make that decision?" said edith, a slight flush coming into her earnest face. "i think not," was the firm reply. "have we loved her less than our own?" asked edith. "i believe not." "love seeks the highest good for its object." "yes--yes." "can a stranger love the child as we have loved her?" claire shook his head. "can a stranger, even with more of what the world gives, yet with less of a genuine affection, secure for her, as we may, what should justly be regarded as the highest good in life." "no stranger can ever be to her, edith, what you have been, and will continue to be." "we must not thrust her out, edward. we cannot thrust her out. while god permits her to remain, let us keep her, assured that he will send for her use all things needful." "most cheerfully will i prolong my daily toil for her sake," replied claire; "and cheerfully will i make sacrifice of personal comfort. yes, let her remain where she is, so long as, in god's providence, she is permitted to remain. if jasper continues to withhold the price of her maintenance, there will be the more left for her when she becomes of age; and then, if there are defects in her education, a few years of earnest application on her part, will remove them. even now, we could compel him to pay for her a reasonable sum, but in securing this, we would assuredly lose the child, for this man's anger would burn hot against us." "i have thought of that," replied edith. "no, our only plain course, for the present, is to look away from jasper, and regard fanny as one of our own children." to this conclusion the mind of claire and his wife came firmly. then the painful agitation they had for some time suffered gradually subsided, and they began earnestly to cast about for the ways and means whereby so large an extra draft as was likely to be made upon their slender income could be met. two propositions were made by edith: one was, that they should make a reduction in their expenses, by moving into a smaller house. they now paid two hundred dollars annually for rent; and she was sure that, for one hundred and fifty, they might suit themselves very well. the other proposition was, to give two or three hours every evening, after the children were in bed, to fine needle-work, in which she was well skilled. "i could easily earn two dollars a week, in this way," was her confident remark. claire, who had other plans in his mind, did not speak very encouragingly of these propositions, though he avoided disapproval. increased expense demanded an increase of income; and his thoughts were all now bent suggestively in that direction. as for edith, her burdens were heavy enough; and her husband, though he did not check her generous enthusiasm, by no means acquiesced in the plan of evening toil for his wife out of the range of her many domestic duties. a few days went by, with no incident of importance. claire, during the time, appeared, to his wife more thoughtful that usual. one evening he came home with a brighter countenance. "good news, edie," said he in a cheerful voice, as soon as the children's glad and noisy welcome of their father was over; and he drew his wife aside as he spoke. "good news, dear," he repeated. "i was sure the way would open for us, and it has opened." "how, edward?" asked edith, with a quickly flushing face. "how has it opened?" "i've secured employment for my evenings, at six dollars a week. so all will go on with us the same as usual. the only drawback lies in the fact that you will have to remain at home alone. but, for the sake of the end, you will bear that cheerfully." the light which had come into edith's countenance faded. "what kind of employment?" she inquired, with a slight huskiness of voice. "i've engaged to act as clerk in an auction store, where they have regular night-sales." edith shook her head. "i thought you would be so delighted," said her husband, evidently much disappointed. "you often come home, now, overwearied with the day's labour," replied edith. "an hour at tea-time will refresh me for the evening's work. don't think of that a moment, edith." "how can i help thinking of it? no, no, edward, you must not do this. it will destroy your health. you are not very strong." "my health is perfectly good, edith." but edith shook her head-- "not so very good. you look paler, and are much thinner than you were a year ago. a little over-exertion throws your system off of its balance; and then you are sick." "i will be very careful of myself," replied claire. "if, after a few weeks, the extra labour is found to be too severe, i can give up the place. nothing like trying, you know, dear." still, edith was not satisfied. very strongly she urged her husband not to increase his labour in the degree contemplated. "let us try if we can reduce our expenses by a closer economy. it is better to deny ourselves things not necessary to health, than to injure health by extra labour." she urged this view, however, in vain. claire could not, without at least a trial of his strength, decline the important offer which had been made to him. and so, after a consultation with mr. melleville, he entered upon his new employment, leaving his wife to spend the hours of his absence alone. not idly were those hours spent. what she had at first proposed to do, she now began to execute. without saying any thing to her husband, she had procured, from a friend who kept a fancy-store, and who took in from the ladies a great deal of work, some fine sewing; and with this she was busily occupied until his return, which did not take place on the first night until near eleven o'clock. there was a slight drawback in the pleasure both felt in meeting at this late hour--the drawback of weariness. yet their hearts were tranquil and elevated in the consciousness that they were denying self for the good of another--and that one most tenderly beloved. again the way had become plain before them; and if strength only were given to bear their increased burdens, they would move on with even lighter footsteps than before. and now, after having lingered thus long with the humble clerk, let us turn to the rich merchant; for jasper has become a man of extensive possessions. wealth flowed in upon him with extraordinary rapidity--not in the regular course of trade, overreaching and unscrupulous as he was in dealing, but through what are called fortunate speculations. how he made his first hundred thousand dollars--the basis of his present very large fortune--was not clearly understood, though sundry vague rumours on the subject were afloat, none of them, however, very near the truth, except in the admission that a fraud on somebody had been committed. but let us introduce mr. jasper. on the night that claire entered upon his duties as clerk in the auction store, and about the same hour that his duties began, mr. jasper, who was walking restlessly the floor of his richly furnished parlours, his mind busy with some large money-making scheme, yet fretted by a recent disappointment, found himself suddenly in the presence of, to him, a well-known individual, whose ring at the door he had not observed. "martin!" he exclaimed, in no affected surprise. "is it possible?" "ah, jasper! how are you? right glad to get sight of your face again!" said the other familiarly, as he grasped the merchant's passive hand, and squeezed it until the joints cracked. "when did you arrive in the city?" returned jasper, as he reached his visitor a chair. he did not speak with much warmth; and yet there was an effort to be at ease and cordial. "some two hours ago," said martin, in whose face was already beginning to gather a few lines in token of the sober thoughts that lay beneath his assumed smiling exterior. "from which direction did you come?" "west. i'm from the upper mississippi." "ah!" "i went to galena some five or six months ago; and have since been actively engaged in lead-mining. a great business that, mr. jasper." "ah?" this "ah?" was particularly chilling. "there are more rapid fortunes made at the lead-mines in the neighbourhood of galena, at present, than in any part of the united states," said martin, approaching, by rapid advances, the subject nearest to his thoughts. "you think so?" returned jasper, with cold incredulity. "i know so," was the positive response. "i could point you to a dozen men who have made their tens of thousands annually for the last five or ten years." "it is easy to talk about making tens of thousands, martin; but the fact itself is a more difficult matter." "a fact is a fact, however, mr. jasper," said the other. "what is done, is done." "of course." "it is a fact that money is made at the lead-mines, hand over fist," continued martin. "of this i am prepared to give you the strongest kind of evidence." "why should you be so anxious to convince me of this fact?" returned the merchant. "i have quite as many irons in the fire now as i can see to." "ah! that may be," said martin, forcing to his rather hard features a bland smile. "but these new irons i will keep from burning." "it's no use, martin, to talk of lead-mines to me," said jasper firmly. "i am spread out enough already. contraction, not expansion, is my present motto. i've met with more than one heavy loss since i saw you." "have you, indeed? i'm sorry for that. but a false card will turn up now and then, you know. the game in the long run is sure." "we're sure of nothing," replied jasper, with considerable feeling. "i wouldn't like to say that. of course, all plans will not succeed; for man's judgment is far from possessing the virtue of infallibility. but human reason would be a poor endowment, did it not lead us, in most cases, to right conclusions, if we are careful in our modes of using this high faculty." "the purpose of your visit to the east," said jasper, who understood perfectly the man with whom he was dealing, and, therefore, determined to know at once the length and breadth of what he was expected to do, "is, i presume, to enlist some capitalists here in a lead-mining speculation?" "my ideas do not extend quite that far," was martin's answer. "too many cooks, you are aware, sometimes spoil the broth. to come to the point at once, let me explain the purpose of my present journey to the east." "well; i am all attention." "my fur-trade business, as i wrote you a year ago, turned out disastrously." "yes." "after that, i opened a small store in one of the frontier towns, and i did very well, all things considered. but the gain was too slow to suit my ideas of things; so, meeting with a fair chance, i sold out, and bought a lead-mine, which i have been working ever since to good profit. recently, i struck upon one of the richest veins ever discovered. if properly worked, it will yield a rapid fortune. but i have not sufficient capital to avail myself of the advantages offered, and have come on here to lay the matter before you, and to offer you a share in the business." jasper shook his head, saying-- "i have more business on my hands now, martin, than i can possibly attend to." "you don't know what you are declining, mr. jasper," urged martin warmly. "you havn't yet looked at the statements which i am prepared to lay before you." "i do know one thing," was the feeling answer, "and that is, that i am declining trouble and cost. about that part of the business, there can be little question." "then," said martin, his manner changing, "i am to understand that you do not wish to join me in this matter?" "yes. i would like you to understand that distinctly." "very well. i am sorry you refuse so advantageous an investment of money; for right sure am i that no other investment you can make will turn out as this would have done. but, as you have declined, i will not offer a share in my good fortune to any one else; but prosecute the work to my own advantage." "i thought you hadn't the capital to do that," said jasper, speaking with ill-repressed eagerness. "nor have i," coolly answered martin. "the proposition i was about to make was this--an advance of twenty thousand dollars capital on your part, to constitute you an equal partner in the mine. but this you decline." "certainly! certainly! i would not have entertained it for a moment." "exactly. so i have already inferred. i will, therefore, as just said, retain this advantage in my own hands. but, mr. jasper, i shall need some help." the visitor fixed his eyes keenly on the merchant as he said this. there was a momentary pause. then he resumed. "i shall only want about ten thousand dollars, though; and this you must obtain for me." "martin! do you think i am made of money?" exclaimed jasper, starting to his feet, and facing his companion, in the attitude and with the expression of a man who, finding himself in the presence of an enemy, assumes the defensive. "oh no," was the quiet answer--"not _made_ of money. but, for a particular friend, you can no doubt, easily raise such a trifle as ten thousand dollars?" "trifle! you mock me, sir!" "don't get excited about this matter, mr. jasper," coolly returned martin, whose name the reader has probably recognised as that of an agent employed by the merchant and grind, the lawyer, some years before, in making investigations relative to the existence of coal on certain lands not far from reading, pennsylvania. "don't get excited," he repeated. "that will do no good. i have not come to rob you. i don't ask you to give me ten thousand dollars. all i want is a loan, for which i will pledge good security." "what kind of security?" asked jasper quickly. "security on my lead-mine." "pooh! i wouldn't give the snap of a finger for such security!" jasper, thrown off his guard, spoke more contemptuously than was prudent. an instant change was visible in martin, who, rising, commenced buttoning up his coat. there was about him every mark of a man deeply offended. "good evening, sir!" said he, with a low, formal bow, yet with his eyes fixed searchingly in those of the merchant. "martin,"--jasper did not smile, nor was there in his voice the slightest affectation of good feeling--yet his manner and tone were both decisive,--"martin, sit down again. talk in reason, and i will hear." the man resumed his seat, and, with his eyes still in those of jasper, said-- "i have talked in reason. you are worth, so report says, not less than three hundred thousand dollars. how the first hundred thousand came, is known, certainly, only to one man beside you and me. in procuring that large sum i was a very prominent agent." "you have already been paid for your services a dozen times over." "there may be a difference of opinion about this," replied the man boldly--"and there _is_ a difference of opinion." "i have already advanced you over five thousand dollars." "what of that! five thousand to three hundred thousand that you have made by the operation." "you are in error, martin," said jasper, with a blended look of perplexity and distress. "i am not worth the sum you have mentioned--nothing like it. my losses during the past six months have been very heavy." "it is your interest to say this. i can credit as much of it as i please." "you are insulting! you presume on the power a knowledge of my affairs has given you. i will look for a more honourable agent the next time." "honourable! ha! ha!" the visitor laughed in a low, guttural voice. "martin! i will not hear this from any living man." the face of jasper was almost purple with suppressed anger. "go!" he added. "leave my house instantly. i defy you!" scarcely had these words passed his lips, ere martin glided from the drawing-room, and in a few moments the street-door shut with a heavy, reverberating jar. the merchant stood, like one bewildered, for a few moments, and then, as he sank into a chair, uttered a low groan. for a long time he remained as motionless as if sleeping. chapter xvi. on leaving the house of jasper, martin--who, instead of having been in the city only a few hours, arrived two days previously--took his way to the office of grind, the lawyer. he had seen this individual already several times, and now called on him again by appointment. the two men, on meeting, exchanged looks of intelligence. "did you see him?" asked the lawyer, as martin took a proffered chair. "i saw him," was replied. "can you make any thing out of him?' "i think so. he fights a little hard; but the odds are against him." "how much did you ask him to loan you?" "ten thousand?" "martin! that's cutting a little too sharp." "not a hit. he'll never miss such a trifle." "you can't bleed him that deep," said the lawyer. "can't i? you'll see; i could get twenty thousand. but i'm disposed to be generous. ten thousand i must and will have." and the man laughed in a low, self-satisfied, sinister chuckle. "he's able enough," remarked grind. "so you have told me. and if he is able, he must pay. i helped him to a fortune, and it is but fair that he should help me a little, now that a fortune is in my grasp. i only want the money as a loan." "wouldn't five thousand answer your purpose?" asked the lawyer. "that is a large sum. it is not a very easy matter for even a rich man, who is engaged heavily in business, to lay down ten thousand dollars at call." "five thousand will not do, mr. grind." "jasper has lost, to my certain knowledge, twenty thousand dollars in three months." "so much?" "at least that sum. money came in so fast, that he grew a little wild in his speculations, and played his cards with the dashing boldness of a gambler while in a run of luck. i cautioned him, but to no good purpose. one of his latest movements had been to put fifty or sixty thousand dollars in a cotton factory?" "poh! what folly." "a most egregious blunder. but he fancies himself an exceedingly shrewd man." "he has been remarkably fortunate in his operations." "so he has. but he is more indebted, i think, to good luck than to a sound judgment. he has gone up to dizzy height so rapidly, that his weak head is already beginning to swim." "what has become of that pretty little ward of his?" asked martin, somewhat abruptly. "why didn't you put that question to him?" replied grind. "you would have been more likely to get a satisfactory answer." "i may do so after i have the ten thousand dollars in my pocket. that was rather a shameful business, though; wasn't it? i never had a very tender conscience, but i must own to having suffered a few twinges for my part in the transaction. he received over a hundred thousand dollars for the land?" "yes; and that clear of some heavy fees that you and i claimed for services rendered." "humph! i'm not quite paid yet. but, touching the child, mr. grind: don't you know any thing about her?" "nothing, personally." "what was it jasper paid for the tract of land?" "one thousand dollars." "paid it into his own hands as the child's guardian." "yes; that was the simple transaction." "has the public never made a guess at the real truth of this matter?" "never, so far as my knowledge goes. there have been some vague whisperings--but no one has seemed to comprehend the matter." "the purchase was made in your name, was it not?" "yes." "that is, you bought from jasper as the child's guardian; and afterward sold it back to him." "yes." "why didn't you hold on to it when it was fairly in your hands? i only wish i had been in your place?" the lawyer shrugged his shoulders, but did not commit himself by acknowledging that he had, more than once, regretted his omission to claim the property while legally in his hands, and defy jasper to wrest it from him. leaving these two men, whose relation to jasper is sufficiently apparent to the reader's mind, we will return to the merchant, whom we left half-stupefied at the bold demand of an associate in wrong-doing. a long time passed ere his activity of mind returned. while he sat, brooding--dreamily--over what had just passed, a little daughter came into the parlour, and seeing him, came prattling merrily to his side. but in attempting to clamber upon his knee, she was pushed away rudely, and with angry words. for a few moments she stood looking at him, her little breast rising and falling rapidly; then she turned off, and went slowly, and with a grieving heart, from the room. jasper sighed heavily as the child passed out of sight; and rising up, began moving about with a slow pace, his eyes cast upon the floor. the more he dwelt upon the visit of martin--whom, in his heart, he had wished dead--the more uneasy he felt, and the more he regretted having let him depart in anger. he would give twice ten thousand dollars rather than meet the exposure which this man could make. riches was the god of leonard jasper. alas! how little power was there in riches to make his heart happy. wealth beyond what he had hoped to obtain in a whole lifetime of devotion to mammon, had flowed in upon him in two or three short years. but, was he a happier man? did he enjoy life with a keener zest? was his sleep sweeter? ah, no! in all that went to make up the true pleasure of life, the humble clerk, driven to prolonged hours of labour, beyond what his strength could well bear, through his ill-nature and injustice, was far the richer man. and his wealth consisted not alone in the possession of a clear conscience and a sustaining trust in providence. there was the love of many hearts to bless him. in real household treasures few were as rich as he. but, in home treasures, how poor was leonard jasper! poor to the extreme of indigence! the love of his children, reaching toward him spontaneously its tendrils, he rejected in the selfish devotion of every thought and feeling to business as a means of acquiring wealth. and as to the true riches, which many around him were laying up where no moth could corrupt nor thieves break through and steal, he rejected them as of no account. with such a man as leonard jasper, holding the position of head of a family, how little of the true home spirit, so full of tenderness and mutual love, is to be expected! had mrs. jasper been less a woman of the world; had she been capable of loving any thing out of herself, and, therefore, of loving her husband and children, with that true love which seeks their higher good, a different state of things would have existed in this family, spite of jasper's unfeeling sordidness. but, as it was, no fire of love melted the natural perverseness inherited by the children, and they grew up, cherishing mutual antagonism, and gradually coming to regard their parents only as persons with power to thwart their inclinations, or as possessing the means of gratifying their desires. with all his wealth, how few were the real sources of happiness possessed by jasper! pressed down with anxiety about the future, and forced to toil beyond his strength, how many of life's truest blessings were poured into the lap of edward claire! the sleep of the poor clerk, that night, was sound and refreshing. the merchant tossed to and fro on his pillow until long after the midnight watches advanced upon the morning; and then, when wearied nature claimed her due, he slept only for brief periods, continually startled by frightful dreams. at an early hour next day, he called upon grind, who was still his legal adviser. "have you seen martin?" he asked the moment he entered the office. "martin! surely he is not in the city!" returned grind evasively. "he surely is," said jasper, fretfully. "martin. where in the world did he come from? i thought him somewhere in the neighbourhood of the rocky mountains. what does he want? "no good, of course." "that may be said safely. have you seen him?" "yes." "when? this morning?" "no; he called at my house last night." "called last night! what did he want?" "ten thousand dollars," replied jasper. "ten thousand dollars!!" the lawyer's well-feigned surprise completed the deception practised upon jasper. he did not, for an instant, suspect collusion between him and martin. "yes; he very coolly proposed that i should lend him that sum, enable him to carry on some lead-mining operations in the west." "preposterous!" "so i told him." "well, what did he say?" "oh, he blustered, and made covert threats of exposure, of course." "the scoundrel!" said grind, fiercely. "he's a villain double-dyed. i have never ceased to regret that we brought him into this business. we should have had a man of better spirit--of a nicer sense of honour." "yes, mr. jasper, that is true enough," replied grind; "but the mischief is, your men of nicer honour are too squeamish for the kind of work in which we employed him. this is the defect in all such operations. men cannot be thoroughly trusted." the merchant sighed. he felt too deeply the force of grind's remark. "you know," said he, "this martin better than i do. what is his character? is he a mere blusterer, whose bark is worse than his bite; or is he vindictive and unscrupulous?" "both vindictive and unscrupulous. i must warn you not to provoke his ill-will. he would take delight in exposing all he knows about this business, if he is once fairly turned against you. a fast friend--he is a bitter enemy." "but see what a price he demands for his friendship! i have already given him some five thousand dollars for his services, and now he demands ten more. in a year he will be back, and coolly seek to levy a contribution of twenty thousand dollars." "i understood you to say that he only asked for a loan," remarks the lawyer. "a loan! that's mere mockery. if you placed ten thousand dollars in his hands, would you ever expect to see the first copper of it again?" grind shrugged his shoulders. "of course you would not. it's a levy, not a loan--and so he, in his heart, regards it." "he's a dangerous man," said the lawyer, "and it's to be regretted that you ever had any thing to do with him. but, now that your hand is in the lion's mouth, the wisest thing is to get it out with as little detriment as possible." "ten thousand dollars!" ejaculated the merchant. "why, it's downright robbery! he might just as well stop me on the highway." "it's a hard case, i must own, mr. jasper. you might resist him, and, at least not let him obtain what he demands without a struggle; but the question is, may you not receive a mortal wound in the contest." "ah! that is the rub, grind. rather than meet the exposure he could make, i would give twenty thousand dollars; yea, half, if not all i am worth." can wealth, held on such a tenure, and in such a state of mind, be called riches? ah, no. how the possession is changed from a blessing into a curse! "then, mr. jasper," replied the lawyer, "there is but one course plain before you. if you make this man your enemy, he will surely pursue you to the death. there is no pity in him." jasper groaned aloud. ere he could reply, the door of the office opened, and the individual about whom they were conversing entered. with the skill of practised actors, each instantly assumed a part, and hid, under a false exterior, their true states of mind. with something of cordiality each greeted the other: while side-glances, unobserved by jasper, passed rapidly between martin and the lawyer. a few commonplace inquiries and remarks followed, when jasper made a movement to go, saying, as he did so-- "mr. martin, i will be pleased to see you some time to-day." "thank you; i will do myself the pleasure to call," was coolly answered. "at what time will you be most at leisure?" "during the afternoon. say at four or five o'clock." "i will be there at four," returned martin, in a bland voice, and with a courteous inclination of the head. "very well--you will find me in." the merchant bowed to the accomplices--they were nothing better--and retired. "humph! i didn't expect to find him here quite so early," said martin, with a sinister smile. "i rather guess i frightened him last night." "i rather guess you did," returned the lawyer, his countenance reflecting the light that played on the other's face. "will the money come?" asked martin. "undoubtedly." "that's good. ten thousand?" "yes." "what did he say? he came to consult you, of course?" "yes." "well, what did he say?" "more than i need take time to repeat. he is thoroughly frightened. that is enough for you to know." "ten thousand," said martin musingly, and speaking to himself. "ten thousand! that will do pretty well. but, if he will bleed for fifteen thousand, why may i not set the spring of my lancet a little deeper. i can make good use of my money." "no--no," returned the lawyer quickly. "ten thousand is enough. don't play the dog and the shadow. this is over-greediness." "well--well. just as you say. i can make him another friendly call in a year or so from this time." the lawyer smiled in a way peculiar to himself, and then said-- "hadn't you better be content with five thousand now. this goose will, no doubt, lay golden eggs for some years to come." "a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush," was the quick answer. "i have gone in now for the ten thousand; and ten thousand i must have. i may be content with a smaller sum at my next appearance." "you are to see him at four o'clock?" said grind. "yes; that was the hour i named. so you must get all the necessary papers ready for me in time. i don't want to let him get the hitch on me of seeking to extort money. i only ask a loan, and will give bona-fide security on my lead-mine." then, with one of his low chuckles, he added--"if he can get ten thousand dollars out of it, he will do more than any one else can. ha! ha! ha!" "the evidence of property, which you have," said grind, "is all as it shows on the face?" "it is, upon honour." "very well. then i will draw the necessary papers, so that as little delay as possible need occur in the transference of security for the loan." what further passed between the parties is of no consequence to the reader. at four o'clock, precisely, martin was at the store of jasper. "i hope to find you a little more reasonable today," said the merchant, with a forced smile, as the two men, after retiring to a remote part of the store, sat down and faced each other. "i should be sorry to do any thing out of reason," returned martin. his manner was more serious than jasper's. "i think your present demand out of reason," was answered. "no good can possibly come, mr. jasper," said martin, with a slight air of impatience, "out of an argument between you and i, on this subject. the sum i named to you last night i must have. nothing less will meet my present want. but, understand me distinctly, i only ask it as a loan, and come prepared to give you the fullest security." as mr. martin said this, he drew a package of papers from his pocket. "here are the necessary documents," he added. "ten thousand dollars! why, my dear sir, a sum like this is not to be picked up in the streets." "i am very well aware of that," was the cool answer. "had such been the case, i never would have troubled you with procuring the sum; nor would i have gone to the expense and fatigue of a long journey." "you certainly ought to know enough of business, martin, to be aware that ten thousand dollars is not always to be commanded, even by the wealthiest, at a moment's notice." "i do not ask the whole sum in cash," replied martin. "three or four thousand in ready money will do. your notes at four and six months will answer very well for the balance." but we will not record further what passed between these two men. it was all in vain that jasper strove to escape; his adversary was too powerful. ere they separated, martin had in his possession, in cash and promissory notes, the sum of ten thousand dollars! already were the ill-gotten riches of leonard jasper taking to themselves wings. unhappy man! how wretched was he during that and many succeeding days! rolling, so to speak, in wealth, he yet possessed not life's highest blessing, a truly contented mind, flowing from conscious rectitude and an abiding trust in providence. without these, how poor is even he who counts his millions! with them, how rich is the humble toiler, who, receiving day by day his daily bread, looks up and is thankful! chapter xvii. a few weeks subsequent to the occurrences mentioned in the last chapter, leonard jasper received a call from mr. melleville, in whose service claire still remained. the greeting of the two men was distant, yet courteous. a few words on current topics passed between them, after which mr. melleville said-- "i have called to ask you a question or two in regard to a child of the late mr. elder, to whom you are guardian." the blood came instantly to the face of jasper, who was not prepared for this; and in spite of his struggle to seem self-possessed, his eyes sank under those of his visitor. in a few moments, he recovered himself, and replied-- "the child, you mean, who is boarding with edward claire?" "the same." the eyes of melleville were fixed on those of jasper so steadily, that the latter wavered, and, finally, again dropped to the floor. "well, i am ready to hear any thing that you have to say." jasper had thrown off, once more, the vague sense of coming evil that made him cower under the steady gaze of melleville. "i learn," said the latter, "from mr. claire, that you refuse to pay any further sums for her maintenance. is the property left by her father, to which common report has affixed considerable value, exhausted, or"-- "i have refused to pay _him_ any further sums," said jasper, in a quick, excited voice, interrupting mr. melleville. "our contract, regularly entered into, has expired by limitation. he was to have the care of her only until she reached her twelfth year. of this fact he is clearly advised, and i wonder at his pertinacity in endeavouring to retain the child, when he knows that i, her guardian, wish to have her in my own possession." "he has had her ever since she was a little child; and both he and his wife are now strongly attached to her. in fact, she regards them as her parents; and their affection for her is not exceeded by their affection for their own children. to separate them would be exceedingly painful to all parties. as for the child, it would make her very unhappy." "i can't help that, mr. melleville." jasper spoke coldly. "under all the circumstances," said mr. melleville, after a pause, speaking slowly, and with considerable emphasis in his words, "it is my opinion that you had better let the child remain where she is." "why do you say so?" jasper spoke with ill-concealed surprise; and the uneasy, suspicious manner, at first exhibited, returned. "claire regards the child as his own; and must so continue to regard her, even though taken out of his hands." "well, what of that?" "it is for you, mr. jasper," was returned, "to determine for yourself, whether the surveillance of a man like claire, who cannot now cease to feel a parent's interest in your ward, will be altogether agreeable." "surveillance! what do you mean? i don't understand this language. it looks like an effort to force me into measures. pray, what have i to fear from edward claire?" "sometimes," replied melleville, with a slow, meaning enunciation, "those we regard as most insignificant are the very ones we should most fear." "fear! fear, mr. melleville! you make use of strange language." "perhaps i do," was answered. "and, as it seems unpleasant to you, i will say no more. i did not mean, when i called, to speak just as i have done. but, as the words have been uttered, i beg you to weigh them well, and to believe that they have a meaning. good morning." jasper suppressed the utterance of the word "stay," which arose to his lips, and returned the bow of mr. melleville, who left without further remark. "what can this mean?" thus mused leonard jasper, when alone. "can this scoundrel, martin, have dropped a hint of the truth?" a slight shiver went through his nerves. "something is wrong. there is suspicion in the thought of melleville. i didn't look for trouble in this quarter." to his own unpleasant reflections we will leave the merchant, and return to edward claire and his true-minded, loving-hearted wife. for a week or two after the former entered upon his new duties as assistant clerk in a night-auction, he experienced no serious inconvenience from his more prolonged labours, although it did not escape the watchful eyes of his wife that his complexion was losing its freshness, and that his appetite was far from being so good as before. after this, he began to suffer oppressive weariness, that made the evening's toil a daily increasing burden. then succeeded a feverish state, accompanied by pains in the head, back, and through the breast. edith remonstrated, even with tears; but still claire went nightly to his task, though each successive evening found him with less and less ability for its performance. at last, he came home from the store of mr. melleville, at the usual tea-time, feeling so unwell that he was forced to lie down. he had no appetite for supper, and merely sipped part of a cup of tea brought to him by his wife as he still reclined upon the bed. "don't get up," said edith, seeing her husband, after he had lain for some time, about to rise. "i can't lie here any longer; it's nearly seven o'clock now." "you're not going out to-night!" "o yes; i must be at the store. there is no one to take my place, and the sales will begin by the time i can get there." "but you are too sick to go out, edward." "i feel much better than i did, edith. this little rest has refreshed me a great deal." "no--no, edward! you must not go away," said his wife in a distressed voice. "you are sick now, and the extra exertion of an evening may throw you into a serious illness." "i feel a great deal better, dear," urged claire. "but, sick or well, i must be there to-night, for the sale cannot go on without me. if i do not feel better to-morrow, i will ask mr. f---- to get some one, temporarily, in my place." still edith opposed, but in vain. by the time claire arrived at the auction store, his head was throbbing with a pain so intense that he could scarcely see. still, he resolutely persevered in his determination to go through, if possible, with the duties of the evening; and so, taking his place at his desk, as the auctioneer went upon the stand to cry the goods which had been advertised for sale, he prepared to keep the usual record of purchasers and prices. this he was able to do for half an hour, when overtaxed and exhausted nature could bear up no longer. "mr. claire," said the auctioneer, as he took in hand a new article, "did you make that last entry?--mr. jackson, ten cents a yard." claire's head had fallen over on the book in which he had been writing, and the auctioneer, supposing him only yielding to a momentary feeling of fatigue, or indolence, thus called his attention to his duties. but claire made no answer. "say! young man! are you asleep!" the auctioneer spoke now with some sharpness of tone; but, as before, his words were not heeded. "what's the matter, mr. claire? are you sick?" still no response or movement. "mr. claire! bless me!" the auctioneer was now by his side, with his hand on him. "bring some water, quick! he's fainted--or is dead! here! some one help me to lay him down." two or three men came quickly behind the auctioneer's stand and assisted to lift the insensible man from the high stool on which he was seated, and place his body in a reclining position. then water was dashed into his face, and various other means of restoration used. full ten minutes passed before signs of returning life were exhibited. his recovery was very slow, and it was nearly an hour before he was well enough to be removed to his dwelling. the shock of his appearance, supported from the carriage in which he had been conveyed home, by two men, was terrible to his wife, whose anxiety and fear had wrought her feelings already up to a high pitch of excitement. "oh! what is the matter? what has happened?" she cried, wringing her hands, while her face blanched to a deathly paleness. "don't be frightened," returned claire, smiling feebly. "it was only a slight fainting fit. i'm over it now." "that's all, madam," said the men who had brought him home. "he merely fainted. don't be alarmed. it's all over." after receiving the thanks of claire and his assurances that he needed nothing further from their kindness, the men retired, and edward then made every effort in his power to calm down the feelings of his wife, who continued weeping. this was no easy task, particularly as he was unable long to hide the many evidences of serious illness from which he was suffering. against his remonstrance, so soon as she saw how it was with him, mrs. claire sent off the domestic for their family physician; who on learning the causes which led to the condition in which he found his patient, hesitated not to say that he must, as he valued his life, give up the night tasks he had imposed upon himself. "other men," said claire, in answer to this, "devote quite as many hours to business." "all men are not alike in constitution," returned the physician. "and even the strongest do not make overdrafts upon the system, without finding, sooner or later, a deficit in their health-account. as for you, nature has not given you the physical ability for great endurance. you cannot overtask yourself without a derangement of machinery." how reluctantly, and with what a feeling of weakness, claire acquiesced in this decision, the reader may imagine. the morning found him something better, but not well enough to sit up. mrs. claire had, by this time, recovered in a measure her calmness and confidence. she had thought much, during the sleepless hours of the preceding night, and though the future was far from opening clearly to her straining vision, her mind rested in a well-assured confidence that all things would work together for their good. she knew in whom she trusted. on the rock of ages she had built the habitation where dwelt her higher hopes; and the storms of this world had no power to prevail against it. how little dreamed gentle fanny elder--or fanny claire, as she was called--when she laid her cheek lovingly to that of her sick "father"--she knew him by no other name--and drew her arms around his neck, that he was suffering alone on her account. in her unselfish love, claire felt a sweet compensation--while all he endured on her account had the effect to draw her, as it were, into his very heart. as quickly as it could be done, mrs. claire got through with the most pressing of her morning duties, and then, the older children away to school, she came and sat down by her husband's bedside, and took his hand in hers. as he looked into her face, pale from sleeplessness and anxiety, tears filled his eyes. "o, edie!" said he, his voice tremulous with feeling, "isn't this disheartening? what _are_ we to do?" "_he_ careth for us," was the low, calmly spoken reply; and, as edith lifted a finger upward, a ray of heavenly confidence beamed in her countenance. "i know, edie; i know, but"-- the sick man left his sentence unfinished. a heavy sigh marking his state of doubt and darkness. "we must feel as well as know, edward," said his wife. "god is good. in looking back through all our past life, does not the retrospection lead to this undoubting conclusion? i am sure you will say yes. has he not, in every case, proved better to us than all our fears?--why, then, should we distrust him now? in the beautiful language of cowper, let us say in these dark seasons-- 'judge not the lord by feeble sense, but trust him for his grace; behind a frowning providence he hides a smiling face. his purposes will ripen fast, unfolding every hour; the bud may have a bitter taste, but sweet will be the flower.' "shall we doubt the sun's existence, because the night has fallen? no, dear husband, no! there are bright stars smiling above us in token of his unerring return. we know that the morning cometh after a season of darkness; and so, after our spirits have lingered awhile in the realm of shadows, the light will break in from above. has it not always been so, edward?" "he has led us by a way which we knew not." the sick man's eyes were closed as he murmured these words; and his voice was slightly tremulous, yet expressive of a returning state of confidence. "yet, how safely," replied edith. "when our feet were in slippery places, and we leaned on him, did he not support us firmly? and when the mire and clay were deep in our path, did he not keep us from sinking therein?" "he is goodness itself," said claire, a calmer expression coming into his face. "it is wrong so to let doubt, distrust, and fear creep in and get possession of the heart; but, we are human--weakness and error are born with us. when the way in which we are walking is suddenly closed up before us, and we see the opening to no other way, how can we keep the faint heart from sinking?" "only as peter was saved from sinking. if we look to god, he will lift our hearts above the yielding billows. if we stand still, hopefully and trustingly, the high mountain before us will become as a plain, so that we can walk on in a smooth way, joyful and rejoicing." "and so this high mountain, which has risen up so suddenly, will soon be cleft for us or levelled to a plain, if we wait patiently and confidingly for its removal?" "oh! i am sure of it, edward," replied mrs. claire, with a beautiful enthusiasm. "we are his creatures, and he loves us with an infinite love. when his children are disposed to trust too much to the arm of flesh, he sometimes shows them their weakness in order that they may feel his strength. faithfully and unselfishly, my husband, have you tried to meet the suddenly increased demand upon us: and this out of love for one of god's children. in the trial, weakness has prevailed over strength. suddenly your hands have fallen to your side powerless. god saw it all; and permitted it all; and, in his own good time, will supply, from other sources, all that is really needed. we have the promise--our bread shall be given, and our water sure--not only the natural food that sustains outward life, but the true bread of heavenly affections, and the waters of pure truth, which nourish and sustain the spirit." edith ceased speaking. her husband did not make an immediate reply; but lay pondering her words, and letting his thoughts expand their wings in the purer atmosphere into which she had lifted him. after that they conversed together hopefully of the future; not that they saw the way more clearly before them, but heavenly confidence had taken the place of human distrust. it was, perhaps, eleven o'clock in the day--the doctor had been there, and pronounced the condition of his patient favourable, but enjoined quiet and prolonged rest from either bodily or mental exertion--and the mind of claire was beginning to run again in a slightly troubled channel. "here is a letter for you," said his wife, coming into the room, after a brief absence. "a young man just left it at the door." claire took the letter, wondering as he did so who it could be from. on breaking the seal, and unfolding it, he was greatly surprised to find within a check to his order for one hundred and fifty dollars, signed leonard jasper; and still more surprised to read the accompanying note, which was in these words: "enclosed you will find one hundred and fifty dollars, the sum due you for fanny elder's maintenance during the past and current quarter. when convenient, i should be glad to see you. seeing that the child has remained with you so long, i don't know that it will be advisable to make a change now, although i had other views in regard to her. however, when you call, we can settle matters in regard to her definitively." "better to us than all our fears," murmured claire, as he handed the letter to his wife, who read it with a truly thankful heart. "our way is smooth once more," she said, smiling through outpressing tears--"the mountain has become a level plain. all the dark clouds have been swept from our sky, and the sun is shining even more brightly than of old." it was more than a week before claire was sufficiently recovered to go out and attend to business as usual. at the first opportunity, he called upon mr. jasper, who received him with marked kindness of manner. "i do not, now," said the merchant, "entertain the same views in regard to my ward that i did some time ago. your opposition to my wishes then, fretted me a good deal; and i made up my mind, decisively, that so soon as she was twelve years of age, you must give her up. it was from this feeling that i acted when i refused to pay your last order. since then, i have reflected a good deal on the subject; and reflection has modified, considerably, my feelings. i can understand how strong must be the attachment of both yourself and wife, and how painful the thought of separation from a long-cherished object of affection." "the dread of separation, mr. jasper," replied claire, "has haunted us during the last two years like an evil spirit." "it need haunt you no more, edward," was the kindly spoken reply. "if you still wish to retain the care of this child, you are free to do so." "you have taken a mountain from my heart, mr. jasper," was the young man's feeling response. "it is settled, then, edward, that she remains with you. and now i must say a word about her education. i wish that to be thorough. she must have good advantages; better than the sum now paid for her maintenance will procure." claire made no reply, and jasper continued-- "i have this to propose. the bulk of property left by her father is contained in two moderate-sized houses, one of which is at this time without a tenant. it is a very comfortable house for a small family. just the thing, i should say, for you. if you will move into this house, you shall have it rent free, as a set-off to the increased charge fanny will be to you in future. the three hundred per annum will be paid as usual. how will that do?" "the compensation, i think, will be greater than the service," replied claire. "not at all. during the next five or six years, or until she gains her majority, you will find the cost of clothing and education a constantly increasing sum. i know more about these things than you do. and i am very sure, since i understand your relation to her, that twice this expenditure, could not gain for her what she will have while in your care. as her guardian, i feel it my duty to provide liberally for her comfort and education, and to this you, of course, can have nothing to object." and claire did not object. in a few weeks from that time he removed into one of the houses mentioned by jasper--a larger and far more comfortable one than that in which he had lived for several years. here, with a thankful heart, he gathered his wife and children around him. how happy they all were! not selfishly happy--if such contradictory terms may be used--but happy in the warmth of mutual love. a heaven on earth was this little household. shall we contrast it with that of leonard jasper? no!--the opposite picture would leave upon the reader's mind too sad an impression; and we will not burden this chapter with another shadow. chapter xviii. during the five or six following years, a number of events occurred bearing more or less seriously upon some of the actors in our story. with edward claire and his family, life had flowed on in an even current; and, but for the fact that his health never fairly recovered from the shock it received in consequence of his having taxed his physical system beyond its capability of endurance, the sunshine would never have been a moment from his threshold. the important addition made to his income through the new arrangement volunteered by fanny's guardian, gave to his external condition a more favourable aspect. he was no longer troubled about the ways and means of providing for his needful expenses. a much better situation, so far as a higher salary was concerned, had, during this time offered; but, as it required an amount of confinement and labour which he could not give, without endangering his health, he wisely declined the offer. far less smoothly had the current of leonard jasper's life flowed on. twice during this period had he received visits from his old acquaintance, martin, and each time he was made poorer by five thousand dollars. it was all in vain that he struggled and resisted. the man had no compassion in him. he cared not who suffered loss, so he was the gainer. there were other miners at work sapping the foundations of jasper's fortune, besides this less concealed operator. parker, the young man who succeeded to the place of claire, and who was afterward raised to the condition of partner, with a limited interest, was far from being satisfied with his dividend in the business. the great bulk of jasper's means were used in outside speculations; and as the result of these became successively known to parker, his thoughts began to run in a new channel. "if i only had money to go into this," and, "if i only had money to go into that," were words frequently on his tongue. he regarded himself as exceedingly shrewd; and confidently believed that, if he had capital to work with, he could soon amass an independent fortune. "money makes money," was his favourite motto. unscrupulous as his partner, it is not surprising that parker, ere long, felt himself perfectly authorized to use the credit of the house in private schemes of profit. to do this safely, it was necessary to have a friend outside of the firm. such a friend he did not find it very hard to obtain; and as nearly the whole burden of the business fell upon his shoulders, it was not at all difficult to hide every thing from jasper. confident as parker was in his great shrewdness, his speculations outside of the business did not turn out very favourably. his first essay was in the purchase of stocks, on which he lost, in a week, two thousand dollars. like the gamester who loses, he only played deeper, in the hope of recovering his losses; and as it often happens with the gamester, in similar circumstances, the deeper he played, the more he lost. and so it went on. sometimes the young man had a turn of good fortune, and sometimes all the chances went against him. but he was too far committed to recede without a discovery. there was no standing still; and so newer and bolder operations were tried, involving larger and larger sums of money, until the responsibilities of the firm, added to the large cash drafts made without the cognizance of jasper, were enormous. to all such mad schemes the end must come; and the end came in this instance. failing to procure, by outside operations, sufficient money to meet several large notes, he was forced to divulge a part of his iniquity to jasper, in order to save the credit of the firm. suspicion of a deeper fraud being thereby aroused in the mind of his partner, time, and a sifting investigation of the affairs of the house, revealed the astounding fact that parker had abstracted in money, and given the notes of the firm for his own use, to the enormous amount of fifty thousand dollars. a dissolution of co-partnership took place in consequence. parker, blasted in reputation, was dragged before a court of justice, in order to make him disgorge property alleged to be in his possession. but nothing could be found; and he was finally discharged from custody. the whole loss fell upon jasper. he had nursed a serpent in his bosom, warming it with the warmth of his own life; and the serpent had stung him. is it any wonder? this circumstance, the discovery of parker's fraudulent doings, took place about two years prior to the time when fanny elder attained her legal age. the first thought of jasper, after his separation from parker, which took place immediately on discovering that he had used the credit of the firm improperly, was to send for claire, and offer him a salary of a thousand dollars a year, to come in and fill the responsible position as clerk, from which parker had just been ejected as partner. "i can trust him fully," said jasper to himself; "and i don't know anybody else that i can trust. he is honest; i will give him credit for that; too honest, it may be, for his own good. but, i don't know. who would not rather be in his shoes than in parker's?" for some time jasper's mind was favourable to making claire the offer proposed, and he was about writing him a note, when a new view of the case struck him, dependent on the young man's relation to his ward, fanny elder. "oh no, no, no!" said he emphatically, speaking to himself--"that, i fear me, will not do. it would give him too open an access to my books, papers, and private accounts, in which are entries and memoranda that it might be dangerous for him to see." jasper sighed deeply as he finished this sentence, and then fell into a musing state. his thoughts, while this lasted, were not of the most self-satisfying character. some serious doubts as to his having, in the main, pursued the wisest course in life, were injected into his mind; and, remarkable as it may seem for one so absorbed in the love of gain, there were moments when he almost envied the poor, but honest clerk, who had an approving conscience, and feared no man's scrutiny. it was with no slight reluctance that he finally came to the conclusion that it would be altogether unsafe to take claire into his employment. and so he cast about for some one to supply the place left vacant by parker's withdrawal from the business. in his final selection he was not over-fortunate, as the result proved. the new clerk was shrewd, and capable enough, and apparently as much devoted to his employer's interests as jasper could wish. had not his own interests been regarded as paramount to those of the merchant, jasper would have possessed in him a valuable assistant. but the clerk did not rise superior to temptations which came in his way. jasper continued to trade on the close-cutting, overreaching, and unscrupulous system; and under such a teacher his clerk proved an apt learner. "he cuts right and left," said he to himself, "and why may not i cut left and right when a good opportunity offers?" soon he began to "cut left and right," as he termed it, and it was not remarkable that, in his cutting operations, his employer occasionally suffered. the upshot was, after holding his situation a year, that several false entries, in his hand-writing, were discovered in the books of mr. jasper. to what extent he robbed his employer, the latter never accurately knew; but he was worse off by at least three or four thousand dollars through his peculations. again the question of taking claire once more into his employment came up in the mind of jasper. after viewing it on every side, the decision was adverse. he felt that too great a risk was involved. and so he employed one in whom he could confide with less certainty. several years had now passed since the merchant began to feel the shock of adverse winds. all before was a summer sea, and the ship of his fortune had bent her sails alone to favouring breezes. but this was to be no longer. his ship had suffered not only by stress of weather, but also by the sacrifice of a portion of cargo to save what remained. and, at last, she was driving on toward the breakers, and her safety from destruction only hoped for through the activity, skill, and tireless vigilance of her helmsman. a few years before, mr. jasper considered himself worth between two and three hundred thousand dollars; now, he passed sleepless nights in fear of impending ruin. he had trusted in riches; he had called them, in his heart, the greatest good. at his word they had poured in upon him from all sides, until he was half bewildered at sight of the glittering treasures; but, just as he began to feel secure in his possessions, they began to take themselves wings and fly away. and, alas for him! he had laid up no other treasures. none in heaven; none in the hearts of his wife and children; none in his own mind. the staff upon which he had leaned was now a splintering reed, wounding as it bent under him. chapter xix. there was one point of time to which leonard jasper looked with no little anxiety, and that was to the period of fanny elder's majority, when it was his purpose to relinquish his guardianship, and wash his hands, if it were possible to do so, entirely clean of her. until the estate left by her father was settled up, the property in her hands and receipts in his, there was danger ahead. and, as the time drew nearer and nearer, he felt increasing uneasiness. on the very day that fanny reached her eighteenth year, jasper sent a note to claire, asking an interview. "i wish," said he, when the latter came, "to have some conference with you about miss elder. she has now, you are no doubt aware, attained the legal age. such being the case, i wish, as early as it can be done, to settle up the estate of her father, and pay over to her, or to any person she may select as her agent, the property in my hands. it has increased some in value. will you consult her on the subject?" claire promised to do so; and, at the same time, asked as to the amount of fanny's property. "the total value will not fall much short of eight thousand dollars," replied jasper. "there are two houses and lots that would sell at any time for six thousand dollars. you live in one of these houses, and the other is rented for two hundred and fifty dollars. then there are nearly two thousand dollars in six per cent. stocks. when her father died, his estate consisted of these two houses, and a piece of poor land which he had taken as satisfaction for a debt. at the first opportunity, i sold the land and invested the money. this sum, with accumulations of interest, and rents received for several years, beyond what was required for fanny's maintenance, has now increased to within a fraction of two thousand dollars, and is, as just said, invested in stocks. i think," added jasper, "that you had better assume the management of this property yourself. get from miss elder a power of attorney authorizing you to settle the estate, and the whole business can be completed in a very short time. i will make you out an accurate statement of every thing, so that you will be at no loss to comprehend the accounts." to this there could, of course, be no objection on the part of claire. he promised to confer with fanny, and let jasper know, in a day or two, the result. now came a new trial for claire and his wife. they had taken fanny, when only four years of age, and taken her so entirely into their home and affections, that she had almost from the first seemed to them as one of their own children. in a brief time the earlier memories of the child faded. the past was absorbed in the present; and she loved as parents none other than those she called by the tender names of "father" and "mother." the children with whom she grew up she knew only as her brothers and sisters. this thorough adoption and incorporation of the child into their family was not, in any sense, the work of design on the part of claire and his wife. but they saw, in the beginning, no reason to check the natural tendency thereto. when little fanny, of her own accord, addressed them, soon after her virtual adoption, as "father" and "mother," they accepted the child's own interpretation of their relative positions, and took her from that moment more entirely into their hearts. and so fanny elder grew up to womanhood, in the full belief that she was the child of mr. and mrs. claire. the new trial through which this excellent couple were now to pass, the reader can easily imagine. the time had come when fanny must know the real truth in regard to herself--must be told that she had no natural claim upon the love of those whose love she prized above all things. it seemed cruel to take away the conscious right to love and be loved, which had so long blessed her. and yet the truth must now be made known, and mrs. claire took upon herself the task of breaking it as gently as possible. a woman in age and stature, yet with all the gentle deference of a daughter, fanny moved by the side of mrs. claire with a loving thoughtfulness, daily sharing her household duties. some months before she had left school, but was still taking lessons in music and french, and devoting a portion of time to practice in drawing, for which she had a decided taste. on the day after mr. claire's interview with jasper, mrs. claire said to fanny, with a seriousness of tone and manner that brought a look of surprise to her face-- "come to my room with me, dear. i have something to say to you." fanny moved along by her side, wondering to herself what could be in her mother's mind. on entering the chamber, mrs. claire shut the door, and then, as she sat down, with an arm around the young girl's waist, she said, in a thoughtful, earnest voice-- "fanny, i want you to tell me the first thing you recollect in life." "the first thing, mother?" she smiled at a request so unexpected, and mrs. claire smiled in return, though from a different cause. "yes, dear. i have a reason for asking this. now, let your thoughts run back--far back, and recall for me the very first thing you can recollect." the countenance of fanny grew thoughtful, then serious, and then a half-frightened look flashed over it. "why, mother," said she, "what can you mean? what do you want to know?" "your first recollection, dear?" returned mrs. claire, with an assuring smile, although her heart was full, and it required the most active self-control to prevent her feelings from becoming manifest in her voice. "well, let me see! the first? the first? i was playing on the floor with a dear little baby? it was our edie, wasn't it?" "yes--so far your memory is correct. i remember the time to which you refer as perfectly as if but a week had passed. now, dear, try if you can recall any thing beyond that." "beyond that, mother? oh, why do you ask? you make me feel so strangely. can it be that some things i have thought to be only the memory of dreams, are indeed realities?" "what are those things, my child?" "i have a dim remembrance of a pale, but beautiful woman who often kissed and caressed me--of being in a sick-room--of a strange confusion in the house--of riding in a carriage with father to a funeral. mother! is there any thing in this; if so, what does it mean?" "that woman, fanny," said mrs. claire, speaking with forced composure, "was your mother." the face of the young girl grew instantly pale; her lips parted; and she gasped for breath. then falling forward on the bosom of mrs. claire, she sobbed-- "oh, mother! mother! how can you say this? it cannot, it cannot be. you are my own, my only mother." "you did not receive your life through me, fanny," replied mrs. claire, so soon as she could command her voice, for she too was overcome by feeling--"but in all else i am your mother; and i love you equally with my other children. if there has ever been a difference, it has all been in your favour." "why, why did you destroy the illusion under which i have so long rested?" said fanny, when both were more composed. "why tell me a truth from which no good can flow? why break in upon my happy ignorance with such a chilling revelation? oh, mother, mother! forgive me, if i say you have been cruel." "not so, my child. believe me, that nothing but duty would have ever driven me to this avowal. you are now at woman's legal age. you have a guardian, in whose hands your father, at his death, left, for your benefit, some property; and this person now desires to settle the estate, and transfer to you what remains." bewildered, like one awakening from a dream, fanny listened to this strange announcement. and it was some time before she really comprehended her true position. "not your child--a guardian--property!--what does it all mean? am i really awake, mother?" "yes, dear, you are awake. it is no dream, believe me," was the tender reply of mrs. claire. "but, remember, that all this does not diminish our love for you--does not remove you in the least from our affections. you are still our child, bound to us by a thousand intertwining chords." but little more passed between them at this interview. fanny asked for no more particulars, and mrs. claire did not think it necessary to give any further information. fanny soon retired to her own chamber, there to commune with her thoughts, and to seek, in tears, relief to her oppressed feelings. the meeting of claire with fanny, on his return home, was affecting. she met him with a quivering lip and moistened eyes, and, as she laid her cheek against his breast, murmured in a sad, yet deeply affectionate voice-- "my father!" "my own dear child!" quickly replied claire, with emotion. and then both stood for some time silent. leading her to a seat, claire said tenderly-- "i have always loved you truly, and now you are dearer to me than ever." "my more than father," was her simple response. "my own dear child!" said mr. claire, kissing her fondly. "we have ever blessed the day on which you came to us from god." words would only have mocked their feelings, and so but few words passed between them, yet how full of thoughts crowding upon thoughts were their minds--how over-excited their hearts with new emotions of love. after the younger members of the family had retired on that evening, mr. and mrs. claire and fanny were alone together. all three were in a calmer state of mind. fanny listened with deep attention, her hand shading her countenance so as to conceal its varying expression, to a brief history of her parentage. of things subsequent to the time of her entrance into her present home, but little was said. there was an instinctive delicacy on the part of claire and his wife, now that fanny was about coming into the possession of property, which kept back all allusion to the sacrifices they had made, and the pain they had suffered on her account, in their contentions with her guardian. in fact, this matter of property produced with them a feeling of embarrassment. they had no mercenary thoughts in regard to it--had no wish to profit by their intimate and peculiar relation. and yet, restricted in their own income, and with a family growing daily more expensive, they understood but too well the embarrassment which would follow, if any very important change were made in their present external relations. to explain every thing to fanny, would, they knew, lead to an instant tender of all she possessed. but this they could not do; nor had they a single selfish desire in regard to her property. if things could remain as they were, without injustice to fanny, they would be contented; but they were not altogether satisfied as to the amount they were receiving for her maintenance. it struck them as being too much; and they had more than once conferred together in regard to its reduction. the first thing to be done was to make fanny comprehend her relation to mr. jasper, her guardian, and his wish to settle up the estate of her father, and transfer to her, or her representative, the property that remained in his hands. "i will leave all with you, father," was the very natural response made to this. "all i have is yours. do just as you think best." on the next day a power of attorney in the name of edward claire was executed; and, as jasper was anxious to get the business settled, every facility thereto was offered. claire examined the will of mr. elder, in which certain property was mentioned, and saw that it agreed with the guardian's statement. all the accounts were scrutinized; and all the vouchers for expenditure compared with the various entries. every thing appeared correct, and claire expressed himself entirely satisfied. all legal forms were then complied with; and, in due time, the necessary documents were prepared ready for the signature of claire, by which jasper would be freed from the nervous anxiety he had for years felt whenever his thoughts went forward to this particular point of time. on the evening preceding the day when a consummation so long and earnestly looked for was to take place, jasper, with his mind too much absorbed in business troubles to mingle with his family, sat alone in his library, deeply absorbed in plans and calculations. his confidence in fortune and his own prudence had been growing weaker, daily; and now it seemed to him as if a great darkness were gathering all around. he had fully trusted in himself; alas! how weak now seemed to him his human arm; how dim the vision with which he would penetrate the future. he was mocked of his own overweening and proud confidence. this was his state of mind when a servant came to the library-door, and announced a gentleman who wished to see him. "what is his name?" asked jasper. "he said it was no difference. he was a friend." "it might make a great difference," jasper muttered in an undertone. "show him up," he said aloud. the servant retired, and jasper waited for his visitor to appear. he was not long in suspense. the door soon reopened, and a man, poorly clad, and with a face bearing strong marks of intemperance and evil passions, came in. "you do not know me," said he, observing that the merchant, who had risen to his feet, did not recognise him. jasper shook his head. "look closer." there was an air of familiarity and rude insolence about the man. "martin!" exclaimed jasper, stepping back a few paces. "is it possible!" "quite possible, friend jasper," returned the man, helping himself to a chair, and sinking into it with the air of one who felt himself at home. surprise and perplexity kept the merchant dumb for some moments. he would quite as lief have been confronted with a robber, pistol in hand. "i do not wish to see you, martin," said he, at length, speaking in a severe tone of voice. "why have you intruded on me again? are you not satisfied? have you no mercy?" "none, leonard jasper, none," replied the man scowling. "i never knew the meaning of the word--no more than yourself." "you are nothing better than a robber," said the merchant, bitterly. "i only share with bolder robbers their richer plunder," retorted the man. "i will not bear this, martin. leave my presence." "i will relieve you certainly," said the visitor, rising, "when you have done for me what i wish. i arrived here, to-day, penniless; and have called for a trifling loan to help me on my way north." "loan! what mockery! i will yield no further to your outrageous demands. i was a fool ever to have feared the little power you possess. go, sir! i do not fear you." "i want your check for two hundred dollars--no more," said martin, in a modified tone--"i will not be hard on you. necessity drives me to this resort; but i hope never to trouble you again." "not a dollar," replied jasper, firmly. "and now, my friend, seek some other mode of sustaining yourself in vice and idleness. you have received from me your last contribution. in settling the estate of reuben elder to the entire satisfaction of all parties, i have disarmed you. you have no further power to hurt." "you may find yourself mistaken in regard to my power," replied martin as he made a movement toward the door, and threw back upon the merchant a side-glance of the keenest malignity. "many a foot has been stung by the reptile it spurned." the word "stay" came not to jasper's lips. he was fully in earnest. martin paused, with his hand on the door, and said-- "one hundred dollars will do." "not a copper, if it were to save you from the nether regions!" cried jasper, his anger and indignation o'erleaping the boundaries of self-control. he was alone in the next moment. as his excitement cooled down, he felt by no means indifferent to the consequences which might follow this rupture with martin. more than one thought presented itself, which, if it could have been weighed calmly a few minutes before, would have caused a slightly modified treatment of his unwelcome visitor. but having taken his position, jasper determined to adhere to it, and brave all consequences. while claire was yet seated at the breakfast-table on the next morning, word was brought that a gentleman was in the parlour and wished to see him. on entering the parlour, he found there a man of exceedingly ill appearance, both as to countenance and apparel. "my name is martin," said this person--"though you do not, i presume, know me." claire answered that he was to him an entire stranger. "i have," said the man, speaking in a low, confidential tone of voice, "became cognisant of certain facts, which it much concerns you, or at least your adopted daughter, fanny elder, to know." for a few moments, claire was overcome with surprise. "concerns fanny elder to know! what do you mean, sir?" "precisely what i say. there has been a great fraud committed; and i know all the ins and the outs of it!" "by whom?" asked claire. "ah!" replied the visitor, "that we will come to after a while." "upon whom, then?" "upon the estate of ruben elder, the father of your adopted daughter." not liking either the man's appearance or manner, claire said, after a moment's reflection-- "why have you called to see me?" "to give the information i have indicated--provided, of course, that you desire to have it." "on what terms do you propose to act in this matter? let us understand each other in the beginning." "i can put you in the way of recovering for miss elder from twenty to a hundred thousand dollars, out of which she has been cheated. but, before i give you any information on the subject, i shall require an honourable pledge on your part, as well as written agreement, to pay me twenty per cent. of the whole amount recovered. will you give it?" claire bent his head in thought for some moments. when he looked up he said-- "no, sir. i can make no compact with you of this kind." "very well, sir. that closes the matter," replied martin, rising. "if you will not buy a fortune at so small a cost, you deserve to be poor. how far your conscience is clear in respect to miss elder, is another matter. but, perhaps you don't credit what i say. let me give you a single hint. fanny elder was missing once for three days. i had a hand in that affair. do you think she was carried off, and taken to another city for nothing? if so, you are wonderfully mistaken. but good morning, sir. if you should, on reflection, change your mind, you can hear of me by calling at the office of grind, the lawyer." "good morning," returned claire, showing not the least disposition to retain the man, toward whom he experienced a strong feeling of dislike and sense of repulsion. martin lingered a few moments, and then went out, leaving claire bewildered by a rush of new thoughts. chapter xx. the meeting of claire and jasper, for the final settlement of mr. elder's estate, was to take place at the office of grind, at ten o'clock. before keeping his appointment, the former turned over in his mind, with careful deliberation, the circumstances which had just occurred; and the more he thought of it, the better satisfied was he that a fraud had been committed. the author of that fraud could be no one else but the guardian of fanny; of whose honesty claire had, with good reason, no very high opinion. his conclusion was, not to accept, at present, a settlement of the estate. with an uneasy foreboding of evil--he was, in fact, rarely now without that feeling--leonard jasper took his way to the office of grind. notwithstanding he had defied martin, he yet feared him. but he was so near to the point of comparative safety, that he hoped soon to be past all real danger from this quarter. too little time had elapsed, since he parted with him, for martin to see claire, even if a thought of assailing him in that quarter had crossed his mind. so jasper believed. how sadly taken by surprise was he, therefore, when, on meeting claire, the latter said-- "since i saw you yesterday, a matter has come to my knowledge which i feel bound to investigate, before proceeding any farther in this business." as if struck by a heavy blow, jasper moved a pace or two backward, while an instant pallor overspread his face. quickly recovering himself, he said-- "explain yourself, edward. what matter has come to your knowledge?" "on that subject i would prefer speaking with you alone," replied claire. "this room is at your service," said grind, rising and retiring toward his front office. "you will be altogether free from intrusion." and he passed out, closing the door behind him. "edward," said jasper, in as firm a voice as he could assume, "what is the meaning of this? you look at me with an expression of countenance, and have spoken in a tone that implies a belief on your part that i have not acted fairly in the matter of this guardianship." "such, at least, is my impression," replied claire, firmly. "have you come here to insult me, sir?" jasper drew himself up with an offended manner. "no, mr. jasper. i have no such intention. all i purpose is, to ascertain how far certain information received by me this morning is correct." "what information?" the merchant became a good deal agitated. "a man named martin called on me"-- "martin! oh, the wretch! my curses rest on him, for a base betrayer!" claire was startled at the effect produced by his mention of the name of martin. jasper, on hearing this name, believed that every thing had been divulged, and, in the bitterness and despair of this conviction, threw off all concealment. his countenance, which had partly gained its usual colour, became pallid again, while large beads of sweat oozed from the relaxed pores and stood upon his forehead. moving back a step or two, he sank into a chair, and averting his face, sat struggling with himself to regain the mastery over his feelings. how changed, in a few brief years, had become the relation of these two men. the poor, humble, despised, but honest clerk, now stood erect, while the merchant cowered before him in humiliation and fear. "edward," said jasper, as soon as he had sufficient composure of mind to think somewhat clearly and speak calmly, "what do you purpose doing in this matter?" "what is right, mr. jasper," answered claire, firmly. "that is my duty." "ruin! ruin! ruin!" exclaimed jasper, in a low voice, again losing command of himself, and wringing his hands hopelessly. "oh! that it should have come to this!" astonished as claire was by what he now heard and saw, he felt the necessity of preserving the most entire self-possession. when jasper again put the question-- "what do you purpose doing, edward?" he replied. "i shall be better able to answer that question when i have all the particulars upon which to make up a decision. at present, i only know that a large amount of property has been withheld from miss elder; and that i have only to bring this man martin into a court of justice to have every thing made clear." "and this you purpose doing?" "i shall do so, undoubtedly; unless the object to be gained by such a course is secured in another way." "quite as much, believe me, edward, can be gained through private arrangement as by legal investigation," returned jasper, his manner greatly subdued. "you and i can settle every thing, i am sure, between ourselves; and, as far as my ability will carry me, it shall be to your entire satisfaction. i have greatly mistaken your character, or you will take no pleasure in destroying me." "pleasure in destroying you?" claire was still further affected with surprise. "in no man's destruction could i take pleasure." "i believe you edward. and now let me give you a history of this matter from the beginning. you will know better what course to pursue when you comprehend it fully." and then, to the astonished ears of claire, jasper related how, through the man martin, he became possessed of the fact that the supposed almost valueless piece of land in pennsylvania which mr. elder had taken to secure a debt of five hundred dollars, contained a rich coal deposite--and how, as executor to his estate, and the guardian of his child, he had by presenting the child in person before commissioners appointed by the court, obtained an order for the sale of the land, with the declared purpose of investing the proceeds in some productive property. it was for this that he had been so anxious to get fanny, and for this that he carried her off forcibly, although his agency in the matter did not appear. he then related how, in the sale, he became the real purchaser; and how, afterward, the tract, as coal land, was sold to a company for nearly a hundred thousand dollars. "but edward," said jasper, as he concluded his humiliating narrative, "i am worse off to-day than if i had never made this transaction. it gave me a large amount of capital for trade and speculation, but it also involved me in connections, and led me into schemes for money-making, that have wellnigh proved my ruin. in all truth, i am not, this day, worth one-half of what i received for that property." jasper ceased speaking; but astonishment kept claire silent. "and now, edward," resumed the former, "i am ready to make restitution as far as in my power lies. you can drag me into court, and thus blast my reputation; or, you can obtain for miss elder as much, or even more, than you would probably get by law--for, if driven into the courts, i will contend to the last moment--through an amicable arrangement. which course are you disposed to take?" "i have no desire to harm you, mr. jasper--none in the world. if the terms of settlement which you may offer are such as, under all the circumstances, i feel justified in accepting, i will meet your wishes. but you must bear in mind that, in this matter, i am not acting for myself." "i know--but your judgment of the case must determine." "true--and in that judgment i will endeavour to hold an equal balance." the two men now retired from the lawyer's office; and, ere parting, arranged a meeting for that evening at the store of jasper, where they could be entirely alone. for two or three successive evenings these conferences were continued, until claire was entirely satisfied that the merchant's final offer to transfer to the possession of fanny elder four houses, valued at five thousand dollars each, in full settlement of her father's estate, was the very best he could do; and far more than he would probably obtain if an appeal were made to the law. as quickly as this transfer could be made, it was done. not until the long-desired documents, vouching for the equitable settlement of the estate, were in jasper's hands, did he breathe freely. oh! through what an ordeal he had passed. how his own pride, self-consequence, and self-sufficiency had been crushed out of him! and not only in spirit was he humbled and broken. in his anxiety to settle up the estate of mr. elder, and thus get the sword that seemed suspended over his head by a single hair, removed, he had overstepped his ability. the houses referred to were burdened with a mortgage of nearly ten thousand dollars; this had, of course, to be released; and, in procuring the money therefor, he strained to the utmost his credit, thus cutting off important facilities needed in his large, and now seriously embarrassed business. it is the last pound that breaks the camel's back. this abstraction of money and property took away from jasper just what he needed to carry him safely through a period of heavy payments, at a time when there was some derangement in financial circles. in less than a month from the time he settled the estate of reuben elder, the news of his failure startled the business community. he went down with a heavy plunge, and never again rose to the surface. his ruin was complete. he had trusted in riches. gold was his god; and the idol had mocked him. chapter xxi. beyond what has already been written, there is not much, in the histories of those whom we have introduced, to be told, except briefly, worthy the reader's interested attention. martin, the old accomplice of jasper, finding his power over that individual gone, and failing in the card he played against claire's nice sense of honour and integrity of purpose, now turned, like an ill-natured, hungry cur, and showed his teeth to the man through whose advice he had so long been able to extort money from jasper. he felt the less compunction in so doing, from the fact that grind, angry with him for having been the agent of jasper's final destruction, which involved him in a severe loss, had expressed himself in no measured terms--had, in fact, lashed him with most bitter and opprobrious words. several times, during the progress of events briefly stated in the concluding portions of the last chapter, martin had, in his frequent visits to the lawyer, hinted, more or less remotely, at his great need of money. but to these intimations, grind never gave the slightest response. at last the man said boldly-- "mr. grind, you must help me to a little money." this was directly after the failure of jasper. "i cannot do it," was the unequivocal reply. "you have, by your miserable vindictiveness, ruined jasper, after having subsisted on him for years--base return for all you owe him--and, in doing so, half destroyed me. you have killed the goose that laid the golden egg, and there is no one but yourself to thank for this folly." "you must help me, mr. grind," said martin, his brows knitting, and the muscles of his lips growing rigid. "you had a hand in that business as well as jasper; you took a big slice, if he did keep the major part of the loaf; and so i have a right to ask some slight return for important service rendered." "what! this to me!" exclaimed grind, roused to instant excitement. "this to you," was the cool, deliberate answer. "you have mistaken your man," returned the lawyer, now beginning to comprehend martin more thoroughly. "i understand my whole relation to this affair too well to be moved by any attempt at extortion which you can make. but i can tell you a little secret, which it may be interesting for you to know." "what is it?" growled the man. "why, that i hold the power to give you a term in the state's prison, whenever i may happen to feel inclined that way." "indeed!" martin spoke with a cold, defiant sneer. "i am uttering no vague threat. from the beginning, i have kept this trap over you, ready to spring, if need be, at a moment's warning." "i suppose you thought me a poor fool, did you not?" said martin as coldly and contemptuously as before. "but you were mistaken. i have not been altogether willing to trust myself in your hands, without good advice from a limb of the law quite as shrewd as yourself." "what do you mean?" exclaimed grind, somewhat startled by so unexpected a declaration. "plainly," was answered, "while i took your advice as to the surest way to act upon jasper, i consulted another as to the means of protecting myself from you, if matters ever came to a pinch." "oh! preposterous!" grind forced a laugh. "that's only an afterthought." "is it. hark!" martin bent close to his ear, and uttered a few words in an undertone. grind started as if stung by a serpent. "wretch!" "it is useless to call ill names, my friend. i have you in my power; and i mean to keep you there. but i shall not be very hard on you. so, don't look so awfully cut down." for once the scheming, unscrupulous lawyer found himself outwitted. his tool had proved too sharp for him. without a doubt he was in his power to an extent by no means agreeable to contemplate. grind now saw that conciliation was far better than antagonism. when martin retired from the lawyer's office, he had in his pocket a check for two hundred dollars, while behind him was left his solemn pledge to leave the city for new orleans the next day. the pledge, when given, he did not intend to keep; and it was not kept, as grind soon afterward learned, to his sorrow. a drunkard and a gambler, it did not take martin long to see once more the bottom of his purse. not until this occurred did he trouble the lawyer again. then he startled him with a second visit, and, after a few sharp words, came off with another check, though for a less amount. and for years, leech-like, martin, sinking lower and lower all the time, continued his adhesion to the lawyer, abstracting continually, but in gradually diminishing sums, the money needed for natural life and sensual indulgence, until often his demands went not above a dollar. grind, reluctantly as he yielded to these demands, believed it wiser to pay them than to meet the exposure martin had it in his power to make. and so it went on, until, one day, to his inexpressible relief, grind read in the morning papers an account of the sudden and violent death of his enemy. his sleep was sounder on the night that followed than it had been for a long, long time. of edward claire, and his happy family--not happy merely from an improved external condition, for the foundation of their happiness was laid in a deeper ground--we have not much to relate. when claire brought to fanny the title-deeds of the property which he had recovered from jasper, she pushed them back upon him, saying, as she did so-- "keep them, father--keep them. all is yours." "no, my dear child," replied claire, seriously, yet with tenderness and emotion, "all is not mine. all is yours. this property, through a wise providence, has come into your possession. i have no right to it." "if it is mine, father," said fanny, "have i not a right to do with it what i please?" "in a certain sense you have." "then i give it all to you--you, my more than father!" "for such a noble tender, my dear child, i thank you in the very inmost of my heart. but i cannot accept of it, fanny." "why not, father? why not? you have bestowed on me more than wealth could buy! i know something of what you have borne and suffered for me. your health, now impaired, was broken for me. oh, my father! can i ever forget that? can i ever repay you all i owe? were the world's wealth mine, it should be yours." overcome by her feelings, fanny wept for some time on the breast of him she knew only as her father; and there the interview closed for the time. soon after it was renewed; and the occasion of this was an advantageous business offer made to claire by mr. melleville, if he could bring in a capital of twelve thousand dollars. two of the houses received from jasper, with some stocks, were sold to furnish this capital, and claire, after his long struggle, found himself in a safe and moderately profitable business; and, what was more, with a contented and thankful spirit. of what treasures was he possessed? treasures of affection, such as no money could buy; and, above all, the wealth of an approving conscience. mrs. claire--happy wife and mother!--how large too was her wealth. from the beginning she had possessed the riches which have no wings--spiritual riches, that depend on no worldly changes; laid up in the heaven of her pure mind, where moth could not corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal. the better worldly fortune that now came added to her happiness, because it afforded the means of giving to their children higher advantages, and procured for them many blessings and comforts to which they were hitherto strangers. five years, passed under an almost cloudless sky, succeeded, and then the sweet home circle was broken by the withdrawal of one whose presence made perpetual sunshine. one so good, so lovely, so fitted in every way to form the centre of another home circle as fanny elder, could hardly remain unwooed or unwon. happily, in leaving the paternal haven, her life-boat was launched on no uncertain sea. the character of her husband was based on those sound, religious principles, which regard justice to man as the expression of love to god. a few weeks after the husband of fanny had taken his lovely young wife to his own home, claire waited upon him for the purpose of making a formal transfer of his wife's property. "there are four houses," said claire, in describing the property; "besides twelve thousand dollars which i have in my business. a portion of this latter i will pay over; on the balance, while it remains"-- "mr. claire," returned the young man, interrupting him, "the house you now live in, fanny says, is your property--also the capital in your business." "no--no--no. this is not so. i do not want, and i will not keep a dollar of her patrimony." "you are entitled to every thing, in good right," said the young man, smiling. "but we will consent to take one-half as a good start in life." "but, my dear sir"-- we will not, however, record the arguments, affirmations, protestations, etc., made by each party in this contention, but drop the curtain, and leave the reader to infer the sequel. he cannot go very far wide of the truth. the end. stereotyped by l. johnson and co. philadelphia. j.w. bradley, north fourth st., philadelphia; and l.p. crown & co., cornhill, boston, publish the following works by john frost, ll.d. * * * * * thrilling adventures among the indians. comprising the most remarkable personal narratives of events in the early indian wars, as well as of incidents in the recent indian hostilities in mexico and texas. illustrated with over engravings, from designs by w. croome, and other distinguished artists. notices of the press. "the matter contained in this handsome volume, is as well calculated to give a correct idea of the character of the indians, and their modes of life, as that of any book ever published. all that gives a charm to romance may be found in the narrative contained in this work, but all of them possess the never-failing attractions of truth. the sufferings of numerous captives are also detailed, together with their contrivances of escape from their savage captors. the illustrations, by the well-known w. croome, are excellent in design and execution, and the printing and binding of the work are fine specimens of each art." great events in modern history: comprising the most remarkable discoveries, conquests, revolutions, great battles, and other thrilling incidents, chiefly in europe and america, from the commencement of the sixteenth century to the present time. embellished with over engravings, by w. croome, and other eminent artists. the following are extracts from notices of the press received by the publisher. notices of the press. "we have here, within the compass of eight hundred pages, the history of those events of modern history, which have been 'big with mighty consequences,' and with which, therefore, all men should become acquainted. beginning with the discovery of america, by columbus--that new starting-point of civilization--the work proceeds through the history of the various european nations, culling those great periods when, either by wars or revolutions, each nation began to occupy a conspicuous place in the general estimation of men, and to make its influence felt by those without its limits. the late revolutions in europe, the mexican war, and the gold discoveries in california, are rapidly and vividly sketched. the illustrations, principally from designs by croome, are numerous, well executed, serving to impress the striking scenes and characters of history upon the tablet of memory. the whole work, in design and execution, reflects great credit upon all concerned in its production." j.w. bradley, no. north fourth street, philadelphia; and l.p. crown & co., cornhill, boston, publish the following works by t.s. arthur. * * * * * lights and shadows of real life, with an autobiography and portrait of the author, over pages octavo, with fine tinted engravings. notices of the press. in this volume may be found a "moral suasion," which cannot but effect for good all who read. the mechanical execution of the work is very beautiful throughout.--_new haven palladium_. it is by far the most valuable book ever published of his works, inasmuch as it is enriched with a very interesting, though brief autobiography.--_american courier_. no family library is complete without a copy of this book--_scott's weekly paper_. no better or worthier present could be made to the young, no offering more pure, charitable, and practicable, could be tendered to those who are interested in the truly benevolent reforms of the day.--_godey's lady's book_. the paper, the engravings, the binding, and the literary contents, are all calculated to make it a favourite.--_penn. inquirer_. this volume cannot be too highly recommended.--_n.y. tribune_. more good has been effected, than by any other single medium that we know of.--_n.y. sun_. the work should be upon the centre-table of every parent in the land.--_national temperance magazine_. a single story is worth the price charged for the book.--_union, newburyport, mass_. arthur's sketches of life and character, an octavo volume of over pages, beautifully illustrated, and bound in the best english muslin, gilt. notices of the press. the present volume, containing more than four hundred finely-printed octavo pages, is illustrated by spirited engravings, and made particularly valuable to those who like to "see the face of him they talk withal," by a correct likeness of the author, finely engraved on steel.--_neal's gazette_. in the princely mansions of the atlantic merchants, and in the rude log cabins of the backwoodsman, the name of arthur is equally known and cherished as the friend of virtue.--_graham's magazine_. we would not exchange our copy of these sketches, with its story of "the methodist preacher," for any one of the gilt-edged and embossed annuals which we have yet seen.--_lady's national magazine_. the first story in the volume, entitled, "the methodist preacher, or lights and shadows in the life of an itinerant," is alone worth the price of the work.--_evening bulletin_. it is emphatically a splendid work.--_middletown whig_. its worth and cheapness should place it in every person's hands who desire to read an interesting book.--_odd fellow, boonsboro_. "the methodist preacher," "seed time and harvest," "dyed in the wool," are full of truth, as well as instruction, and any one of them is worth the whole price of the volume.--_lowell daystar, rev. d.c. eddy, editor_. there is a fascination about these sketches which so powerfully interests the reader, that few who commence one of them will part with it till it is concluded; and they will bear reading repeatedly.--_norfolk and portsmouth herald_. those who have not perused these model stories have a rich feast in waiting, and we shall be happy if we can be instrumental in pointing them to it.--_family visitor, madison, geo_. no library for family reading should be considered complete without this volume, which is as lively and entertaining in its character, as it is salutary in its influence.--_n.y. tribune_. the work is beautifully illustrated. those who are at all acquainted with arthur's writings need hardly be told that the present work is a prize to whoever possess it.--_n.y. sun_. we know no better book for the table of any family, whether regarded for its neat exterior or valuable contents.--_vox populi, low_. the name of the author is in itself a sufficient recommendation of the work.--_lawrence sentinel_. t.s. arthur is one of the best literary writers of the age.--_watchman, circleville, ohio_. the name alone of the author is a sufficient guaranty to the reading public of its surpassing merit.--_the argus, gallatin, miss_. probably he has not written a line which, dying, he could wish to erase.--_parkersburg (va.) gazette_. the way to prosper, and other tales, mo, over pages, with six illustrations. notices of the press. this is one of mr. arthur's best books. his object, and he always has in view a noble one, is to recommend family union, a firm adherence to the law which requires us to respect the holy tie of family union, which requires brother to assist brother, and sister, sister. by means of a lively and pleasing narrative, he shows that this principle is not only right, but politic, and that the law of family unions is really the true way to prosper. we commend the volume to our readers as one of the best and most profitable of the many useful works which have been produced by the same accomplished writer.--_godey's lady's book_. this is the title of a small volume published by mr. j.w. bradley, of this city. it is from the pen of mr. t.s. arthur--the story of two families, one of which prospers by the union of good-will which prevails among the brothers, and leads them always to aid each other in their worldly undertakings; while the other goes to rack and ruin, because the brothers always act upon the maxim, "every one for himself." the moral is excellent, and cannot be too earnestly and widely inculcated. mr. bradley has produced this little work in very handsome style, with original embellishments from the fertile pencil of mr. croome.--_scotts weekly_. golden grains from life's harvest field, bound in full gilt, with a beautiful mezzotint engraving, mo, pages. notices of the press. it is not too much to say, that the golden grains here presented to the reader, are such as will be productive of a far greater amount of human happiness than those, in search of which, so many are willing to risk domestic peace, health, and even life itself, in a distant and inhospitable region. these narratives, like all of those which proceed from the same able pen, are remarkable not only for their entertaining and lively pictures of actual life, but for their admirable moral tendency. it is printed in excellent style, and embellished with a mezzotint engraving. we cordially recommend it to the favour of our readers.--_godey's lady's magazine_. true riches; or, wealth without wings, mo, pages, with a fine mezzotint frontispiece. notices of the press. this volume is written by t.s. arthur, the most popular of all our american writers on domestic subjects. his intention is to direct the reader to the real riches of life, the wealth which cannot be taken away by the adverse events of fortune. the true wisdom of life, he shows us, is to place our fortune in ourselves, to make our own minds rich in intellectual treasures, and our hearts true to the legitimate purposes and ends of life. when the doctrine of this little volume becomes universally prevalent, a new era of happiness will dawn upon mankind.--_godey's lady's book_. mr. arthur, in this volume, impresses upon his readers the importance of laying up treasures in the really profitable way--moral and intellectual treasures, which, in all the storms of ill-fortune, never leave their possessor without ample resources. the world acknowledges the truth of his moral, but often forgets to reduce it to practice. it therefore, becomes the duty of the world's moral teachers, of which mr. arthur is one of the most successful, to impress the truth by a well-written narrative.--_scott's weekly_. [illustration: a home scene] hetty gray or, nobody's bairn by rosa mulholland (lady gilbert) contents i. four years old ii. under the horses' feet iii. adopted iv. mrs. kane in trouble v. a lonely child vi. hetty and her "cousins" vii. hetty's first lessons viii. hetty desolate ix. what to do with her? x. the new home xi. hetty turns rebel xii. a cottage child again xiii. a trick on the governess xiv. hetty's constancy xv. the children's dance xvi. a trial of patience xvii. hetty's future is planned xviii. reine gaythorne xix. if she was drowned, how can she be hetty? xx. happy hetty chapter i. four years old. in all england there is not a prettier village than wavertree. it has no streets; but the cottages stand about the roads in twos and threes, with their red-tiled roofs, and their little gardens, and hedges overrun with flowering weeds. under a great sycamore tree at the foot of a hill stands the forge, a cave of fire glowing in the shadows, a favourite place for the children to linger on their way to school, watching the smith hammering at his burning bars, and hearing him ring his cheery chimes on the anvil. who shall say what mystery surrounds the big smith, as he strides about among his fires, to the wide bright eyes that peer in at him from under baby brows, or what meanings come out of his clinking music to four-year-old or eight-year-old ears? little hetty was only four years old when she stood for five or ten minutes of one long summer day looking in at the forge, and watching and listening with all the energy that belonged to her. she had a little round pink face with large brown eyes as soft as velvet, and wide open scarlet lips. her tiny pink calico frock was clean and neat, and her shoes not very much broken, though covered with dust. altogether hetty had the look of a child who was kindly cared for, though she had neither father nor mother in the world. two or three great strong horses, gray and bay, with thick manes and tails, came clattering up to the door of the forge, a man astride on one of them. hetty knew the horses, which belonged to wavertree hall, and were accustomed to draw the long carts which brought the felled trees out of the woods to the yard at the back of the hall. hetty once had thought that the trees were going to be planted again in mrs. enderby's drawing-room, and had asked why the pretty green leaves had all been taken off. she was four years old now, however, and she knew that the trees were to be chopped up for firewood. she clapped her hands in delight as the great creatures with their flowing manes came trotting up with their mighty hoofs close to her little toes. "you little one, run away," cried the man in care of the horses; and hetty stole into the forge and stood nearer to the fire than she had ever dared to do before. "hallo!" shouted big ben the smith; "if this mite hasn't got the courage of ten! be off, you little baggage, if you don't want to have those pretty curls o' yours singed away as bare as a goose at michaelmas! as for sparks in your eyes, you sha'n't have 'em, for you don't want 'em. eyes are bright enough to light up a forge for themselves." "aye," said the carter, "my missus and i often say she's too pretty a one for the likes of us to have the bringing up of on our hands. and she's a rare one for havin' her own way, she is. just bring her out by the hand, will you, ben, while i keep these horses steady till she gets away?" big ben led the little maid outside the forge, and said, "now run away and play with the other children"; and then he went back to set about the shoeing of john kane's mighty cart-horses, or rather the cart-horses of mr. enderby of wavertree hall. little hetty, thus expelled, dared not return to the forge, but she walked backwards down the road, gazing at the horses as long as she could see them. she loved the great handsome brutes, and if she had had her will would have been sitting on one of their backs with her arms around his neck. coming to a turn of the road from which a path led on to an open down, she blew a farewell kiss to the horses and skipped away across the grass among the gold-hearted, moonfaced daisies, and the black-eyed poppies in their scarlet hoods. there were no other children to be seen, but hetty made herself happy without them. a large butterfly fluttered past her, almost brushing her cheek, and hetty threw back her curly head and gazed at its beauty in astonishment. it was splendid with scarlet and brown and gold, and hetty, after a pause of delighted surprise, dashed forward with both her little fat arms extended to capture it. it slipped through her fingers; but just as she was pulling down her baby lips to cry, a flock of white and blue butterflies swept across her eyes, and made her laugh again as she pursued them in their turn. at last she stumbled into a damp hollow place where a band of golden irises stood among their tall shafts of green like royal ladies surrounded by warriors. hetty caught sight of the yellow wing-like petals of the flag-lilies and grasped them with both hands. alas! they were not alive, but pinned to the earth by their strong stems. the butterflies were gone, the flowers were not living. the little girl plucked the lilies and tried to make them fly, but their heads fell heavily to the ground. a big plough-boy came across the downs, and he said as he passed hetty, "what are you picking the heads off the flowers for, you young one?" "why won't they fly like the butterflies?" asked hetty. "because they were made to grow." "why can't i fly, too?" "because you were made to run." when hetty went into the school she had a scratch from a briar all across her cheek. "you are quite late, hetty gray," said the schoolmistress. "and what have you been doing to scratch your face?" "i was trying to make the flowers fly," said hetty; and then she was put to stand in the corner in disgrace with her face to the wall. chapter ii. under the horses' feet. mrs. kane's cottage stood on a pretty bend of one of the village roads, and belonged to an irregular cluster of little houses with red gables and green palings. it was among the poorest dwellings in wavertree, but was neat and clean. the garden was in good order, and a white climbing rose grew round the door, that sweet old-fashioned rose with its delicious scent which makes the air delightful wherever it blows. the cottage door stood open, and the afternoon sunlight fell across the old red tiles of the kitchen floor. the tiles were a little broken, and here and there they were sunk and worn; but they were as clean as hands could make them, as mrs. kane would have said. a little window at one side looked down the garden, and across it was a frilled curtain, and on the sill a geranium in full flower. on the other side was the fire-place, with chintz frill and curtains, and the grate filled with a great bush of green beech-leaves. a table set on the red tiles was spread for tea, and by it sat mrs. kane and her friend mrs. ford enjoying a friendly cup together. "she _is_ late this evening," mrs. kane was saying; "but she'll turn up all right by and by. if she's wild she's sharp, which is still something. she never gets under horses' feet, nor drops into the pond, or anything of that sort. if she did those sort of things, being such a rover, mrs. ford, you see i never should have an easy moment in my life." "i must say it's very good of you to take to do with her," said mrs. ford, "and she nobody belonging to you. if she was your own child--" "well, you see, my own two dears went to heaven with the measles," said mrs. kane, "and i felt so lonesome without them, that when john walked in with the little bundle in his arms that night, i thought he was just an angel of light." "it was on the long sands he found her, wasn't it?" asked mrs. ford, balancing her spoon on the edge of her cup. "on the long sands after the great storm," said mrs. kane; "and that's just four years ago in may gone by. how a baby ever lived through the storm to be washed in by the sea alive always beats me when i think of it, it seems so downright unnatural; and yet that's the way that providence ordered it, mrs. ford." "i suppose all her folks were drowned?" said mrs. ford. "most like they were, for it was a bad wreck, as i've heard," said mrs. kane. "leastways, nobody has ever come to claim her, and no questions have been asked. unless it was much for her good i would fain hope that nobody ever will claim her now. wild as she is, i've grown to love that little hetty, so i have. ah, here she is coming along, as hungry as a little pussy for her milk, i'll be bound!" hetty came trudging along the garden path, her curls standing up in a bush on her head, her little fat fingers stained green with grass, and her pinafore, no longer green, filled with moon-daisies. she was singing with her baby voice lifted bravely: "dust as i am i come to zee--" "dust indeed!" cried mrs. kane, "_i_ never saw such dust. only look at her shoes that i blacked this morning!" "poor dear, practising her singing," said mrs. ford. "well, little lass, and what have you been seeing and doing all day long?" "i saw big ben poking his fire," answered hetty after a moment's reflection. "he put me out, and then i saw him hurting the horses' feet with his hammer. i wanted the horses to come along with me, but they shook their heads and stayed where they were. then i tried to catch the butterflies, and they flew right past my eyes. and i thought the yellow lilies could fly too, and they wouldn't. then i pulled their heads off--" "and were you not at school at all?" asked mrs. ford. "well, well, hetty, you are wild. if you saw my little boys going so good to their school! what more did you do, hetty?" "i went into school, and schoolmistress put me in a corner. then i drew marks with my tears on the wall; and afterwards i said my spelling. and i came home and got some daisies; and i saw charlie ford standing in the pond with his shoes and stockings on." "oh my! oh my! well i never!" cried mrs. ford, snatching up her bonnet, and getting ready to go home in a hurry. "charley in the pond with his shoes and stockings on! it seems, mrs. kane, that i've been praising him too soon!" while mrs. ford was running down the road after charley, mrs. enderby, up at wavertree hall, was directing her servants to carry the table for tea out upon the lawn under the wide-spreading beech-trees; and her two little daughters, phyllis aged eight and nell aged seven, were hovering about waiting to place baskets of flowers and strawberries on the embroidered cloth. mrs. rushton, sister-in-law of mrs. enderby and aunt of the children, was spending the afternoon at the hall, having come a distance of some miles to do so. mrs. enderby was a tall graceful lady, with a pale, gentle, but rather cold face; her dress was severely simple and almost colourless; her voice was sweet. mrs. rushton was unlike her in every respect, low in size, plump, smiling, and dressed in the most becoming and elegant fashion. mrs. enderby spoke slowly and with deliberation; mrs. rushton kept chattering incessantly. "well, amy," said the former, "i hope you will talk to william about it, and perhaps he may induce you to change your mind. here he is," as a gentleman was seen coming across the lawn. mrs. rushton shrugged her shoulders. "my dear isabel," she said, "i do not see what william has to do with it. i am my own mistress, and surely old enough to judge for myself." the two little girls sprang to meet their father, and dragged him by the hands up to the tea-table. "william," said mrs. enderby, "i want you to remonstrate with amy." "it seems to me i am always remonstrating with amy," said mr. enderby smiling; "what wickedness is she meditating now?" mrs. rushton laughed gaily, dipped a fine strawberry into cream and ate it. her laugh was pleasant, and she had a general air of good humour and self-complacency about her which some people mistook for exceeding amiability. "isabel thinks i am going to destruction altogether," said she, preparing another strawberry for its bath of cream; "only because i am thinking of going abroad with lady harriet beaton. surely i have a right to arrange my own movements and to select my own friends." mr. enderby looked very grave. "no one can deny your right to do as you please," he said; "but i hope that on reflection you will not please to go abroad with lady harriet beaton." "why!" "surely you know she is not a desirable companion for you, amy. i hope you have not actually promised to accompany her." "well, i think i have, almost. she is very gay and charming, and i cannot think why you should object to her. if i were a young girl of sixteen, instead of a widow with long experience, you could not make more fuss about the matter." "as your brother i am bound to object to such a scheme," said mr. enderby. mrs. rushton pouted. "it is all very well for you and isabel to talk," she said, "you have each other and your children to interest you. if i had children--had only one child, i should not care for running about the world or making a companion of lady harriet." mrs. enderby looked at her sister-in-law sympathetically; but mr. enderby only smiled. "my dear amy," he said, "you know very well that if you had children they would be the most neglected little mortals on the face of the earth. ever since i have known you, a good many years now, i have seen you fluttering about after one whim or another, and never found you contented with anything long. if phyllis and nell here were your daughters instead of isabel's, they would be away at school somewhere, whilst their mother would be taking her turn upon all the merry-go-rounds of the world." "thank you, you are very complimentary," said mrs. rushton; and then she laughed carelessly: "after all, the merry-go-rounds, as you put it, are much better fun than sitting in a nursery or a school-room. but i assure you i am not so frivolous as you think; i have been going out distributing tracts lately with mrs. sourby." "indeed, and last winter i know you were attending lectures on cookery, and wanted to become a lecturer yourself." "yes, and only for something that happened, i forget what, i might now be a useful member of society. but chance does so rule one's affairs. at present it is fate's decree that i shall spend the next few months at pontresina." mr. enderby made a gesture as if to say that he would remonstrate no more, and went off to play lawn tennis with his little girls. mrs. rushton rose from her seat, yawned, and declared to mrs. enderby that it was six o'clock and quite time for her to return towards home, as she had a drive of two hours before her. shortly afterwards she was rolling along the avenue in her carriage, and through the village, and out by one of the roads towards the open country. now little hetty gray ought to have been in her bed by this time, or getting ready for it; but she was, as mrs. kane told mrs. ford, a very wild little girl, though sharp; and while mrs. kane was busy giving her husband his supper hetty had escaped from the cottage once more, and had skipped away from the village to have another little ramble by herself before the pretty green woods should begin to darken, and the moon to come up behind the trees. hetty had filled her lap with dog-roses out of the hedges, and wishing to arrange them in a bunch which she could carry in her hand, she sat down in the middle of the road and became absorbed in her work. near where she sat there was a sharp turning in the road, and hetty was so busy that she did not hear the sound of a carriage coming quite near her. suddenly the horses turned the corner. hetty saw them and jumped up in a fright, but too late to save herself from being hurt. she was flung down upon the road, though the coachman pulled up in time to prevent the wheels passing over her. poor hetty gave one scream and then nothing more was heard from her. the footman got down and looked at her, and then he went and told the lady in the carriage that he feared the child was badly hurt. "oh dear!" said the lady, "what brought her under the horses' feet? can you not pick her up?" the footman went back to hetty and tried to lift her in his arms, but she uttered such pitiful screams at being touched that he was obliged to lay her down again. then the lady, who was mrs. rushton, got out and looked at her. "you must put her in the carriage," she said, "and drive back to the village. i suppose she belongs to some of the people there." "i know her, ma'am," said the footman; "she is mrs. kane's little girl,--little hetty gray." mrs. rushton got into the carriage again and held the child on her lap while they were being driven back to the village to mrs. kane's cottage door. it was quite a new sensation to the whimsical lady of fashion to hold a suffering child in her arms, and she was surprised to find that, in spite of her first feelings of impatience at being stopped on the road, she rather liked it. as hetty's little fair curly head hung back helplessly over her arm, and the round soft cheek, turned so white, touched her breast, mrs. rushton felt a motherly sensation which she had never before known in all her frivolous life. mrs. kane was out at the garden gate looking up and down the road for the missing hetty. when she saw hetty lifted out of the carriage she began to cry. "oh my! my!" she sobbed, "i never thought it would come to this with her, and she so sharp. thank you, madam, thank you, i'm sure. she's not my own child, but i feel it as much as if she was." mrs. rushton then sent the carriage off for the doctor and went into the cottage with mrs. kane. the child was laid as gently as possible on a poor but clean bed covered with a patchwork quilt of many colours, and the lady of fashion sat by her side, bathing the baby forehead with eau de cologne which she happened to have with her. it was all new and unexpectedly interesting to mrs. rushton. never had she been received as a friend in a cottage home before, the only occasions when she had even seen the inside of one were those on which she had accompanied mrs. sourby on her mission of distributing tracts; and on those occasions she had felt that she was not looked on as a friend by the poor who received her, but rather as an intruder. it was evident now that good, grieved mrs. kane took her for an angel as she sat by the little one's bed, and it was new and delightful to mrs. rushton to be regarded as a benefactress by anyone. the doctor arrived, set the child's arm, which was found to be broken, and gave her something to make her fall asleep. then he charmed mrs. rushton by complimenting that lady on her goodness of heart. "remember, all the expense is to be mine," she said to him, "and i hope you will order the little one everything she can possibly require. i will come to see her to-morrow, mrs. kane, and bring her some flowers and fruit." the pretty green woods which hetty loved had grown dark, the butterflies had flown away to whatever dainty lodging butterflies inhabit during the summer nights, the yellow wings of the flag-lilies fluttered unseen in the shadows, and the moon had risen high above the tall beech-trees and the old church tower. mrs. rushton stepped into her carriage once more, and was driven rapidly through the quiet village, away towards her own luxurious home, feeling more interested and excited than she had felt for a long time. little hetty gray, her scare of fright and pain gone for the time like a bad dream, lay sound asleep upon her humble bed, and mrs. kane, trimming her night-light, paused to listen, with that fascination which many people feel at the sound, to the hoarse boom of the old church clock calling the hour of midnight, across the chimneys of the village and away over the silent solemn woods. mrs. kane felt with a sort of awe that another day had begun, but she little knew that with it a strange new leaf had been turned in the story of her little hetty's life. chapter iii. adopted. mrs. rushton returned the next day with a basket of ripe peaches and a large bouquet of lovely flowers such as hetty had never seen before. the yellow lilies might stand now in peace among their tall flag leaves without fearing to have their heads picked off, for hetty had got something newer and more delightful to admire than they. odorous golden roses and pearl-white gardenias scented and beautified the poor little room where hetty lay. where had they come from, she wondered, and who was the pretty lady who sat by her side and kept putting nice-smelling things to her nose? at first she was very shy and only looked at her with half-closed eyes, but after some time she took courage and spoke to her. "what kind lady are you?" asked hetty boldly. "i am a good fairy," said mrs. rushton, "and when you are well i am going to carry you off to see my house." "hetty has got a house," said the little girl complacently. "have you got a house too?" "a splendid large house, hetty," said mrs. kane. "_you_ never saw such a house." "is it bigger than the post-office?" said hetty doubtingly. "bigger far." "bigger than the forge?" "don't be foolish, child, and stop your biggers," said mrs. kane; "mrs. rushton's house is the size of the church and more." hetty winked with astonishment, and she lay silent for some time, till at last she said: "and do you sit in the pulpit?" mrs. rushton laughed more than she was accustomed to laugh at lady harriet beaton's comic stories. this child's prattle was amusing to her. "and do you have grave-stones growing round your door?" persisted hetty. "there, ma'am!" cried mrs. kane, "she'll worry you with questions if you give her a bit of encouragement. she'll think of things that'll put you wild for an answer, so she will. john and i give her up." mrs. rushton was not at all inclined to give her up, however, for she kept coming day after day to visit the little patient. hetty became fond of her pleasant visitor, and watched eagerly for her arrival in the long afternoons when the flies buzzed so noisily in the small cottage window-panes, and the child found it hard to lie still and hear the voices of the village children shouting and laughing at their play in the distance. as soon as mrs. rushton's bright eyes were seen in the doorway, and her gay dress fluttering across the threshold, hetty would stretch out her one little hand in welcome to the delightful visitor, and laugh to see all the pretty presents that were quickly strewn around her on the bed. after spending an afternoon with the child, mrs. rushton often went on to wavertree hall and finished the evening there with her brother's family. mr. and mrs. enderby were greatly astonished to find how completely their lively sister had interested herself in the village foundling. "take care you do not spoil her," said mr. enderby. mrs. rushton shrugged her shoulders. "i can never please you," she said. "one would suppose i had found a harmless amusement this time at least, and yet you do not approve." "i do approve," said her brother, "up to a certain point. i only warn you not to go too far and make the child unhappy by over-petting her. in a few weeks hence you will have forgotten her existence, and then the little thing will be disappointed." "but i have no intention of forgetting her in a few weeks," said mrs. rushton indignantly. "no; you have no intention--" said mr. enderby. "you certainly are a most unsympathetic person," said mrs. rushton; and she went away feeling herself much ill-used, and firmly believing herself to be the only kind-hearted member of her family. "after all, william," said mrs. enderby to her husband, "you ought not to be too hard upon amy, for you see she has given up talking of going abroad with lady harriet." "true; i have noticed that. yet i fear she will not relinquish one folly without falling into another." "her present whim is at all events an amiable one," said mrs. enderby gently. "let us hope no harm may come of it.' "i should think it all most natural and right if any other woman than amy were in question," said mr. enderby; "but one never knows to what extravagant lengths she will go." the warnings of her brother had the effect of making mrs. rushton still more eager in her attendance on the child, and a few days after she had been "lectured" by him, as she put it to herself, she astonished good mrs. kane by saying: "i think she is quite fit to be moved now, mrs. kane, and the doctor says so. i am going to take her home with me for a week for change of air." "laws, ma'am, you never mean it!" "but i do mean it. i am going to fatten her up and finish her cure." "well, ma'am, i'm sure you are the kindest of the kind. to think of you troubling yourself and putting yourself out, and all for our little hetty." "that is my affair," said mrs. rushton laughing; "i don't think a mite like that will disturb my household very much. just you pack her up, and i will carry her off with me to-morrow at three." the next day the lady carried off her prize, greatly delighted to think of how shocked her brother would be when he heard of her new "folly." as soon as she had introduced hetty to all her dogs, and cats, and rabbits, mrs. rushton went to her desk and wrote a note to her sister-in-law inviting the entire wavertree family to spend a day at amber hill, which was the name of her charming dwelling-place. when, on a certain morning, therefore, the wavertree carriage stopped at the foot of the wide flight of steps, flanked by urns of blooming flowers, which led up to mrs. rushton's great hall door, the mistress of amber hill was seen descending the stone stair leading a little child by the hand. this was hetty, dressed in a white frock of lace and muslin, and decked with rose-coloured ribbons. "isn't she a little beauty?" said mrs. rushton, smiling mischievously at her grave brother and sister-in-law. "look up, my darling, and show your pretty brown velvet eyes. did you ever see such a tint in human cheeks, isabel, or such a crop of curling hair?" "do you really mean that this is the village child, amy?" asked her brother. "yes, little hetty is here!" said amy with a gleeful laugh; "but then, william, lady harriet is gone. if i had asked you to meet her to-day instead of little miss gray from wavertree, i wonder what you would have done to find a more disagreeable expression of countenance." "do you wish us to understand that you have adopted this 'nobody's child,' amy?" said mr. enderby, looking more and more troubled. "well, to tell you the truth, i did not mean that quite," said mrs. rushton; "but now that you suggest it--" "_i_ suggest it!" cried mr. enderby. "how horrified you look! but all the same you have suggested it, and i think it is a capital idea." "do not come to any hasty conclusion, i implore you, amy. think over it well. consider the child's interests more than your own momentary self-indulgence!" mrs. rushton coloured with displeasure. "i see you are determined to be as disagreeable as usual," she said angrily. "as if the monkey could fail to be benefited by my patronage! pray, will she not be better in my drawing-room than getting under horses' feet about the wavertree roads, or losing herself in the wavertree woods?" "frankly, i think not," said mr. enderby stiffly. mrs. rushton's eyes flashed, and she did her brother the injustice of thinking that he feared her adoption of little hetty would in some way interfere with the worldly interests of his own children. she was not accustomed to seek far for other people's meanings and motives, and generally seized on the first which presented itself to her mind. she knew that she only wanted to amuse herself, and had no intention of wronging her nieces and nephew by playing with this charming babe. why, then, should william take such fancies in his head? in this flash of temper she instantly decided on keeping little hetty always with her. was there any reason in the world why she should not do just as she pleased? hetty should certainly stay with her and be as her own child from this day forth. "what have _you_ to say about my adopting little hetty?" she said, turning to her sister-in-law with a slightly defiant and wholly triumphant smile. "i shall say nothing," said mrs. enderby, "until i see how you treat her. i trust it may turn out for the best." thus, all in a moment, and merely because mrs. rushton would not be contradicted, was little hetty's future in this world decided. before her brother had spoken, the lady of amber hill had had no intention of keeping hetty for more than a week in her house. and now she felt bound (by the laws of human perversity) to take her and bring her up as her own child. in the meantime mrs. enderby's three children and hetty gray were standing by, gazing at one another. the little enderbys, mark, phyllis, and nell, had taken in the whole conversation, and understood perfectly, with the quick perception of children, the strangeness of the situation, and their own peculiar position with regard to mrs. kane's little girl from wavertree. the little enderbys were thinking how very odd it was that the little girl whom they had often seen, as they walked with their nurse or drove past in the carriage with their mother, playing on the roads in a soiled pinafore, should be now presented to them as a new cousin. phyllis, the eldest, was much displeased, for pride was her ruling fault. mark and nell were charmed with the transformation in hetty and very much disposed to accept her as a playfellow, though they remembered all the time that she was not their equal. hetty, being only four years old, was supremely unconscious of all that was being said, and meant, and thought over her curly head. she gazed at the three other children, and, repelled by phyllis's cold gaze, turned to mark and nell, and stretched out a little fat hand to each of them. "come and see the beautiful flowers!" she said gleefully; "you never saw such lovely ones!" chapter iv. mrs. kane in trouble. "now, tell me all about it, for as i am going to be her mother in future i must know everything that concerns my child." mrs. rushton was talking to mrs. kane, having come to the cottage to announce her intention of adopting hetty. mrs. kane was crying bitterly. "you'll excuse me, ma'am. i would not stand in the way of my darling's good fortune, not for ever so, i'm sure. and yet it's hard to give her up." "i should not have thought it could make much difference to you. i believe she was generally running about the roads when not at school." "well, you see, ma'am, that is true; but at night and in the mornings she would kneel on my lap to say her prayers, and put her little soft arms round my neck. and those are the times i'll mostly miss her." mrs. rushton coughed slightly. she herself liked the sight of hetty's pretty face, and was amused by her prattle; but she was not a woman to think much about the feel of a child's arms around her neck. mrs. kane, perceiving that she was not understood, sprang up from her seat and went to fetch a parcel from an inner room. "this is the little shift she wore when i first set eyes on her. it is the only rag she brought with her; though not much of a rag, i'm bound to say; for so pretty an article of the kind i never saw," said the good woman, spreading out on the table an infant's garment of the finest cambric embroidered delicately round the neck and sleeves. in the corner was a richly wrought monogram of the initials h.g. "and that's why we called her hetty gray," said mrs. kane. "john and i made up the name to suit the letters. if ever her friends turn up they'll know the difference, but in the meantime we had to have something to call her by." "why, this is most interesting!" said mrs. rushton, examining the monogram; "she probably belonged to people of position. it is quite satisfactory that she should prove to be a gentlewoman by birth." "and that is why i feel bound to give her up, ma'am," said mrs. kane, wiping her overflowing eyes. "i've always put it before me that some day or other her folks would come wanting her, and i've said to myself that it would be terrible if she had grown up in the meantime with no better education than if she was born a village lass. and yet what better could i have done for her than i could have done for a daughter of my own if i had had one?" "just so," said mrs. rushton; "and now you may be sure that she will be educated, trained, dressed, and everything else, just as if she had been in her mother's house. as for her own people coming for her, i am not sure that i shall give her up if they do. not unless i have grown tired of her in the meantime." "tired of her!" echoed mrs. kane, looking at her visitor in great surprise; "surely, madam, you do not think you will get tired of our little hetty!" "i hope not, my good woman; but even if i do you cannot complain, as in that case i shall give her back to you; that is, if it happens before her friends come to fetch her. unless you are pretending to grieve now, you cannot be sorry at the prospect of having her again." "that's true," said the poor woman in a puzzled tone, and she still looked wistfully at the handsome visitor sitting before her. she did not know how to express herself, and she was afraid of offending the lady who was going to be hetty's mother; yet she felt eager to make some remonstrance against the injustice of the proceeding which mrs. rushton spoke of as within the bounds of possibility. she believed in her heart that a great wrong would be done if the child, having been educated and accustomed to luxury for years, were to be carelessly thrown back into a life of lowly poverty. however, the trouble that was in her heart could not find its way through her lips, and she tried to think that mrs. rushton spoke only in jest. "it is altogether like a romance," that lady was saying as she folded up the baby garment and put it away in a pretty scented satchel which she wore at her side. "i have not met with anything so interesting for years, and i promise myself a great deal of pleasure in the matter." "may hetty come to see me sometimes?" asked mrs. kane, humbly curtseying her good-bye, when her visitor was seated in her pony phaeton and gathering up the reins for flight. "oh, certainly, as often as you please," answered mrs. rushton gaily, and touching the ponies with her whip she was soon out of sight; while poor mrs. kane retreated into her cottage to have a good motherly cry over the tiny broken shoes and the little washed-out faded frocks which were now all that remained to her of her foster-daughter. chapter v. a lonely child. mrs. rushton having adopted hetty, set about extracting the utmost amount of amusement possible from the presence of the child in her home. she soon grew anxious to get away from her brother's "unpleasantly sensible remarks," and isabel's gentle excuses for her conduct, which annoyed her even more, as they always suggested motives for her actions which were far beyond her ken, and seemed far-fetched, over-strained, and absurd. so she took the child to london, where she introduced her to her friends as her latest plaything. hetty had frocks of all the colours of the rainbow, and learned to make saucy speeches which entertained mrs. rushton's visitors. she sat beside her new mamma as she drove in her victoria in the park; and on mrs. rushton's "at home" days was noticed and petted by fashionable ladies and gentlemen, her beauty praised openly to her face, her pretty clothes remarked upon, and her childish prattle laughed at and applauded as the wittiest talk in the world. certainly there were many days when hetty's presence was wearisome and intolerable to her benefactress, and then she was banished to a large gloomy room at the top of the london house, and left to the tender mercies of a maid, who did not at all forget that she was only mrs. kane's little girl from the village of wavertree, and treated her accordingly. she was often left alone for hours, amusing herself as best she could, crying when she felt very lonely, or leaning far out of the window to feel nearer to the people in the street. the consequence of all this was to spoil the child's naturally sweet temper, to teach her to crave for excitement, and to suffer keenly, when, after a full feast of pleasure, she was suddenly snubbed, scolded, deserted, and forgotten. she began to hate the sight of the bare silent nursery upstairs, where there were no pretty pictures to bear her company, no pleasant little adornments, no diversions such as a mother places in the room where her darlings pass many of their baby hours. it was a motherless, blank, nursery, where the only nurse was the maid, who came and went, and looked upon hetty as a nuisance; an extra trouble for which she had not been prepared when she engaged to live with mrs. rushton. "sit down there and behave yourself properly, if you can, till i come back," she would say, and seat hetty roughly in a chair and go away and leave her there, shutting the door. at first hetty used to weep dolefully, and sometimes cried herself to sleep; but after a time she became used to her lonely life, and only thought of how she could amuse herself during her imprisonment. she counted the carriages passing the window till she was tired, and watched the little children playing in the garden of the square beyond; but at last she would get bolder, sometimes, and venture out of her nursery to take a peep at the other rooms of the house. one day she made her way down to mrs. rushton's bed-room; that lady had gone out and the servants were all downstairs. hetty contrived to pull out several drawers and played with ribbons and trinkets. at last she opened a case in which was her foster-mother's watch, and as this ticking bit of gold was like a living companion, hetty pounced upon it at once. she played all sorts of tricks with the watch, dressed it up in a towel and called it a baby; and making up her mind that baby wanted a bath, popped the watch into a basin of water and set about washing it thoroughly. just as she was working away with great energy the door opened and mrs. rushton came in. seeing what the child was doing she flew at her, snatched the watch from her hands, and slapped her violently on the arms and neck. hetty screamed, beat mrs. rushton on the face with both her little palms, and then was whirled away shrieking into the hands of the negligent maid, who shook her roughly as she carried her off to the miscalled "nursery." the little girl, who had never been instructed or talked to sensibly by any one, was quite unconscious of the mischief she had done; and only felt that big people were hateful to-day, as she lay kicking and screaming on the floor upstairs. the end of it all was, however, that, upon reflection, mrs. rushton found she did not care so much after all about the destruction of her watch, and that the whole occurrence would make a capital story to tell to her friends; and so she sent for hetty, who was then making a dismal play for herself in the twilight with two chairs turned upside down and a pinafore hung from one to another for a curtain. the child was seized by grant, the maid, dressed in one of her prettiest costumes, and taken down to the drawing-room to mrs. rushton, who had quite recovered her temper and forgotten both the beating she had given hetty and the beating hetty had given her. the culprit was overwhelmed with kisses, and praises of her pretty eyes; and soon found herself the centre of a brilliant little crowd who were listening with smiles to the story of hetty's ill-treatment of the watch. each year mrs. rushton went abroad for amusement and hetty was taken with her, and in foreign hotels was even more shown about, flattered and snubbed, petted and neglected, than she had been when at home in london. everything that could be done was done to make her vain, wilful, ill-tempered; and the little creature came to know that she might have anything she pleased if only she could make mrs. rushton laugh. four or five years passed in this way, during which time mrs. rushton had very little intercourse with her brother's family at wavertree. her country house had been shut up and her time had been spent between london, brighton, and fashionable resorts on the continent. in the meantime the education which she had promised mrs. kane should be given to her nursling had not been even begun. mrs. rushton had had no leisure to think of it. she looked upon hetty as still only a babe, a marmoset born to amuse her own hours of ennui. in her brother's occasional letters he sometimes devoted a line to hetty. "i hope you are not spoiling the little girl," he would add as a postscript; or, "i hope the child is learning something besides monkey-tricks." these insinuations always annoyed mrs. rushton, and she never condescended to answer them. the suggestion that she had incurred a great responsibility by adopting hetty was highly disagreeable to her. it is hard to say how long this state of things might have gone on had not mrs. rushton's health become delicate. she suddenly found herself unable to enjoy the gay life which was so much to her natural taste. the doctors recommended her a quiet sojourn in her native air, and warned her that she ought to live near friends who felt a real interest in her. of what these hints might mean mrs rushton did not choose to think, but physical weakness made her long for the rest of her own country home. chapter vi. hetty and her "cousins" one cool fresh evening in october mrs. rushton, hetty, grant the maid, and an old man-servant who followed his mistress everywhere, arrived at the railway-station near wavertree, and were driven along the old familiar country road with the soft purpled woods on one side, and the green plains and distant view of the sea on the other. they arrived at amber hill just as lights began to spring up in the long narrow windows of the comfortable old gray house, lights more near and bright than the stars burning dimly above the ancient cedar-trees in the avenue. hetty, dressed in a costly pelisse trimmed with fur, leaned forward, looking eagerly for the first glimpse of her new home. the child had now only faint recollections of wavertree, and of her life with mrs. kane in the village, and except for grant's ill-natured remarks from time to time she would have forgotten them altogether and imagined herself to be mrs. rushton's niece, as that lady called her when speaking of her to strangers. hetty hated grant, who always took a delight in lowering her pride, for by this time, it must be owned, pride had become hetty's besetting sin. mrs. rushton had perceived grant's disposition to snub and annoy the child, and with her usual determination to uphold and justify her own conduct and disappoint those who disapproved of her views, she had put down the maid's impertinence with a high hand, and had grown more and more careful of late to protect hetty's dignity before the servants. "i hope miss gray's room is as nice as i desired you to make it," she said to the housekeeper who was welcoming her in the hall. "i hope you have engaged a maid from the village to attend on her. i require all grant's attentions now myself," she added wearily, falling into a chair in a state of exhaustion. "hetty, my love, give me a kiss, and go and have a pretty frock put on for dinner." polly, the new maid, had already unpacked the little girl's trunks and was waiting in her room to dress her in white muslin and lace and arrange her soft dark curls in a charming wreath round her head. hetty's room was an exquisite little nest draped in pale blue chintz covered with roses, and with fantastic little brackets here and there bearing pretty statuettes and baskets of flowers. the housekeeper had not indeed neglected mrs. rushton's instructions with regard to the decoration of this apartment. "my, miss, but you have grown a fine tall girl!" said polly admiringly; "and won't mrs. kane be glad to see you again? i suppose you will be going to see her to-morrow?" "i am not sure," said hetty; "i don't remember mrs. kane." "don't you, miss? then you ought to, i am sure, for it was she that took care of you before mrs. rushton had you." "yes, i believe so," said hetty frowning, for she dreaded that polly was going to make a practice of taunting her with being a foundling, just as grant had always done. "and you ought to be very thankful to her," persisted polly, "although you are such a grand young lady now." "please to mind your own business," said hetty proudly; "you were engaged by mrs. rushton to dress me and not to give me lectures." polly was astonished and aggrieved. she did not know how hetty had been goaded on the subject of her past life by grant, and had fancied that as she had only a child to deal with she could say anything she chose quite freely. but though hetty was only nine, her experiences of the world had made her old beyond her years. polly only thought her a hard-hearted, haughty little wretch, too proud to be grateful to those who had been good to her. "far be it from me to think of lecturing you, miss hetty," she said; "but mind, i tell you, pride always gets a fall." "be silent!" cried hetty, stamping her small foot imperiously; "if mrs. rushton knew of your impertinence she would send you away to-night." it was thus that poor hetty already began to make enemies, while much requiring friends. next morning mrs. rushton and hetty drove over to wavertree to spend a few days at the hall, and on the way the lady stopped at mrs. kane's door in the village, and bade hetty alight and go in to pay a visit to her old protectress. with grant's taunts rankling in her memory and polly's reproaches fresh in her mind, hetty got out of the carriage reluctantly and went up to the door with a slow step. mrs. kane was busy over a tub in her little wash-house, and came out into the kitchen on hearing some one at the door. she wore a print short-gown and petticoat, and a poky sun-bonnet; and her bare arms were reeking with soap-suds. hetty shrank from her a little, and could not realize that she had ever belonged to a person with such an appearance as this. poor mrs. kane looked at her young visitor with a stare of wonder, and could never have guessed it was hetty had she not espied mrs. rushton's face through the open doorway, nodding pleasantly at her from the carriage. "why, little miss, you're never my little hetty?" cried the good woman, wiping her hands in her apron. "my name is hetty gray," said the little girl, holding up her pretty head adorned with a handsome hat and feathers. "and don't you remember me, my darling?" said mrs. kane, extending her arms; "me that used to nurse you and take care of you like my own! oh, don't go to say you forget all about your poor old mammy!" hetty hung her head. "i don't remember you at all," she said in a low trembling voice. her pride was stung to the quick at the thought that she had belonged to this vulgar person. "well, well! you were only a baby, to be sure, when you were taken away from me. but oh, my dear, i loved you like my own that went to heaven, so i did. and my john, he loved you too. come in here till i show you the bed you used to sleep in; and always you would be happier if you had a jugful of flowers on the window-sill to look at, falling asleep and coming awake again in the morning. to think of it being full five years ago, my pretty; and you turned into an elegant young lady in the time!" "did i really ever live here?" asked hetty; "really ever sleep in that bed?" "that you did; and slept well and were happy," said mrs. kane, beginning to feel hurt at the child's coldness. "come now, have you never a kiss to give to the poor old mammy that nursed you?" hetty held up her round sweet face, as fair and fresh as a damask rose, to be kissed, and submitted to mrs. kane's caresses rather from consciousness that she ought to do so, than from any warmth of gratitude in her own heart. so far from being grateful to the homely sun-burned woman who hugged her, she felt a sort of resentment towards her for finding her on the sea-shore and making a cottage child of her. it ought to have been mrs. rushton who found her, and perhaps she might have done so if mrs. kane or her husband had not been in such a hurry to take her in. then grant could not have taunted her with being a village foundling, and nobody could have declared she was not intended to be a lady. after her one embrace mrs. kane wiped her eyes and led the child out of the cottage to the carriage door. "ah, mrs. rushton!" she said, "this is your hetty now and not mine any more. what does a fine young lady like this want to know of a poor old mammy like me? i gave her to you, body and soul, five years ago, and may the good god grant that i did right! my little hetty, that loved the big moon-daisies and the field-lilies like her life, is as dead as my other children who are in heaven. it lies in your hands, ma'am, to make good or bad out of this one." "you are a curious woman, mrs. kane. i thought you would have been delighted to see what a little queen i have made of her." "queens require kingdoms, ma'am, and i make free to wish that your little lady may sit safe on her throne. and after that i can only hope that she has more heart for you than for me." "come, come, mrs. kane! you must not expect memory from a baby. hetty will soon renew her acquaintance with you, and you and she will be excellent friends." but mrs. kane was not slow to read the expression of hetty's large dark-fringed eyes, which, with all the frankness of childhood, betrayed their owner's thoughts; and she knew that hetty would find no pleasure in learning to recall the inglorious circumstances of her infancy. hetty had still less recollection of the enderby family than of mrs. kane, but she felt very much more willing to be introduced to its members than to the cottage woman. looking upon herself as mrs. rushton's only child, she considered the wavertree children as her cousins and their father and mother as her uncle and aunt. mrs. rushton had always talked to her of them in such a way as to lead her to regard them in this light. occasionally a strange little laugh or a few sarcastic words from mrs. rushton had grated on the child's ear in the midst of her foster-mother's pleasantly expressed anticipations of hetty's future intercourse with her own relations; and the little girl had, on such occasions, felt a chill of vague fear, and a momentary pang of anxiety as to the reception she might possibly meet with from these people, none of whom had ever been found by a poor labouring man alone on a wild sea-shore, or had lived with a humble woman in a cottage. that the "disgrace" of such a past clung round herself, grant's disagreeable eyes would never allow her to forget. such were poor hetty's disordered ideas with regard to herself and her little world, when mrs. rushton's carriage drew up that day before the door of wavertree hall. mrs. enderby was seated at her embroidery in the drawing-room beside her small elegant tea-table, and looked the very ideal of an english gentlewoman in her silver-gray silk and delicate lace ruffles, and with her fair, almost colourless hair twisted in neat shining braids round the back of her head. with her own faint sweet smile she welcomed her sister-in-law and inquired kindly for her health; and then she turned to hetty, who stood gazing steadily in her face, utterly unconscious of her own look of anxious inquiry. mrs. rushton had taken pains to make the most of hetty's uncommon beauty on this occasion, determined to take her friends by surprise and force them into an acknowledgment of the superiority of her own taste in adopting such a child. hetty was dressed in a dark crimson velvet frock, trimmed with rich old yellow lace, which enhanced the warmth and richness of her complexion, and gave a reflected glow to her dark and deep-fringed eyes. a crop of crisp short curls of a dusky chestnut colour was discovered when her hat was removed. no ungenerous prejudice prevented mrs. enderby from acknowledging at the first glance that hetty had a most charming countenance. "and this is hetty! how she has grown!" said mrs. enderby, taking the child's little hand between her own and looking at her in a friendly manner. with a swift pain, however, hetty remarked that she did not kiss her; but she was not aware that mrs. enderby, though a kind, was not a demonstrative woman, and that kisses were rarely bestowed by her on anyone. if hetty had put up her little face for a caress, mrs. enderby would have been very well pleased to lay her own cool cheek against the child's scarlet lips; but hetty's was one of those natures that desire tokens of love and are yet too proud to seek for them. she flushed to her hair, therefore, with mortification as mrs. enderby dropped her hand and turned away once more to her sister-in-law. "how tired you are! you look quite faint. allow me to take your bonnet; and do lie down on this couch while i make you a cup of tea. hetty must amuse herself with a piece of cake till my little girls come in from their walk. i have got such a nice governess for them, amy. mark, you know, is gone to eton." the ladies continued to converse, and hetty sat forgotten for the moment, eating her cake. she ate it very slowly, anxious to make it last as long as possible, for she felt that when it was finished she should not know what to do with herself. when even the crumbs were gone she folded her hands and counted the flowers on the wall-paper, and discovered among them a grinning face which certainly had been no acquaintance of the designer's, but had started suddenly out of the pattern merely to make cruel fun of hetty's uneasiness. at last, after some time which seemed to the little girl quite a year at least, mrs. enderby rang the bell and asked if the young ladies had come in from walking. the servant said they were just going to tea in the school-room, and mrs enderby turned to hetty, saying: "go, my dear, with peter, and he will show you the school-room. tell phyllis and nell that i sent you to play with them." hetty followed the servant; but as she went across the hall and up the staircase she felt with a swelling heart that had she been the real cousin of these children, and not an "upstart" (grant's favourite word), they would perhaps have been sent for to the drawing-room to be presented to her. accustomed as she was to be alternately petted and snubbed, she had acquired the habit of watching the movements of her elders with suspicion, and now concluded that because no fuss was made about her she must therefore be despised. a hard proud spirit entered into her on the moment, and she resolved that though she had been humble in her demeanour towards mrs. enderby she would hold her head high with girls who were not very much older than herself. peter was a young footman who had been brought up in the village and trained by the butler at the hall, and who consequently knew all about hetty's history. he did not intend to do more than just show the little girl which was the school-room door, and was amused and surprised when the child said to him with great dignity, "please announce miss gray." peter hid his smile, and throwing open the door very wide he pronounced her name, as she desired, in an unusually loud tone of voice. miss davis, the governess, had just raised the tea-pot in her hand to fill the cups, and her two pupils had each a thick piece of bread and butter in hand, when the door was flung open as described and hetty in all her magnificence appeared on the threshold. "my mamma has brought me to see you," said hetty boldly, her chin very high, "and mrs. enderby sent me here to you"; and she remarked as she spoke that the enderby girls wore plain holland dresses with little aprons and narrow tuckers, no style or elegance whatever about their attire. miss davis looked in surprise at the young stranger, not knowing her story, and thinking her a very handsome, but haughty looking little girl, while phyllis and nell put down their bread and butter on their plates, and rose slowly from their seats. "how do you do?" they said, each just touching her hand, and then the three girls stood looking at one another. the words "my mamma" had already annoyed phyllis, who was one of those persons who even from childhood cherish an extraordinary degree of quiet pride in their good birth. she was willing that hetty should be treated with kindness, but had often told herself that she would never be persuaded to look upon her as her own cousin. nell only thought of how pretty their new playfellow was, and how nice it would be to have her sometimes with them. "i am very glad you have come," she said, looking at hetty with welcoming eyes. "nell, you ought not to speak before your elder sister," said miss davis, who, though an excellent lady, was rather prim in her ways and ideas. "i hope you are quite well," said phyllis politely; "will you take some tea?" "i have just had some," said hetty, "thank you. do you never have tea with your mamma?" "oh, no," said the girls, with a smile of surprise. "little girls never do," said miss davis emphatically. "i do always," said hetty; she might have added, "except when she forgets all about me," but she did not think of that now. "i did not know you had any mamma," said phyllis coldly, not exactly meaning to be cruel, but feeling that hetty was pretentious, and therefore vulgar, and that she ought to be kept down. "how odd that you should not know your own aunt," said hetty, a warm crimson rising in her cheeks, and her eyes kindling. "my aunt never had a child," said phyllis quietly. "not till she got hetty," broke in nell. "phyllis, how can you be so unkind?" "my dear nell, i am not unkind, i only meant to correct miss gray's mistake." "you had better go into the drawing-room and correct mrs. rushton's mistakes," said hetty angrily. "it is by her desire that i call her my mother." by this time miss davis knew who hetty was, as she had heard something about mrs. rushton's having adopted a village child. "my dears," she said, "don't let us be unkind to each other. come, we must have our tea, and miss gray will be social and join us, even though she has had some before." and she handed a cup to the little visitor. "now, hetty," continued miss davis, "i suppose i may call you hetty, instead of miss gray, as you are only a little girl?" "yes," said hetty slowly, half liking miss davis, but feeling afraid she was laughing at her. tea was finished almost in silence, not all miss davis's efforts making hetty and phyllis feel at ease with each other. nell, being rather in awe of her elder sister, of whose general propriety of conduct and good sense she had a high opinion, was not very successful in her attempts at conversation. when the meal was over miss davis proposed a walk in the garden before study time. "can you play lawn tennis?" asked nell as they walked towards the tennis-ground. "no, i never play at anything," said hetty sadly, "when not with--_my mamma_," she said with a flash of the eyes at seeing phyllis looking at her, "i have always been alone." miss davis glanced at the child with pity, but hetty, catching her eye, would not bear to be pitied. "it is much pleasanter to be with grown people in the drawing-room," she said. "i should not like at all to live as you do." "do you always wear such splendid frocks?" asked phyllis, examining her from head to foot with critical eyes. "yes," said hetty. "i have much finer ones than this; i am always dressed like a lady. how can you bear to be such a sight in that ugly linen thing?" "my dear, simple clothes are more becoming to children," said miss davis, while phyllis only curled her lip. "if you lived more among those of your own age," continued the governess, "as i hope you will henceforth do, you would find that little girls are much happier and more free to amuse themselves when dressed suitably to their age. you shall see how we enjoy ourselves at tennis, as we could not do in dresses as rich as yours." miss davis and her pupils began to play tennis, and hetty tried to join; but her dress was too warm and too tight to allow of her making much exertion, and so she was obliged to stand by and watch the game. seeing the great enjoyment of the players, hetty began to feel the spirit of the game, and remembered how she had often longed to be one of the happy children whom she had seen at play in other scenes than this. however, her belief that phyllis was unfriendly towards her prevented her acknowledging what she felt. had only nell and miss davis been present she would have begged the loan of a holland blouse and joined in the game with all her heart. but phyllis had a freezing effect upon her. when the game was over they went indoors and hetty was shown the pretty room prepared for her. polly had already unpacked her things, and on the bed were laid the handsome gifts which mrs. rushton had bought for hetty to present to "her cousins." hetty was now glad to see these presents which she had for a time forgotten, and thought she had now a good opportunity for making friends with the two girls. she was really pleased to give pleasure to nell, whom she liked, and was not sorry that phyllis would be obliged to receive something from her hands. the presents were both beautiful and both useful. one was a desk, the case delicately inlaid, and the interior perfectly fitted up. the other was an exquisitely carved and furnished work-box. "oh, give the desk to phyllis; she is so much more clever than i am, and writes so well. and i am fond of work. oh, you are a dear to give me such a charming present," said nell affectionately, examining the beautiful work-box with sparkling eyes. hetty was delighted. "i chose them myself," she said with some pride; and then she took the desk in her arms and asked nell to show her the way to phyllis's room. "it is down at the end of this passage. i will show you. and you must not mind phyllis if she does not go into raptures like me. she is always so well-behaved, and takes everything so quietly." phyllis looked greatly surprised, and not quite pleased, when, having heard a knock at her door and said "come in," she saw hetty invade her room. her first thought was, "this foundling girl is going to be forward and troublesome"; and hetty was not slow to read her glance. "i have brought you a present," she said, in quite a different tone from that in which she had made her little speech to nell. phyllis took the desk slowly, and looked at it as if she wished it had not been offered. "it is very handsome," she said, "and my aunt was very good to think of it. please give her my best thanks." and then phyllis deposited the present on a table, and turned away and began to change her shoes. nell looked at hetty, but could not see the expression of her face; for she had turned as quickly as phyllis and was already vanishing through the door. chapter vii. hetty's first lessons. hetty's bed-room being over the school-room, she was wakened the next morning by somebody practising on the piano, the sound from which ascended through the floor. "how well they play, and how early they rise!" thought hetty. "i wonder whether it is nell or phyllis who is at the piano? oh, dear! i do not know even a note." she longed to ask polly at what hour the miss enderbys had got up, and which of them was practising on the piano, but as she had begun by snubbing polly she could not now descend from her dignity so far as to ask her questions. polly on her side was always silent when attending on miss gray, and never ventured upon the least freedom with the haughty little foundling. when hetty descended to the breakfast-room she found only mr. and mrs. enderby at the table. mrs. rushton was still in her room, and was having her breakfast there. "this is little hetty," said mrs. enderby, presenting her to her husband. mr. enderby put down his paper and looked at hetty gravely and critically, hetty thought pityingly. "how do you do, my dear?" he said, patting her shoulder. "i see you have not been accustomed to early hours." hetty hung her head and sat down at the table. mrs. enderby supplied her wants and then went on reading her letters; and hetty ate in silence, wondering why she was not called on to talk and amuse these people as she had been accustomed to amuse mrs. rushton's fashionable friends. this quiet wise-looking lady and gentleman seemed to look on her with quite different eyes from those with which the rest of the world regarded her. they neither snubbed nor petted her, only seemed satisfied to allow her to be comfortable beside them. presently she plucked up courage to ask: "are phyllis and nell not coming to breakfast?" mrs. enderby smiled. "no, my dear, they never breakfast here. they breakfasted an hour ago in the school-room. they are busy at their studies at present." "are they always busy at studies?" asked hetty. "a great part of the day they are." "as all little girls ought to be who wish to be educated women some day," said mr. enderby, looking over the edge of his newspaper. "your education has hardly begun yet i fear," said mrs. enderby. "mrs. rushton"--something withheld hetty from saying "my mamma" before mr. and mrs. enderby--"always says it is time enough for that," said hetty. mr. and mrs. enderby exchanged glances, and mr. enderby shifted in his seat and shook the newspaper impatiently. mrs. enderby said: "what would you think of joining my girls at their lessons while you stay here? i fear that if you do not you will find yourself very lonely." "i am often very lonely," said hetty simply; and again her host and hostess looked at each other. "well, which do you prefer?" said the latter; "to be very lonely going about the house and gardens by yourself, or to spend your time usefully with the other children in the school-room?" "i would rather be with the girls, if they would like to have me," said hetty after a few moments' reflection. "but i think phyllis would rather i stayed away." "oh, i think not," said mrs. enderby; "phyllis never makes a fuss about anything, but i will answer for her that she will welcome you." "i think she does not like me," said hetty, looking steadily at her hostess with large serious eyes. "take care you do not dislike her," said mr. enderby, with a slight look of displeasure. "in this house we do not indulge such fancies." "my dear, you must not think that because our manners here in the country may be quieter and perhaps less warm than those of some of the people you have lived with abroad, our hearts are therefore cold. come, then, if you have finished breakfast, i will take you myself into the school-room." half pleased and half unwilling hetty suffered herself to be led away, and her heart beat fast as she crossed the school-room threshold. miss davis sat at the end of the table with an open exercise book before her, and a severely businesslike look upon her face. phyllis and nell bent over their books at either side of the same table. maps hung on the walls and books lay about everywhere. hetty instantly, and for the first time in her life, felt keenly that she was a dunce. "miss davis, i have brought you another pupil," said mrs. enderby; "i am sure you will not mind the trouble of having one more than usual for a little while. i think hetty will be happier for having something to do." "i shall be very pleased if she will join us," said miss davis; and then mrs. enderby left the room, and hetty was asked to take a seat at the foot of the table. "what have you been learning, my dear?" asked miss davis. "nothing," said hetty; "i can read a little; but that is all." phyllis and nell had not spoken to her, and had looked at her only with sidelong glances. this was because it was their study hour and speaking was not allowed; but hetty thought it was because they were not glad to see her coming to join them, and she therefore felt all the more careless about trying to make the best of herself. if nobody cared about her, what did it matter whether she was a dunce or not? so she said boldly that she had been learning nothing; and then the two enderby girls lifted up their heads and stared at her in sheer amazement. hetty's face grew crimson, and her pride arose within her. "after all," she said, "it is much better fun to play and amuse yourself all day than to sit poring over books. study does not make people prettier or pleasanter." this last sentence was an echo from one of mrs. rushton's silly speeches. when people would ask her about hetty's education, she was wont to declare that the child was prettier and pleasanter without it. phyllis, listening, merely curled her lip, and bent lower in silence over her book. nell remained looking at hetty with a wondering expression in her eyes. miss davis drew herself up and looked much displeased. "i hope you are doing yourself great injustice," she said; "i cannot believe you really mean what you say. study not make people prettier or pleasanter! i scarcely believe that my ears have not deceived me." "it does not make you prettier or pleasanter," said hetty persistently. "you were much nicer yesterday when you were playing and running about. your face is not the same at all now." phyllis opened her eyes wide and turned them on miss davis, as if to ask, "is not this too much?" nell, on the contrary, began to smile as though she thought hetty's impudence capital fun; and this encouraged hetty, who had been taught to love to amuse people at any cost. miss davis coloured with surprise and annoyance. "it is of no consequence, my dear, how we look when we are doing our duty," she said, controlling herself. "then i hope i shall never do my duty," said hetty coolly; "nobody loves people who do not look gay." phyllis turned to miss davis and said, "will you not send her away now? mother never meant us to be interrupted like this." "patience, my dear!" said miss davis; "hetty is perhaps giving us the worst side of her character only to startle us. i am sure there is a better side somewhere. come over here to me, hetty, and let me hear you read." hetty obeyed, and took the book miss davis placed in her hand. holding herself very erect and looking very serious she began, after a glance over the paragraph that had been marked for her:-- "leonora walked on her head, a little higher than usual." "my dear!" interrupted miss davis hastily; and nell vainly tried to smother a burst of laughter. "that is what is printed here," said hetty gravely, but the corners of her mouth twitched. miss davis did not notice this as she took the book and prepared to examine the text so startlingly given forth; but phyllis and nell saw at once that hetty was making fun. "ah!" said miss davis, "it is your punctuation that is at fault. the sentence runs: 'leonora walked on, her head a little higher than usual.' you see one little comma makes all the difference in the world." "i wondered how she could manage to walk on her head," said hetty in the most serious manner; "and why, if she did manage it, it should make her higher. she would be the same length in any case, would she not, miss davis?" nell laughed again, and phyllis looked more and more contemptuous. miss davis said, "read on please!" rather severely, at the same time giving nell a glance of warning. hetty read on, making deliberately the most laughable blunders, at some of which miss davis herself had to smile. even phyllis had to give way on one occasion, and in the midst of a chorus of laughter hetty stood making a piteous face, pretending not to know what they were laughing at. "i told you i could read only a little," she said, but at the same time she gave nell a knowing glance which phyllis caught. "she could read better if she pleased. she is only amusing herself," said phyllis to miss davis. "i hope not, my dear," said the governess; "do not be uncharitable. well, hetty, you may put aside your book for to-day. i hope to improve you before your visit is over. do you know anything of geography? come, i will give you an easy question. where is england situated on the map?" "in the middle of the red sea," said hetty briskly. "my dear! why do you suppose so?" "i see it up there on the map," said hetty; "the sea is marked in red all round it." nell tittered again. phyllis put her fingers in her ears, determined to hear no more of hetty's absurdities. "you make a great mistake," said miss davis, and spreading a map before hetty, the governess gave her a lesson on the position of the red sea and the relative position of england. "have you learned anything at all of numbers?" "i can count on my fingers," said hetty; "i add up the fives and i can reckon up to a hundred that way." "you must learn a better way of counting than that. have you never learned the multiplication table?" "my mamma's tables are all ebony or marble," said hetty, putting on a bewildered air, "but i will count them up if you like. there are six in the drawing-room," she continued, holding up all the fingers of her left hand, and the thumb of the right. "you ridiculous child! you misunderstand me quite. the multiplication table is an arrangement of numbers. i will give it to you to study. in the meantime, come, how many do three threes make when they are added together?" "i don't know anything about threes," said hetty; "i only know about fives." "i think i must give you up for to-day," said miss davis in despair. "phyllis is waiting with her french exercise. can you read french at all, hetty?" "i can talk french," said hetty; "but i don't want to read it; 'tis quite bad enough to have to read english, i think. talking is so much pleasanter than reading." "you can talk it, can you? let me hear," and miss davis addressed a question to her in french. in answer to it hetty poured forth a perfect flood of french, spoken with a pretty accent and grammatically correct. in truth she spoke like a little frenchwoman, and completely surprised her listeners. she had been asked some question about walking in the champs elysees and now gave a vivid description of the scene there on a fine morning, the people who frequented it, their dress, their manners, their conversation. miss davis put down the multiplication table which she had been turning over and stared at the little frenchwoman chattering and gesticulating before her. "there, my dear," she said presently, "that will do; i see you can make use of your tongue. take this book now and study quietly for half an hour." hetty felt that she had had her little triumph at last. neither phyllis nor nell could speak french like that. she took the table-book obediently and sat down with it, while phyllis made an effort to get over the shock of surprise given her by hetty's clever exhibition, and proceeded to attend to miss davis's correction of her french exercise. that afternoon hetty was dressed in a holland frock of nell's, which, though nell was a year older, was not too large for her, and joined heartily in a game of lawn tennis. her little success of the morning, when she had surprised her companions and their governess by her cleverness at french, had raised her spirits, and she enjoyed herself as she had never done in her life before, feeling that she could afford to do without phyllis' good opinion, and taking more and more pleasure in showing how little she cared to have it. after this the days that remained of her visit passed pleasantly enough. hetty contrived to turn her lessons into a sort of burlesque, and to impose a good deal on miss davis, who was not a humorous, but indeed a most matter-of-fact person. every day phyllis grew more and more disgusted with their visitor, who interrupted the even course of their studies and "made fools," as she considered, of miss davis and nell. she thought hetty's pretentiousness became greater and greater as her first slight shyness wore away and she grew perfectly familiar with every one in the house. phyllis was sufficiently generous to refrain from complaining of hetty to her mother or father, but she privately found fault with nell for encouraging her too much. "you laugh at her so absurdly that she grows more impudent every day," she said; "she could not dare to give herself such airs only for you." "but, phyllis dear, i can't help laughing at her, and indeed i think you make her proud by being so hard upon her; she is not so proud with me." "she is ridiculous," said phyllis; "such pretension in a girl of her age is utterly absurd. besides, it is so vulgar. well-born people are not always trying to force their importance on you as she does; if i did not try to keep her down a little she would be quite unbearable." "perhaps if you did not try to keep her down so much she would not set herself up so much," persisted nell. "i am older and wiser than you," said phyllis coldly. "yes, i know you are," said nell regretfully. "and i ought to be a better judge of people's conduct. i am not going to complain of her to father or mother; but as she will be coming here again, i suppose, we ought to try to manage her a little ourselves." nell did not dare to say any more to phyllis, but ran away as soon as she could get an opportunity, to play with hetty and laugh admiringly at all her droll remarks. one more triumph hetty enjoyed before her visit to wavertree came to an end. on a certain evening there was a dinner-party at the hall, and some one who had been expected to sing and amuse the company failed to appear. after dinner mrs. rushton fancied that the party had grown very dull, and a brilliant idea for entertaining the guests occurred to her. she left the drawing-room and went upstairs to where the little girls were preparing for bed. "come, hetty," she said, "i want you to make yourself agreeable. every one is going to sleep down-stairs and carriages will not arrive till eleven. i have rung for polly to dress you. phyllis and nell can come down also if they please." the enderby girls concluded from this speech that their mother had sent for them, and in a short time mrs. rushton returned to the drawing-room, accompanied by the three children. mrs. enderby looked exceedingly surprised and not quite pleased, but mrs. rushton said, "i have provided some amusement for your people. hetty will make them laugh." hetty was flushed and trembling with excitement, and at a signal from her adopted mother she stepped into the middle of the room and began her entertainment; mrs. rushton having walked about among the guests beforehand, telling them that the child was going to give them some sketches of character, the result of her own observations. hetty began with a conversation between a mincing and lackadaisical young lady and a bouncing one who talked noisily; and she changed her attitudes, her accent, the expressions of her face in such droll ways, and altogether contrasted the two characters so well, that a round of applause and laughter greeted and encouraged her. then followed a ridiculous scene between a cross old lady and an amiable old gentleman in a hotel; and so on. every odd character hetty had ever met was reproduced for the amusement of the company. most of the guests laughed heartily and lavished praises on hetty's talent and beauty. only a few looked shocked, and shook their heads, saying it was sad to see a child so precocious and cynical. mr. and mrs. enderby, though disliking the exhibition and thinking it very bad for the little girl, were obliged to laugh with the rest, and mrs. rushton was delighted and triumphant. nell laughed more than any one and clapped her hands wildly, but phyllis looked on all the time with a disdainful smile. "my girls are up too late," said mrs. enderby, as she bade them good night. "why did you send for us, then, mother?" said phyllis. "i did not, my dear, it was quite your aunt's doing. she wished to amuse you, i believe." "then i wish i had known," said phyllis, "i would rather have gone to bed. i did not want to see that ridiculous performance." "hetty took some trouble to make us laugh. and if she has not been very wisely brought up we must not blame her too much for that." "i do not like her; i wish she would go away," said phyllis with quiet determination. "she is going to-morrow," said mrs. enderby. "she is not a lady, mother, and i am quite tired of her restless ways," persisted phyllis. "i hope she will never come back here." mrs. enderby in her heart echoed this hope, but she controlled her feeling against hetty and said: "i fear your aunt is not the sort of person to understand the bringing up of a girl; but remember, phyllis, that i rely on you to help me to be of service to this poor child. go to bed now, my daughter, and be wise, as you usually are." phyllis looked troubled, and thought over her mother's words as she lay in bed. but hers was not one of those natures that relent easily. she tried to satisfy her conscience by assuring herself that she wished no ill to hetty, but quite the reverse. "only she is different from us," she reflected, "and she ought to keep away with the people who suit her. i hope aunt amy will not bring her here again." chapter viii. hetty desolate. mrs. rushton and hetty departed. phyllis was satisfied, and everything went on as usual at wavertree hall. no one was sorry to lose the visitors, except nell, who was secretly rather fond of hetty. she was not a very brave child, and was much influenced by the opinion of others, especially of those whom she loved and admired; so, though there was a soft corner in her heart for hetty, she was a little ashamed of the fact, seeing that none of the rest of the family shared her feeling. with phyllis especially she was careful to be silent about hetty, having a high opinion of her sister's good sense, and being greatly afraid of her contempt. and so it came that after a few days had passed hetty's name was mentioned no more in the house. meantime hetty at amber hill was enjoying her life more than she had ever enjoyed it before. she had her own pony, and went out to ride as often as, and at any hour she pleased. half-a-dozen dogs and as many cats belonged to her, and they all loved her. almost her entire time was spent out of doors, for mrs. rushton was too great an invalid now to care for much of her company. grant was almost always in attendance on her mistress, and so had very little opportunity for interference with hetty. polly was easily kept in order, and the housekeeper always took the child's part if any of the other servants annoyed or neglected her. this wild uncontrolled life, spent chiefly in the open air, wandering through the woods, running races with the dogs, or galloping up hill and down hill with them all flying after the pony's heels, suited hetty exactly. she thought the world delightful because she was allowed to live a healthy active life, and nobody thwarted her. when mrs. rushton sent for her to the drawing-room or to her bed-room hetty would steal in quietly, and, bringing a story-book with her, would sit down at her adopted mother's feet, and remain buried in her book till notice was given her that it was time for her to depart. in this way she gave very little trouble, and mrs. rushton was more than ever convinced that she had made an excellent choice in adopting hetty, and that she was the most satisfactory child in the world. one day hetty had come in from her ride, and was sitting in her own room with her story-book waiting for the usual evening summons from mrs. rushton. the days were now very short, and the little girl's head was close to the window-pane as she tried to read. the door opened and she started up, shutting the book and preparing to go down-stairs; but there was something unusual about polly's look and manner as she came into the room. "mrs. rushton is taken very ill," she said, "and the doctor is sent for. so you will please come down and have your tea in the drawing-room by yourself, miss hetty." "is she more ill than usual? much more?" asked hetty. "the doctor was here this morning." "she's as ill as can be," said polly, "and all of a sudden. but you can't do her any good. and you'd better come down to your tea." hetty followed polly without saying more, though she felt too anxious to care about her tea. she was greatly frightened, yet hardly knew why, as mrs. rushton was often ill, and the doctor was often sent for. there was a general impression in the household that the mistress sometimes made a great fuss about nothing, fainted, and thought she was going to die, and in a few hours was as well as usual. but no one in the house felt as anxious about her as hetty. during the pleasant weeks that had lately passed over her head hetty had been more drawn to her benefactress than she had ever been before. no longer snubbed and neglected in strange uncomfortable places, she had, in becoming more happy, also become more loving. she knew that she owed all the enjoyments of her present life to mrs. rushton, and if she was not allowed to be much in the company of her adopted mother she thought it was not because she was forgotten, but because mrs. rushton was too ill to see her. she believed herself really very greatly beloved by her benefactress, and had begun to love her very much in return. seeing her lying on her couch, quiet and gentle, making no cruel remarks and laughing no cynical laughs, hetty had constructed a sort of ideal mother out of the invalid, and endowed her with every lovable and admirable quality. this comfortable little dream had added much to the child's happiness in her life of late; and now she felt a wild alarm at the thought of the increased illness of her protectress. the doctor came and was shut up in the sick-room, and after some time grant came out and spoke to the housekeeper, and a messenger was sent off on horseback to wavertree hall. when grant came back to mrs. rushton's door hetty was there with her face against the panel. "oh, grant, do tell me what is the matter!" she whispered. "illness is the matter," said grant. "there! we don't want children in the way at such times. go up to your bed, miss. you'll be better there than here." "i can't go to bed till i know if she is better," said hetty. "why have you sent a message to wavertree?" but grant pursed up her lips and would say no more, and hetty saw her pass into mrs. rushton's room and close the door. the child crept back to the drawing-room, where no lamps had been lighted and there was only a little firelight to make the darkness and emptiness of the large room more noticeable. she knelt down on the hearth-rug and buried her face in the seat of mrs. rushton's favourite arm-chair. the dearest of all her dear dogs, scamp, came and laid his black muzzle beside her ear, as if he knew the whole case and wanted to mourn with her. two hours passed; hetty listened intently for every sound, and wondered impatiently why mr. and mrs. enderby did not arrive. she got up and carefully placed some lumps of coal on the fire, making no noise lest some one should come and order her off to bed. she was resolved to stay there all night rather than go to bed without learning something more. at last a sound of wheels was heard, and hetty went and peeped out of the drawing-room door and saw mr. and mrs. enderby taking off their wraps in the hall. their faces were very solemn and they spoke in whispers. she saw them go upstairs, and though longing to follow them, did not dare. then she retreated back into the drawing-room and buried her face once more in the depths of the chair. in this position, with scamp's rough head close to hers, she cried herself to sleep. the wintry dawn was just beginning to show faintly in the room when she was awakened by the sound of voices near her. chilled and stiff she gathered herself up and rose to her feet; and scamp also got up and shook himself. then hetty saw mr. and mrs. enderby standing in earnest conversation at the window. they started when they saw her as if she had been a ghost, and mrs. enderby exclaimed in a low voice: "the child! i had quite forgotten her!" "yes, there will be trouble here," muttered mr. enderby; while hetty came forward, her face pale and stained with crying, her dress disordered, and her curly hair wild and disarranged. she looked so altered that they scarcely knew her. "how is she? oh, mrs. enderby, say she is better," cried hetty, swallowing a sob. "my dear child," said mrs. enderby, "how have you come to be forgotten here, have you not been in bed all night?" "i stayed here," said hetty, "i wanted to know; will you not tell me how she is?" "my child, she is well, i hope, though not as you would wish to see her. it has pleased god to take her away from you." "do you mean that she is dead?" "yes, my poor hetty, i am grieved to tell you it is so." hetty uttered a sharp cry and turned her back on her friends standing in the window. the gesture was an unmistakable one, and touched the husband and wife. it seemed to say so plainly that she expected nothing from them. she retreated into the furthest corner of the room and flung herself on the floor, and scamp, hanging his head and wagging his tail, followed her mournfully, and lay down as close to her as he could. "leave her alone awhile," said mr. enderby, for his wife had made a movement as if she would follow her; "she is a strange child, and we will give her time to take in the fact of her loss. you must not be hurried into making rash promises through pity; all this brings a great change to the girl, and it is better she should feel it from the first." the truth was mrs. rushton had been dead when her brother and sister-in-law arrived. a sudden attack of fainting had resulted in death. this abrupt termination of her illness was not quite unexpected by herself or her friends, as it was known she had disease of the heart, and the doctors had given warning that such might be her end. however, she herself had not liked to look this probability in the face, and had preferred to dwell on the faint hope held out to her that she might linger on as an invalid for many a year. chapter ix. what to do with her? after mrs. rushton had been laid to rest in her grave her worldly affairs had to be looked into. she had died possessed of a great deal of property, and her relations were well aware that she had never made a will. her brother had lately urged her to make a will, but she had always put off the unpleasant task. now there was nothing to be done but to divide the property among the relatives to whom it reverted by law. after the funeral her late husband's relations and mr. enderby met at amber hill and discussed these matters of business. in the meantime hetty had been left at amber hill in the care of the housekeeper, for mr. enderby would not allow his wife to carry her off to wavertree. "it would be a mistake," he said, "to begin what we may not think proper to go on with afterwards. if the child comes home with us now she may feel herself aggrieved, later, at being sent away. to act with prudence is our first duty towards her." so hetty had been left with the housekeeper, who, being a kind woman in her way, tried to comfort her with cakes and jam. her only real comfort was her darling scamp, and with her arms round his shaggy neck she shed many a tear of loneliness and terror. her heart was full of anxious fears as to what was going to become of her. she had stolen into the room where the dead woman lay to take her last farewell of her benefactress. nobody watched there, and hetty easily found an opportunity for paying her tearful visit. scamp, who never left her side, accompanied her with a sad solemnity in his countenance, and these were perhaps the two most real mourners whom the wealthy lady had left behind her. now all was over, and mrs. rushton's room looked vacant and with as little sign of her presence as if she had never inhabited it. the wintry sunshine smiled in at all the windows of her handsome house, and made it cheerful even though the blinds were drawn down. the robins twittered in the evergreens outside, and the maids had their little jokes as usual over their sewing, though they spoke in lowered tones. no great and terrible change seemed to have happened to any one but hetty, except indeed to scamp, and it was plain that he suffered only for hetty's sake. on the day when mrs. rushton's relations met at amber hill hetty sat in the housekeeper's room in a little straw chair at the fire, with scamp clasped in her arms and her head resting against his. she felt instinctively that her fate was being sealed upstairs. indeed a few words which had passed between grant and the housekeeper, and which she had accidentally overheard, assured her that such would be the case. "if mrs. rushton has left her nothing," said grant, "she'll be out on the world again, as she was before. mrs. kane may take her, unless the gentlemen do something for her." "mr. enderby will never allow her to go back to poor anne kane," said the housekeeper. "there's many a cheap way of providing for a friendless child, and it wouldn't be fair to put her on a woman that can hardly keep her own little home together." hetty's anguish was unspeakable as these words sank into her heart, each one making a wound. she shuddered at the thought of going back to mrs. kane, but felt even more horror of those unknown "cheap ways of providing for a friendless child," alluded to by the housekeeper. a perfect sea of tribulation rolled over her head as she bent it in despair, and wept forlornly on scamp's comfortable neck. in the meantime, as hetty surmised, her fate was being decided upstairs. no provision had been made by mrs. rushton for the child whom she had taken into her home, petted and indulged, and accustomed to every luxury. the relations of mrs. rushton's late husband, who lived at a great distance and had not been on intimate terms with her, were not much impressed by the lady's carelessness of hetty. but mr. enderby, who knew all the circumstances, felt that a wrong had been done. "some provision ought to be made for the child," he said; "that is a matter about which there can be no doubt." "certainly," said mr. rushton, who had inherited most of his sister-in-law's property. "there are cheap schools where girls in her position can be educated according to their station. afterwards we can see about giving her a trade, millinery and dressmaking, i suppose, or something of that kind." mr. enderby looked troubled. "i do not think that would be quite fair," he said, "i would urge that she should receive a good education. she ought to be brought up a lady, having been so long accustomed to expect it." "i quite disagree with you," said mr. rushton; "there are too many idle ladies in the world. and who is to support her when she is grown up?" "i do not wish to make her an idle lady," said mr. enderby, "but i would fit her to be a governess." "there are too many governesses; better keep her down to a lower level and teach her to be content to be a tradeswoman. as far as i am concerned, i will consent to nothing better than this for the girl." "then we need not speak of it any more," returned mr. enderby. "i will take the responsibility of the child upon myself." mr. rushton shrugged his shoulders. "do as you please," he said, "but remember it is your own choice. if you change your mind, call upon me." so the matter ended. when the library door opened, and the gentlemen were heard preparing to depart, hetty flew upstairs and stole into the hall, where mr. enderby, who was the last to go, suddenly saw her little white face gazing at him with a dumb anxiety. "well, my dear," he said kindly, "how are you getting on?" "oh sir, will you please tell me where i am to go to?" implored hetty. "don't fret yourself about that," said mr. enderby, buttoning up his coat. "we are not going to let you be lost. you just stay patiently with mrs. benson till you hear again from me." and then he nodded to her and took his departure. that evening he had a serious conversation with his wife about hetty gray. "i have made up my mind it will be better to bring her here," he said abruptly. "my dear! is that wise?" exclaimed his wife, thinking with sudden anxiety of phyllis's great dislike to hetty, and hetty's uncompromising pride. "it is the best plan i can think of, but do not mistake me. if hetty comes here it will be expressly understood by her and others that she is not to be brought up as my own daughter. she will merely enjoy the security of the shelter of our roof, and will receive a good education such as will fit her to provide, later, for herself." "will it be easy to carry out this plan?" asked mrs. enderby. "that i must leave to you, my dear. you are firm enough and wise enough to succeed where others would probably fail. the only alternative that i can think of is to send her to an expensive school where she will certainly not be prepared for the battle of life. as for sending her to a lower style of place, and making a charity girl of her after all that has been done to accustom her to the society of well-bred people, the bare thought of such injustice makes me angry." mrs. enderby looked admiringly at her husband. "you are right," she said; "and i will try to carry out your plan. it will add greatly to my cares, for i fear hetty's will be a difficult nature to deal with, especially when she finds herself in so uncertain a position in our house." the next day mrs. enderby drove over to amber hill and desired mrs. benson to send hetty to her in the morning-room. when the child appeared she was greatly struck by the traces of suffering on her countenance, and felt renewed anxiety as to the difficulty of carrying out her husband's wishes. "my child," she said kindly, taking the little girl's hand and drawing her to her knees, "i have a good deal to say to you, and i hope you will try to understand me perfectly." hetty gave her one swift upward glance in which there was keen expectation, mingled with more of fear than hope. "i will try," she whispered. "you know, my dear, that mrs. rushton was very good to you while she lived, yet you had no real claim on her, and now that she is gone you are as much alone as if you had never seen her." mrs. enderby was surprised by hetty's swift answer. "more alone," she said, with a stern look in her young face; "for if she had not taken me i could have stayed with mrs. kane. i should have loved mrs. kane, and now i do not love her." "there is some truth in all that," said mrs. enderby; "but at all events, my dear, you have enjoyed many advantages during the last five or six years. there is no question now of your going back to mrs. kane. mr. enderby will not allow it." "grant says there are cheap ways of providing for friendless children," said hetty, whose tongue had become dry in her mouth with fear of what might come next. "never mind what grant says," said mrs. enderby; "attend only to what i tell you. mr. enderby and i have thought deeply over your future, hetty, and we are really anxious to do what is best for you." hetty said nothing. all the powers of her mind were strained in wondering expectation of what she was now going to hear. "we have been advised to send you to a school where you would be made fit to provide for yourself when you become a woman," continued the lady, "but we have decided to take you into our own house instead; on condition, however, that you try to be industrious and studious. by the time you have grown up, i hope you will be able to make use of the good education we shall give you, and will have learned the value of independence. do you understand me completely, hetty? we are going to educate you to be a governess. you shall live in our house and join in the studies of our children, and enjoy the comfort and protection of our home. but of course you cannot look forward to sharing the future of our daughters." "i understand," said hetty slowly; and the whole state of the case, in all its bearings, appeared in true colours before her intelligent mind. "i hope you are satisfied also," said mrs. enderby, who was determined, even at the risk of being a little hard, that the child should thoroughly know her place, and learn to be grateful for the protection afforded her. "when you are older, my child, you will comprehend what your elders now know, that my poor sister, mrs. rushton, made a great mistake in raising you from the station in which she found you, and showering luxuries upon you as she did. we also see, however, that an injustice was done to you, and that we whom she has left behind her are bound to make amends to you for that. therefore it is that we are keeping you with ourselves, instead of allowing you to run the risk of being made unhappy by strangers." for all answer to this hetty burst into a fit of wild weeping. her proud little heart was broken at the prospect of returning to wavertree to be snubbed and humbled by phyllis, and possibly by servants of the same disposition as grant. for the moment she could not remember all those worse horrors which her imagination had been conjuring up, and from which she was actually saved. she stood trembling and shaking in the storm of her grief, trying to stem her floods of tears with her quivering little hands, and unable to keep them from raining through her fingers on to the floor. mrs. enderby sighed. though she could not know all hetty's thoughts, she guessed some of them, and her heart sank lower than ever at the thought of the trouble which might come of the introduction of so stormy an element into her hitherto peaceful household. however, she was not a woman to flinch from a duty, when once she had made up her mind to recognize it. "come, come, my child!" she said, "you have been passing through a great trial, but you must try to be brave and make yourself happy with us." had mrs. enderby taken poor hetty in her arms and given her a motherly kiss, much would have been done to heal the wounds made in the child's sensitive heart. but it was part of her plan, conscientiously made, that she must not accustom hetty to caresses, such as she could not expect to receive later in life. so she only patted her on the shoulder, and, when her passion of crying had a little subsided, bade her run away and get on her things, and be ready as soon as possible to come with her to wavertree hall. chapter x. the new home. before going to amber hill that day, mrs. enderby had sent for her two girls to come to her in her room, where she informed them of the fact that hetty was coming to the hall. "i am going to tell you some news, my children, and i hope you will feel it to be good news. i know my little daughters have kind hearts, and i am sure they will pity one even younger than themselves who has been left without home or protection." "i suppose you are speaking of hetty, mother?" said phyllis. "yes, dear. your father and i have arranged to bring her here." a faint colour passed over phyllis's fair pale face, and she said: "did aunt amy not leave her any money, mother?" "no; i am sorry to say she did not leave her anything." "she ought to have done so," said phyllis. "your aunt amy was a very peculiar person, phyllis, and nothing would induce her to make a will. she put off the task too long, and died without fulfilling it." "could those who have got her money now not make it all right?" said phyllis. "could they not settle some money on her?" "that would be a difficult matter to arrange, dear. almost all mrs. rushton's property has gone to her husband's brother, who is not a very generous man, i fear, and the rest, which returns to your father, is in trust for his children. he does not feel himself called upon to deprive you of what is lawfully yours in order to give a fortune to a foundling child." "i would rather give her some of my money than have her here," said phyllis bluntly. "you must get over that feeling, phyllis. it is perhaps a little trial to us all to have a stranger among us, but we will endeavour to be kind, and all will be for the best." "and is hetty to be our own, own sister?" said nell, fixing her blue eyes on her mother's face and speaking for the first time. "no, my love, not quite. that would not be fair to hetty, as we cannot make her one of our own children. she will be a companion for you and join in all your studies. but it is to be understood that such advantages are to be given to her only to fit her to be a governess. i am anxious that every one should be good to her, but i do not intend her to have such luxuries as would but prepare her for great unhappiness later on in her life." "hetty will never get on with that sort of thing," said phyllis. "she is too proud and too impertinent." "my dear phyllis, i believe she has a good heart; and she has been, and will be, severely tried. any failure of generosity on the part of my good little girl will disappoint me sadly." phyllis closed her lips with an expression which meant that for reasons of propriety she would say no more, but that nothing could prevent her from feeling that justice and right were on her side; that she had a better apprehension of the matter in question than mother or father, or any one in the world. when hetty arrived that afternoon she was led straight into the school-room, where tea was just ready, mrs. enderby judging that it would be well to set her to work at once, giving her no time for moping. when she appeared, looking pale and sad in her black frock, her eyes heavy and red with weeping, even phyllis was touched, and the school-room tea was partaken of in peace and almost in silence. hetty was so full of the recollection of the last time she had been brought in here by mrs. enderby, and so conscious of the change that had come upon her since then, that she could scarcely raise her eyes for fear of crying. nell kept pushing cakes and bread and butter before her, phyllis made general remarks in a softer tone than usual, and miss davis, who perhaps understood hetty's position better, and sympathized more with her, than any of the rest, could think of nothing better to say to the forlorn child than to ask her occasionally if she would like some more sugar in her tea. after tea phyllis and nell set to work to prepare their lessons for the next day, and hetty was thankful to have a book placed before her, and a lesson appointed for her to learn. it was a page in the very beginning of a child's english history, and hetty read it over and over again till she had the words almost by heart without in the least having taken in their sense. her thoughts were busy all the time with the looks and words of her companions, and with going back over all that had occurred that day. phyllis had been gentler than she expected. perhaps she was not going to be unkind any more. it was a good thing after all to be obliged to sit over books, as it would prevent her being talked to more than she could bear. nell was very kind. would phyllis allow her to be always kind? she had remarked at the first moment that the frocks of the two other girls were made of finer stuff than hers, and were trimmed with crape. mrs. benson had got her her mourning-frock, and had got it, of course, as inexpensive as she thought fit under the circumstances. "of course they wear crape," thought hetty, "because mrs. rushton was their aunt. she was nothing to me, after all, except my mistress. grant used to say things like that and i would not believe her. she was right when she said i was only a charity child." phyllis and nell were accustomed to go to the drawing-room for an hour or two in the evening after their father and mother had dined, and on this occasion hetty was invited to accompany them. it was not mrs. enderby's intention that she should always do so, but she considered that it would be well to include her to-night. the last evening spent by hetty in the drawing-room at the hall was that one on which she had entertained the company with her mimicries. then, full of pride and delight in her own powers of giving amusement, she had felt herself in a position to despise all disapproval and dislike. now, how was she fallen! yet mr. and mrs. enderby received her kindly, and paid her as much attention as if she had been an ordinary visitor. when bed-time came she was taken, not to the pretty room she had occupied when last in the house, but to a neat little plain chamber which was to be henceforth her own. it was not on the same landing with the bed-rooms of phyllis and nell, as she was quick to remark, but at the end of a long passage off which were the upper maids' bed-rooms, a fact which stabbed her pride. it was, however, a nice little room, placed above the passage and ascended to by a few steps, and it had a picturesque lattice window, embowered in ivy and passion-flowers. she had hardly comforted herself by observing this when she was overcast again by a fresh and unpleasant discovery. her trunk, which had been sent after her by mrs. benson, had already been unpacked and her things disposed of in a wardrobe. but, alas! all her handsome clothing had disappeared. her velvet and silk frocks trimmed with lace and fur, her sashes and necklaces, silk stockings and shoes with fantastic rosettes, these and numbers of other treasures were no longer to be seen in her room. a sufficient quantity of plain underclothing, a black frock to change the one she wore, a black hat and jacket, and one or two of her plainest white frocks, these were all that remained of the possessions which had but yesterday been hers. when she had recovered herself sufficiently after this disappointment to be able to look around the chamber, she saw that her desk and work-box, and some of her favourite story-books, had been placed on a table at the window. these she was glad to see, and recovering her spirits began to remember that after all she had now no right to any of those costly articles which she had been allowed to use during mrs. rushton's lifetime. as she was to live henceforth a humble dependent in this house she could have no further need of such luxuries. she had remarked that phyllis and nell were always simply dressed, and yet they had more right to finery than she had. hetty had sufficient good sense to know all this without being told. her peculiar experiences had sharpened her reasoning faculties and made her keenly observant of what passed before her, and had also given her an unusually acute perception of the meanings and influences floating in the atmosphere about her from other people's thoughts and words. child as she was, she was able to take, for a moment, mrs. enderby's view of her own position, and admitted that the kind yet cold lady had acted justly in depriving her of useless things. yet her wilful heart longed for the prettinesses that she loved, and she wept herself to sleep grieving for their loss, and for the greater loss which it typified. the next morning her head was aching and her eyes redder than ever when she appeared in the school-room, and she seemed more sullen and less meek than she had been yesterday. she could not fix her mind on the lesson miss davis gave her to learn, and made a great display of her ignorance when questioned on general subjects. all this was not improving to her spirits, and in becoming more unhappy she grew more irritable. miss davis felt her patience tried by the troublesome new pupil, and phyllis eyed her with strong disapproval over the edges of her book. phyllis loved order, regularity, good conduct, and in her opinion hetty was an intolerably disagreeable interruption of the routine of their school-room life. that was a bad day altogether. some friends of mr. and mrs. enderby were dining with them, and when the school-room tea was over phyllis and nell told miss davis that their mother wished them to come to the drawing-room for a short time. hetty looked up, as she thought herself included in the invitation; but miss davis, who had received general instructions from mrs. enderby, said to her quietly: "you will stay here with me, hetty, for this evening." hetty flushed crimson and her pride was kindled in an instant. she was not to go to the drawing-room any more, because she was only a charity child. tears rushed into her eyes, but she forced them back and pretended to be very busy with a book. after the other girls had been gone some time miss davis said: "i am going to my own room for half an hour, hetty, and i suppose you can amuse yourself with your book till i come back." when left alone hetty flung away her book, went down on her face on the hearth-rug, and cried with all her might. she thought of evenings when she had tripped about gaily in mrs. rushton's drawing-room and every one was glad to see her. now, it seemed, she must live all alone in a school-room. she forgot that she had ever been unhappy with mrs. rushton, ever been left alone, or snubbed or neglected in her house; for hetty, like many other people, old and young, lost all her excellent power of reasoning when overmastered by passion. in the old time she had been happy, she thought, cared for, loved, made much of. now she was beloved by nobody, not even for an hour. in her desolation she could not think of any creature that loved her except scamp, the dog who had been her only comfort since this trouble had befallen her; and he was left behind at amber hill. she had begged to be allowed to bring him with her to wavertree, but mr. enderby objected, saying that there were already too many dogs about the place. as soon as miss davis returned to the school-room hetty asked to be allowed to go to bed. "i have just been looking out some materials for needlework for you," said miss davis. "it is quite time you learned to sew; i hope you will find amusement in the occupation. however, if you are tired you may go to bed. as a rule the girls do not go to bed till nine o'clock." hetty shuddered as she looked at the needle-work which was prepared for her. in her eyes it was only a new instrument of torture. she did not even know how to hold a needle; she did not want to know. mrs. rushton had never been seen sewing; it was only the maids who had any occasion to sew. "i hate sewing," said hetty despairingly. "then you must learn to like it," said miss davis briskly; "little girls are not allowed to hate anything that is useful, especially little girls who must look forward to providing for themselves in the world by their own exertions. but go to bed now. tomorrow i hope you will be in a better humour." and hetty vanished. chapter xi. hetty turns rebel. hetty cried herself to sleep as she had done the night before, and her last thought was of scamp. about the middle of the night she had a dream in which she fancied that scamp's paws were round her neck, and that he was barking in her ear his delight at seeing her. the barking went on so long that it wakened her, for it was real barking that had caused the dream. hetty sat up in her bed and listened. surely that was scamp's bark, loud, sharp, and impatient, as if he was saying, "where's hetty? i want hetty. i will not go away till i have found hetty." in the stillness of the night it sounded to the lonely child like the voice of a dear friend longing to comfort her. she jumped out of bed, threw open the window, and listened again. could it be that he had found the way from amber hill, and come so many miles to look for her? darling old scamp, was it possible he loved her so much? yes, it was indeed his voice; he was outside the house, almost under her window, and she must and would go down and take him in. she opened the door cautiously and went out into the passage. the barking was not heard so distinctly here, and she hoped that no one would hear it but herself. how dreadful if somebody should go and beat him away before she could reach him! she pattered down-stairs with her little bare feet and made her way through the darkness to the great hall door. but she had forgotten how great and heavy that door was, and had not thought of the chain that hung across it at night, and the big lock in which she could not turn the key. scamp heard her trying to open the door, and barked more joyfully. unable to unfasten this door she made her way to another at the back of the house, and, withdrawing a bolt, she stood in the doorway, her little white night-dress blowing in the winter's night air, and her bare feet on the stones of the threshold. "scamp, scamp!" she called in a soft voice, and, wonderful to tell, he heard her and came flying round the house. "oh, scampie, dear, _have_ you come, and do you really love me still?" whispered hetty as the dog leaped into her arms, and she clasped his paws round her neck and kissed his shaggy head. scamp uttered a few short rapturous exclamations and licked her face and hands all over. "but you must be very quiet," she said, "or you will wake the house and we shall be caught. come now, lovie, and i'll hide you in my own room." she closed the door as quietly as possible and crept upstairs again, carrying the dog hugged in her arms. as she stole along the passage to her room, one of the maids whispered to another who was sleeping in the room with her: "oh, i have heard a great noise down-stairs, and one of the dogs was barking. and just now i am sure i heard feet in the passage." "some one has got into the house then," said the other maid listening. "oh, lie still, don't get up!" said the first maid. "it must be burglars." "i will go and waken the men," said the other courageously. and down-stairs she went and wakened the butler and footman. soon they were all searching the house, the butler armed with a gun, the others with large pokers. no burglars were to be found, and the butler was very cross at having been called out of his bed for nothing at all. the maids persisted that some one had been in the house, some one who must have escaped while they were giving the alarm. mr. enderby heard the noise and came out of his room and learned the whole story. after an hour of searching and questioning and discussion all went to bed again, everybody blaming everybody else for the silly mistake that had been made. next morning hetty slept long and soundly after her midnight adventure, and when the maid who called her went into her room she was astonished to see a dog's head on the pillow by the sleeping child. scamp put up his nose and barked at the intruder, and hetty wakened. "laws, miss hetty, you are a strange little girl," said the maid, who was the very girl who had alarmed the house during the night. "how ever did you get a dog into your room?" "it's only scamp, my own scamp, and he wouldn't hurt anybody," said hetty; "please don't beat him away, lucy. he came in the middle of the night trying to find me, and i took him in. perhaps mrs. enderby will let me keep him now." "that i am sure she will not," said lucy. "you naughty little girl. and so it was you who disturbed the house last night, frightening us all out of our senses, and getting me scolded for giving an alarm. wait till mr. enderby hears about it." "you are _very_ unkind," said hetty; "as if i could help his coming in the night-time!" "and i suppose you could not help letting him into the house and taking him into your bed?" said lucy scornfully. "no, i couldn't," said hetty. "and you can go and tell mr. enderby as soon as you please." at this lucy flounced out of the room quite determined to complain of the enormity of hetty's conduct. when the little girl appeared in the school-room with scamp following at her heels she was not in the best of tempers, and held her chin very high in the air. miss davis met her with a stern face. "hetty, what is this i hear of you? how could you dare to bring a strange dog into the house in the middle of the night?" "it wasn't a strange dog; it was scamp," said hetty, putting on her most defiant air. "i don't think it was any harm to let him in." "not, though i tell you it was?" said miss davis. "no," said hetty. "then i must ask mrs. enderby to talk to you," said miss davis. "meantime the dog cannot stay here while we are at breakfast." and she rang the bell. "tell thomas to come and fetch this dog away to the stable-yard," she said to the maid who answered the bell. "scamp always stayed in the room with me at amber hill," said hetty, two red spots burning in her cheeks. "you must learn to remember that you are no longer at amber hill," said miss davis. phyllis and nell now came into the school-room and looked greatly surprised at sight of the dog, hetty's angry face, and miss davis's looks of high displeasure. they took their places in silence at the breakfast table. "i am not likely to forget it," retorted hetty bitterly. "at amber hill everybody was kind to me. nobody is kind here." "you are a most ungrateful girl," said miss davis. "what would have become of you if mr. and mrs. enderby had not been kind?" at this moment thomas entered. "take away that dog to the stable-yard," said miss davis. hetty threw her arms round scamp's neck and clung to him. "you shall not turn him out," she cried. "he came and found me, and i will not give him up." "do as i have told you, thomas," said miss davis; and thomas seized scamp in spite of hetty's struggles, and carried him off, howling dismally. "now, you naughty girl, you may go back to your own room, and stay there till you are ready to apologize to me for your conduct," said miss davis. "oh, please don't send hetty away without her breakfast," pleaded nell. "i will go. i will not stay here. i will run away!" cried hetty wildly. "let her go, nell," said phyllis, giving her sister a warning look; and miss davis said: "when she is hungry she can apologize for her conduct. in the meantime she had better go away and be left alone till she recovers her senses." hetty fled out of the room and away to her own little chamber, where she locked herself in and flung herself in a passion of rage and grief on the floor. "i _will_ go away," she sobbed. "i will run away with scamp and seek my fortune. miss davis is going to be as bad as grant, reminding me that i am a charity child. oh, why was i not born like phyllis and nell, with people to love me and a home to belong to? it is easy for them to be good. but i shall never be good. i know, i know i never shall!" after half an hour had passed a knock came to the door, and lucy demanded to be admitted. "go away, you cruel creature!" cried hetty. "i will not have you here." lucy went away, and after some time hetty heard mrs. enderby's voice at the door. "i hope you will not refuse to let me in," she said. "i request that you will open the door." hetty rose from the floor very unwillingly and opened the door, and mrs. enderby came in. "hetty, what is the meaning of this strange conduct?" she said, looking at the marks of wild weeping on the child's swollen face. "everybody's conduct has been bad to me," wailed hetty. "what has been done to you?" asked mrs. enderby. "everyone hates scamp, and they have taken him away. and i have no one to love me but him." "perhaps people would love you if you were not so fierce and wild, hetty," said mrs. enderby. "now, try and listen to me while i talk to you. it was very wrong of you to get up in the night and open the door, so as to alarm the house by the noise. and it was very wrong of you to take a dog into your room and into your bed." "it was scamp," mourned hetty. "scamp loves me. and how could i leave him outside when he wanted to be with me?" "you could have done so because it would have been right," said mrs. enderby. "you knew that mr. enderby had refused to allow the dog to come here. you ought to have remembered his wishes. he has been very good to you, and you must learn to obey him." "it is cruel of him not to let me have scamp," persisted hetty; "he never bites anyone, and he is better than the other dogs. why can i not have him for my own?" "i will not answer that question, hetty; it must be enough for you that you are to obey. you must stay here by yourself till you are in a better state of mind." then mrs. enderby went away, and hetty fell into another agony of grief, thinking about scamp. she forgot the breakfast which she had not yet tasted, and felt every moment a greater longing to see her dog again. where had they taken him? she wondered. was he still in the stable-yard? perhaps they would drown him to get rid of him. possessed by this fear she seized her hat and flew out of the room, quite reckless of consequences, and as it chanced, she met no one on her way down-stairs and along all the back passages leading towards the stable-yard. arrived there she was guided by his barking to the spot where scamp was. he was chained in a kennel in a corner of the yard, where it was intended he should remain till a new master or mistress could be found for him. hetty watched her opportunity, and when there was no one about flew into the yard, slipped the chain off his neck, and sped out of the place again, with the dog following joyfully at her heels. in acting thus the little girl had merely followed a wild impulse, and had formed no plan for her future conduct with regard to scamp. finding herself in his company now, she thought only of prolonging the pleasure and escaping with him somewhere out of the reach of unfriendly eyes. she darted through the outer gate of the stable-yard just as the great clock above the archway was striking ten; and was soon plunging through a copse on the outskirts of the village, and making for the open country. scamp snuffed the breeze and barked for joy, and hetty danced along over the grass and through trees, forgetting everything but her own intense enjoyment of freedom in the open air that she loved. over yonder lay the forge, where, as a baby of four, she had watched the great horses being shod, and the sparks flying from their feet; and further on were the fields and the bit of wood where she had roamed alone, up to her eyes in the tall flag leaves and mistaking the yellow lilies for butterflies of a larger growth. she did not remember all that now, but some pleasant consciousness of a former free happy existence in the midst of this fresh peaceful landscape came across her mind at moments, like gales of hawthorn-scented air. mrs. enderby's mild lectures, phyllis's contempt, miss davis's shocked propriety, even nell's easily snubbed efforts to stand her friend, all vanished out of her memory as she went skimming along the grass like a swallow, thrilling in all her young nerves with the freshness and wildness of the breeze of heaven, and the vigour and buoyancy of the life within her veins. five miles into the open country went hetty, by a road she had never seen before. she knew not, nor did she think at all of where she was going; she only had a delightful sense of exploring new worlds. however, about the middle of the day she felt very hungry. she began to remember then that she could not keep on roving for ever, and that there was probably trouble before her at wavertree, waiting for her return. she sat down on a bank to rest, and scamp nestled beside her, alternately looking in her face and licking her hands. it occurred to hetty that perhaps he was hungry too, and that if she had left him in the stable-yard he would at least have got his dinner. remorse troubled her, and she cast about to try and discover something they two could eat. a tempting-looking bunch of berries hung from a tree near her, and she thought that if she could reach them they might be of some slight use in allaying the pangs of hunger felt by both her and her dog. she was at once on her feet, and straining all her limbs to reach the berries. they were caught, the branch broke, and hetty fell down the bank, twisting her foot and spraining her ankle badly. after the first cry wrung from her by the shock she was very silent; and having gathered herself up as well as she could, she sat on the ground, unable to attempt to stand. the pain was excessive, and great tears rolled down her cheeks as she endured it. scamp gazed at her piteously, snuffed all round her, and looked as if he would like to take her on his back and carry her home. she threw her arms round his neck and hugged him. "no, you can't help me, scampie, dear, and i don't know what is to become of us. i can't move, and nobody knows where i have gone to. of course it is all my fault, for i know i have been very disobedient. but i didn't feel wicked, not a bit." scamp licked her face and huffed and snuffed all round her. then he made several discontented remarks which hetty understood quite well, though it is not easy to translate them here. then he hustled round her, and scurried up and down the road looking for help; and finally sat on his tail on the top of the bank, and pointing his nose up at the unlucky tree on which the berries had hung, howled out dismally to the world in general that hetty was in real trouble now, and somebody had better come and look to it. after a long time some one did come at last. the wintry evening was just beginning to close in and the short twilight to fall on the lonely road, blotting out the red berries on the trees, when a sound of wheels and the cracking of a carter's whip struck upon hetty's ears. scamp had heard them first and rushed away barking joyfully in the direction of the sound, to meet the carter, whoever he might be, and to tell him to come on fast and take up hetty in his cart and bring her safely home. presently scamp came frolicking back, and soon after came a great team of powerful horses, drawing a long cart laden with trunks of trees, which john kane, the carter, was bringing from the woods to be chopped up for firewood for the use of the hall. at this sight a dim recollection of the past arose in hetty's brain. had she not seen this great cart and horses long ago, and was not the face of the man like a face she had seen in a dream? she had not had time to think of all this when john kane pulled up his team before her and spoke to her. "be you hurt, little miss?" he said good-naturedly; "i thought something was wrong by the bark of your dog. he told me as plain as print that i was wanted. 'look sharp, john kane!' he said; and how he knows my name i can't tell. there, let me sit you in the cart, and i'll jolt you as little as may be." hetty was thankful to be put in the cart, and it seemed to her a very strange chance that had brought john kane a second time in her life to rescue her. he did not know her at all, and she did not like to tell him who she was. "now, where can i take you to?" he said, as they neared the village. "i came from wavertree hall," said hetty, hanging her head, "and," she added with a great throb of her heart, "my name is hetty gray." "law, you don't say so!" said honest john; "our little hetty that is turned into a lady! well, child, it's not the first time you have got a ride in john kane's cart. you cannot remember, but you used to be main fond of these very horses, watching them getting shod and running among their feet. however, bygones is bygones, and you won't want to hear anything of all that. now, i can't drive you up to the door of the hall in this lumbering big vehicle; but if you'll condescend to come to our cottage for an hour, i'll take a message to say where you are, and mrs. enderby will send for you properly, no doubt." hetty's heart was full as she thanked john kane for his kindness. she had almost been afraid that he would break out into raptures and want to hug her as mrs. kane had done; but when she found him so cold and respectful a lump rose in her throat, and something seemed to tell her that as she had pushed away from her the love of these good honest people, she deserved to be as lonely and unloved as she was. fortunately it was quite dark when the cart passed through the village, so that no one noticed whom john kane had got cowering down in his cart behind the logs of timber. when he stopped at his own door his wife came out, and he said to her in a low voice: "look you here, anne, if i haven't brought you home little hetty a second time out of trouble. found her on the road i did, with her ankle sprained. we'll take her in for the present, and i'll go to the hall and tell the gentlefolks." mrs. kane had just been making ready her husband's tea, and the fire was burning brightly in her tidy kitchen, making it look pretty and homelike. she was greatly astonished at her husband's news, and came to the cart at once, though with a soreness at heart, remembering her last meeting with hetty, and thinking how little pleasure the child would find in this enforced visit to her early home. "now hurry away to the hall and give the message," said mrs. kane; "your tea will keep till you come back. little miss gray will be anxious to get home to those who are expecting her." "oh, please let him take his tea first," cried hetty; "there will be no hurry to get me back. i have been very naughty and everyone will be angry with me. please, mr. kane, take your tea before you go." john kane smiled. "thank you, little maid; but you see the horses are wanting to go home to their stable. and i'd rather finish all my work before i sit down." he went away and hetty was left alone in the firelight with her first foster-mother. "perhaps you are hungry, little miss," said anne. "you have had a long walk, maybe, with your dog." scamp had curled himself up on the "settle" at hetty's feet. hetty felt a pang at the words "little miss," but she knew it was her own pride that had brought this treatment upon her. perhaps mrs. kane had once loved her as scamp did now; but of course she would never love her again. at all events she was dear and good for taking scamp in without a word of objection, and allowing him to rest himself comfortably at her fireside. "i am _dreadfully_ hungry," said hetty, in a low ashamed voice, and looking up at mrs. kane with serious eyes. "i have not eaten anything to-day. i sprained my ankle getting the berries, and they fell so far away i could not pick them up." "not eaten to-day? what,--no breakfast even?" "no," said hetty. "i was bad in the morning, or i should have got some. at least they said i was bad, but i did not feel it." "what did you do?" "i took in scamp in the night when he barked at the window, and i wanted to keep him, though mr. enderby would not have him about the place; and i fought to get him. and i told mrs. enderby that i ought to have him. and then i took him out of the stable-yard and ran away with him." "i'm afraid that was badness in the end," said mrs. kane. "it began with goodness, but it ran to badness. deary me, it's often the same with myself. i think i'm so right that i can't go wrong. but all comes straight again when we're sorry for a fault." "but i can't be sorry for keeping scamp when he loves me so. nobody else loves me," cried hetty, with a burst of tears. mrs. kane was by her side in a minute. "not love you! don't they, my dear? well, there's somebody that loves you more than scamp, _that_ i know. come, now, dry your eyes and eat a bit. there's a nicer cup of tea than they'd give you at the hall; for the little brown pot on the hearth makes better tea than ever comes out of silver. i was a maid in a big house once myself, and i know the difference." in answer to this hetty sat up as well as the pain of her foot would allow, and flung her arms round mrs. kane's neck. "oh, keep me here with you!" she cried. "i am tired of being grand. i will stay with you and learn to be a useful girl, if only you will love me." mrs. kane heaved a long sigh as hetty's arms fastened round her neck. now she felt rewarded for all the love and care she had poured out on the child during the three years she had had her for her own. a little bit of hard ice that had always been lying at the bottom of her heart ever since hetty had left her, now melted away, and she said, half laughing and half crying: "come now, deary, don't be talking nonsense. nice and fit you'd be to bear with a cottage life after all you've been seeing. don't you think the gentlefolks would give you up so easily as that. but whenever you want a word of love and a heart to rest your bit of a head upon like this, mind you remember where they're always waiting for you, hetty." hetty sobbed and clung to her more closely, and it was some time before she could be induced to eat and drink. when she did so the homely meal set before her seemed to her the most delicious she had ever tasted. "oh i am so glad i have found my way back to you," she said; "i never should have done it if i hadn't got into such trouble. oh, you don't know how proud and bad i have been! i know i've been bad, now that you are so good to me." after about an hour john kane came back. he had been obliged to wait to put up his horses and see to their wants for the night before he could come home. the message he brought from the hall was that hetty must stay where she was till her foot was better, as moving about was so bad for a sprain. mrs. enderby would see mrs. kane about her to-morrow. the tiny whitewashed room where she slept that night was the one in which she had slept when a toddling baby, and hetty wondered at herself as she looked round it thankfully. a patchwork quilt covered the bed, and a flower-pot in the one small window, and some coloured prints on the wall, were its only adornments. but it was extremely clean and neat, and, in spite of the pain in her foot, hetty felt more content as she laid her head on the coarse pillow than she had felt for a great many weeks past. chapter xii. a cottage child again. some time passed before hetty saw any of the family at the hall again. mr. enderby was much displeased at her escapade, and resolved she should be punished. he thought the best way to punish her was to leave her in the care of mrs. kane. the hard and lowly living she would have to endure there would, he thought, subdue her pride and teach her to be meek and grateful on her return to a more comfortable home. by his desire mrs. enderby refrained from going to see the child. mrs. kane was sent for to the hall and directed to take every care of her charge; but on no account whatever to pamper her. at first hetty was startled to find how very ready they were at the hall to let her completely drop out of their lives, and at times she repined, but on the whole she was happier, and every day seemed to arouse her more and more to a better sense of the duties that lay round her in life, while seated on her old settle she watched mrs. kane sweeping and washing the floor, polishing up the windows and bits of furniture, and making the humble home shine. hetty longed to be able to take broom and scrubbing-brush from her hands and help her with the troublesome work. when she found that by learning to hold her needle she could help to darn and mend for her dear friend, she eagerly gave her mind to acquiring the necessary knowledge. books were scarce in john kane's house, but hetty did not miss them. at this time of her life all books, except stories, were hateful to her, and she thought she had read enough stories. it became a perfect delight to her to see mrs. kane shake out an old flannel jacket and hold it up to the light and declare that hetty had mended it as well as she could have done it herself. "and that will save my eyes to-night," she would say, to hetty's intense pleasure, who, now for the first time in her young life, tasted the joy of being useful to others. when her foot was sufficiently better to allow her to limp about, john kane made her a crutch, and hetty felt more gladness at receiving this present than mrs. rushton's expensive gifts had ever given her. after this she used to hop about the cottage, dusting and polishing, and doing many little "turns" which were a great help to mrs. kane. she soon knew how to cook the dinner and make the tea, and when mrs. kane was busy or had to go out, it was hetty's delight to have everything ready for her return. to save her black frock from being spoiled by work she had learned to make herself a large gingham blouse, in which she felt free to do anything she pleased without harming her clothes. in this simple active life hetty developed a new spirit which surprised herself as much as it astonished her humble friends. she worked in the garden and tended the poultry, besides performing various tasks which she took upon herself indoors. and in this sort of happy industry several weeks flew, almost uncounted, away. one evening mrs. kane and hetty were sitting at the fire waiting for john to come in. they were both tired after their day's work. mrs. kane was sitting in a straw arm-chair and hetty rested with her feet up on the settle. the little brown tea-pot was on the red tiles by the hearth, and the firelight blinked on the tea-cups. "mrs. kane," said hetty, "will you let me call you mammy?" "will i?" said mrs. kane. "to be sure i will, darling, and glad to hear you. but wouldn't mother be a prettier word in your mouth?" "phyllis calls mrs. enderby mother," said hetty, "and it sounds cold. mammy will be a little word of our own." "and when you go back to the hall you will sometimes come to see your old mammy?" "i think i am going to ask you to let me stay here always," said hetty. "nay, dear, that wouldn't be right. you've got to get educated and grow up a lady." "i could go to the village school," said hetty; "i'm not clever at books, and they could teach me there all i want to learn. when i grow up i might be the village teacher. and you and mr. kane could live with me in the school-house when you are old." "bless the child's heart! how she has planned it all out. but don't be thinking of such foolishness, my hetty. providence has other doings in store for you." one of the happiest things about this time was that scamp was as welcome in the cottage as hetty was herself. he slept by the kitchen fire every night, and shared all hetty's work and play during the daytime. indeed, nothing could be more satisfactory than the child's life in these days with mrs. kane. what in the meantime had become of her extraordinary pride? love and service seemed to have completely destroyed it. one day, however, there came an interruption to her peace. lucy, the maid, arrived with a message to know when hetty would be able and willing to return to the hall. mrs. kane was out and hetty was sitting in the sun at the back-garden door with one of john kane's huge worsted stockings pulled over one little hand, while she darned away at it with the other. at sight of lucy her pride instantly waked up within her and rose in arms. hetty stared in dismay at smart flippant lucy, and felt the old bad feelings rush back on her. tears started to her eyes as she saw all her lately acquired goodness flying away down the garden path, as it seemed to her, and out at the little garden gate. "i don't think i am ready to go yet," said she; "but i will write to mrs. enderby myself. would you like to see scamp, lucy? he has grown so fat and looks so well." hetty could not resist saying this little triumphant word about the dog. however, lucy was ready with a retort. "i suppose he was used to cottages," she said. "people generally do best with what they have been accustomed to." hetty's ears burned with the implied taunt to herself, but she said with great dignity: "you can go now, lucy. i don't think i have anything more to say to you." and lucy found herself willing to go, though she had intended saying a great many more sharp things to the child, whom she, like grant, regarded as an impertinent little upstart. that evening hetty made a tremendous effort and wrote a letter to mrs. enderby. "deer madam,--my foot is well, but mrs. kane is making me good and i would like to stay with her. i am sorry for badness and giving trubbel. i could lern to work and be mrs. kane's child. yours obeedyentley, hetty." mr. and mrs. enderby smiled over this letter together that evening. "poor little monkey," said the former, "there is more in her than i imagined. but what spelling for a girl of her age!" "might it not do to allow her to stay where she is, coming up here for lessons, and to walk occasionally with the girls?" "i do not like the idea of it," said mr. enderby. "i would rather she stayed here and went as often as she pleased to see her early friends. it is evident they have a good influence upon her. yet it would not be fair to let her grow up with their manners if she is to earn her bread among people of a higher class." so when mrs. enderby went next day to visit hetty she was firm in her decision that the little girl should return to the hall. she discovered hetty busy sweeping up the cottage hearth in her gingham blouse. hetty dropped her broom and hung her head. "i was pleased to get your letter, hetty. i am glad you are sorry for what occurred." "i am sorry," said the little girl looking up frankly. "i am very sorry while i am here. but i might not be so sorry up at the hall. the sorryness went away when i saw lucy. afterwards it came back when mrs. kane came in." "and that is why you want to stay here? because mrs. kane makes you feel good? it is an excellent reason; but why can you not learn to be good at the hall too? what has mrs. kane done to make you good?" "oh! she loves me, for one thing," said hetty; "and then she makes me pray to god. i never heard about god at mrs. rushton's; and miss davis always told me i made him angry. mrs. kane's god is so kind. i would like to make him fond of me." "you have a strange startling way of saying things, hetty. you must try and be more like other children. mrs. kane's god is mine, and yours, and every one's, and we must all try to please him. but if you like her way of speaking of him you can come here as often as you please and talk to mrs. kane." "then i must go back to the hall?" said hetty. "i am sorry you look on it as a hardship, hetty. mr. enderby and i think it will be more for your good than staying here." "i am only afraid of being bad," said hetty simply. "oh! come, you will say your prayers and learn to be a good child," said mrs. enderby cheerfully; and then she went away, having settled the matter. she was more than ever convinced that hetty's was a curious and troublesome nature; but she had not sounded the depths of feeling in the child, nor did she guess how ardently she desired to be good and worthy of love, how painfully she dreaded a relapse into the old state of pride and wilfulness which seemed to shut her out from the sympathies of others. after mrs. enderby was gone, hetty sat for a long time with her chin in her little hand looking out of the cottage door, and seeing nothing but her own trouble. how was she to try and be like other children? could she ever learn to be like phyllis, always cold and well-behaved, and never the least hot about anything; or could she grow quiet and sweet and so easily silenced as nell? how was she to hinder her tongue from saying out things just in the words that came to her? she wished she could say things differently, for people so seldom seemed to understand what she meant. tears began to drip down her cheeks as she thought of returning to her corner in the stately hall, where she felt so chilled and lonely, of sitting no more at the snug homely hearth where there was always a spark of love burning for her. as she wiped her eyes a gleam of early spring sunshine struck upon an old beech-tree at the lower end of the garden, and turned all its young green into gold. the glorified bough waved like a banner in the breeze, and seemed to bring some beautiful message to hetty which she could not quite catch. the charm of colour fascinated her eye, the graceful movement had a meaning for her. springing up from her despondent attitude she leaned from the doorway, and felt a flush of joy glow in her heavy little heart. the same thrill of delight that had enraptured her when, as a babe not higher than the flag leaves, she stretched her hands towards the yellow lilies, pierced her now, but with a stronger, more conscious joy. when mrs. kane returned she found her ready to take a more hopeful view of the future that was at hand. "i have got to go," she said; "and i am going. but i may come to you when i like. and when the pride gets bad i will always come." mrs. kane promised to keep scamp for her own, and so hetty could see all her friends at once when she visited the cottage. chapter xiii. a trick on the governess. two years passed over hetty's head, during which she had plenty of storms and struggles, with times of peace coming in between. there were days when, but for mrs. kane's good advice, she would have run away to escape from her trials; and yet she had known some happy hours too, and had gained many a little victory over her temper and her pride. the pleasantest days had been those when mark enderby, brother of phyllis and nell, was at home for his holidays, for he always took hetty's part, not in an uncertain way like nell's, but boldly and openly, and often with the most successful results. he was the only boy hetty had ever known, and she thought him delightful; though like most boys he would be a little rough sometimes, and would expect her to be able to do all that he could do, and to understand all that he talked about. he sometimes, indeed, got her into trouble; but hetty did not grudge any little pain he cost her in return for the protection which he often so frankly afforded her. not that anyone meant to be unkind to her. mr. and mrs. enderby continued to take a friendly interest in everything that concerned her, though strictly following their well-meant plan of not showing her any particular personal affection. "we must not bring her up in a hothouse," they said, "only to put her out in the cold afterwards." in this they thought themselves exceptionally wise people; and who shall say whether they were or not? it suited phyllis admirably to follow in the footsteps of her father and mother; but what was merely prudence on the part of her elder benefactors often appeared something much more unamiable when practised towards hetty by a girl not many years her senior. miss davis, who was a rigid disciplinarian and trusted as such by her employers, thought chiefly of breaking down the pride and temper of the child, and of bending her character so as to fit her for the hard life that was before her; a life whose difficulties and trials had been bitterly experienced, and not yet all conquered or outlived by the conscientious governess herself. nellie, who was hetty's only comfort in the great and, as it seemed to her, unfriendly house, too often showed her sympathy in a covert way which made hetty feel she was half ashamed of her affection; and this deprived such tenderness of the value it would otherwise have had. hetty, now above eleven years old, was very much grown and altered. her once short curly hair was long, and tied back from her face with a plain black ribbon. her face was singularly intelligent, her voice clear and quick, her eyes often much too mournful for the eyes of a child, but sometimes flashing with fun, as, for instance, when mark engaged her in some piece of drollery. then the old spirit that she used to display when she performed her little mimicries for mrs. rushton's amusement would spring up in her again, and she would take great delight in seeing mark roll about with laughing, and hearing him declare that she was the jolliest girl in the world. one easter time, just two years after hetty's return to the hall, when mark was at home for his holidays, he proposed to hetty to play a trick on miss davis. hetty's eyes danced at the thought of a trick of any kind. she did not have much fun as a rule, and mark's tricks were always so funny. "it isn't to be a bad trick, i hope," she said, however. "oh! no, not at all. only to dress up and pretend to be people from her own part of the world coming to see her and to bring her news. we will be an old couple who know her friends, and are passing this way." "she will find us out." "no; we must come in the twilight and go away very soon. she will be so astounded by what i shall tell her that she won't think about us at all." "what will you tell her?" "oh! news about her old uncle. she has a rich uncle and she expects to be his heiress. somebody told me of it. i will tell her he is married, and you will see what a state she will be in." "i don't believe miss davis wants anybody's money," said hetty; "she works hard for herself, and i think she supports her mother. _i_ shall have to work some day as she does, and i mean to copy her. only i shall have no mother to support," said hetty, swallowing a little sigh because mark could not bear her to be sentimental. "oh! well, we shall have some fun at all events," said mark; "and don't you go spoiling it, proving that miss davis is a saint." "where can we get clothes to dress up in?" asked hetty. "farmer dawson's son is going to bring them to me, and you will find yours in your room just at dusk. hurry them on fast and i shall be waiting in the passage." that evening two rather puny figures of an old man and woman were shown up into the school-room where miss davis was sitting alone, looking into the fire and thinking of her distant home. hetty was supposed to be arranging her wardrobe in her own room, and the other girls were with their mother. the governess was enjoying the treat of an hour of leisure alone, when she was informed that mr. and mrs. crawford from oldtown, sheepshire, wished to see her. "show them up," said miss davis, and waited in surprised expectation. "who are they?" she thought; "i do not know the name. but any one from dear sheepshire--ah, what a strange-looking pair!" they were odd-looking indeed. mark was tall enough to dress up as a man, and he wore a rough greatcoat, and a white wig, and spectacles. hetty had little gray curls, and gray eyebrows under a deep bonnet, and was wrapped in a cloak with many capes. in the uncertain light their disguise was complete. "i have not the pleasure--" began miss davis. "no, you don't know us," said mark, "but your friends do, and we know all about you. we were passing this way and have brought you a message from your mother." "indeed!" said miss davis, and her heart sank. a letter she had been expecting all the week had not arrived. her mother was sick and poor. what dreadful thing had happened at home? "oh, she is not worse than usual," put in hetty, in the shrill piping tone which she chose to give to mrs. crawford. "don't be alarmed." miss davis did not easily recover from her first shock of alarm. she remained quite pale, and hetty wondered to see so much feeling in a person whom she had often thought to be almost a mere teaching-machine. "the news is about your uncle," went on mark. "perhaps you have not heard that he is married." "no, i had not heard," murmured miss davis; and she looked as if this indeed was a terrible blow to her. hetty was immediately annoyed at her and disappointed in her. was mark right in his estimate of her character? hetty had thought her a wonder of high-mindedness and independence of spirit, if very formal and cold. was she now going to be proved mercenary and mean? "your mother did not write to you about it, fearing it would be a disappointment to you." "my uncle has a right to do as he pleases," said miss davis, "and i hope he will be happy"; but her lips were trembling and she looked pained and anxious. "i thank you very much for your trouble in coming to tell me. i daresay my mother will write immediately." now mark was not satisfied with the result of his trick. he had hoped that miss davis would have got very angry, and have said some amusing things. her quiet dignity disappointed him, and with an impulse of wild boyish mischief he resolved to try if he could not startle her. "i am sorry to say i have not told you everything," he blurted out suddenly. "i ought to prepare you for the worst, but i don't know how." "speak, i beg of you," faltered miss davis. "your uncle is dead, and has left all his fortune, every penny, to his wife." a look came over miss davis's face which the children could not understand. "my brother!" she said, "can you tell me what has become of my little brother?" "run away," said mark, who had not known till this moment that she had a brother. miss davis gasped and leaned her face forward on the table. the next moment they saw her slip away off her chair to the floor. she had fainted. mark was greatly alarmed, and struck with sudden remorse. hetty sprang up crying, "oh, mark, how could you?" "what are we to do?" said mark in despair. "here," said hetty, "take away all this rubbish of clothes, and hide them." and she pulled off her disguise and flew to raise miss davis from the floor. "no, lay her flat," said mark; "and here is some water, dash it on her well. i will come back in a few moments." he cast off his own disguise and vanished with his arms full of the articles he and hetty had worn. when he returned he found miss davis beginning to breathe again, and hetty crying over her. "oh! mark, i will never play a trick again as long as i live," whispered hetty; "we were near killing her. how could we dare to meddle with her affairs?" "how was i to know she had a brother?" grumbled mark under his breath. "and what has he to do with the joke of her uncle's marrying?" "and dying?" said hetty. "but that's just it, you see, we don't know anything about it." "children," murmured miss davis, "what has happened to me? give me your hands, mark, and help me to rise." they raised her up and laid her on the sofa. "what was the matter?" repeated miss davis, seeing the tears flowing down hetty's cheeks. "oh! two nasty old people came to see you and frightened you," said mark, "and then they walked off, and hetty and i found you on the floor." hetty gave mark a reproachful look, coloured deeply, and hung her head. mark cast a warning glance at her over miss davis's shoulder. he did not want to be discovered. "oh! i remember," moaned miss davis. "my poor mother!" mark could not bear the unhappy tone of her voice, and turned and fled out of the room. "don't believe any news those people brought you, miss davis," said hetty. "i am sure they were impostors." she was longing to say, "mark and i played a trick for fun," but did not dare until she had first spoken to mark. "why do you think so? hetty, is it possible you are crying for me? i did not think you cared so much about me, my dear." "i am sorry, i am sorry," cried hetty, bursting into a fresh fit of crying; "i did not know you had a little brother, miss davis." "i have, hetty; next to my mother he is the dearest care of my life. i could not have told you this but for your tears. my mother and i are very poor, hetty, and my uncle had lately taken my boy and promised to put him forward in the world. he is rather a wilful lad, my poor darling, and is very delicate besides. now, it seems, by my uncle's marriage and death he has lost all the prospect he had in life. and worst of all he has run away. and my mother is so ill. it will kill her." miss davis bowed her pale worn face on her hands, and hetty, young as she was, seemed to feel the whole meaning of this poor woman's life, her struggles to help others, her unselfish anxieties, her love of her mother and brother hidden away under a quiet, grave exterior. what a brave part she was playing in life, in spite of her prim looks and methodical ways. hetty was completely carried away by the sight of her suffering, and could no longer contain her secret. she forgot mark's warning looks, and his sovereign contempt, always freely expressed, for those who would blab; and she said in a low eager voice: "oh, miss davis, i _must_ tell the truth. it was all a trick of me and mark. he made it up out of his head, without really knowing anything about your people. only for fun, you know." "what do you mean, hetty?" "we were the old man and woman, mr. and mrs. crawford. indeed we were, and there are no such people. and your uncle is neither married nor dead. and your brother has not run away. and your mother will be all right; and do not grieve any more, dear miss davis." hetty put her arms round the governess's neck as she spoke, and laughed and sobbed together. miss davis seemed quite stunned with the revelation. "are you sure you are not dreaming, hetty? i want a few moments to think it all over. none of these dreadful things have really happened! well, my dear, i must first thank god." "oh, miss davis, i wish you would beat me." "no, dear, i won't beat you. only don't another time think it good fun to cut a poor governess to the heart. perhaps you thought i had not much feeling in me." "not very much," said hetty. "i knew you were very good, and strong, and wise, and learned; but i did not know you could love people." "you know it now. for the future do not think that because people are colder in their manner than you are they are therefore heartless. persons who lead the life that i lead, have to keep many feelings shut up within themselves, and to accustom themselves to do without sympathy." hetty pondered over these words. she wanted to say that she thought it would do quite as well to show more feeling, and look for a little more sympathy. she was now sure that she could always have loved miss davis, had she only known her from the first to be so warm-hearted and so truly affectionate. but she did not know how to express herself and remained silent. "miss davis," she said presently; "must governesses always keep their hearts shut up, and try to look as if they loved nobody? you know i am going to be a governess some day, and that is why i ask." miss davis was startled. "do i look as if i loved nobody?" she asked. "a little," said hetty. "then i must be wrong. it cannot be good to look as if one loved nobody. at the same time it _is_ very necessary to curb all one's feelings. phyllis, for instance, would not respect me if she thought me what she would call sentimental. and even nell would perhaps smile at me as a simpleton if she saw me looking for particular affection. even you, hetty--you who think so much about love!--could i manage you at all if i did not know how to look stern?" "you could," said hetty; "you could manage me better by smiling at me; just try, miss davis. but oh, i forgot; i have got to be a governess too, and perhaps i had better be hardened up." miss davis was silent, thinking over hetty's words. that this ardent child found her "hardened up" was an unpleasant surprise to her; but she was not above taking a hint even from one so young and faulty as hetty. she would try to be warmer, brighter with this girl. and then she reflected sadly on the prospect before hetty. with a nature like hers, how would she ever become sufficiently disciplined to be fit for the life of toil and self-repression that lay before her? the next day hetty looked out anxiously for an opportunity of speaking privately to mark. "i have something to say to you, mark," she said; "i had to tell miss davis that we played the trick." "you had to tell her!" said mark scornfully; "well, if ever i trust a tell-tale of a girl again. you are just as sneaky as nell after all." "nell is not sneaky; and you ought not to call me a tell-tale. you ran away and left me with all miss davis's trouble on my shoulders. i didn't want to tell; but it was better than having her suffer so dreadfully." "oh, very well. you can make a friend of her. go away and sit up prim like phyllis. you shall have no more fun with me, i can tell you." a lump came in hetty's throat. she knew mark was in the wrong, and was very unkind besides; but still he had so often been good to her that she could not bear to quarrel with him. "i am very sorry," she said; "but i don't think you need be afraid that miss davis will complain to anyone about us." this made mark more angry; for he did not like to hear the word "afraid" applied to himself; and yet his chief uneasiness had been lest the occurrence of last evening should come to the ears of his father, who had a great dislike for practical jokes. "afraid? i am not afraid of anything, you little duffer. she can tell all about it to the whole house if she likes," he said, and turning on his heel went off whistling. hetty was right in the guess she had made regarding miss davis, who did not say a word to anyone about the trick that had been played on her. she was too thankful to know that she had suffered from a false alarm, that her beloved brother was safe under the protection of the uncle who had promised to befriend him, and that her dear mother was spared the terrible anxiety that had seemed to have overtaken her; she was much too glad thinking of all this to feel disposed to be angry with anyone. besides, this accident had brought to light a side of hetty's character which she had hardly got a glimpse of before. the child had evinced a warmth of feeling towards herself which neither of her other two pupils had ever shown her, and this in forgetfulness of the somewhat hard demeanour with which she had been hitherto treated. the little girl was, it appeared, capable of knowing that certain things she did not like were yet for her good, and of respecting the persons who were to her rather a stern providence. her extreme sorrow for giving pain was also to be noted, and the fact that she had realized the work that was before her in life. all these things sank deeply into miss davis's mind, and made her feel far more interested in hetty than she had ever felt before. but hetty did not know anything of all this. she saw miss davis precise and cold-looking as ever, going through the day's routine as if the events of that memorable evening had never happened; and she thought that everything was just as it had been before, except that mark had quarrelled with her and would scarcely speak to her. she felt this a heavy trial, and but for occasional visits to mrs. kane and scamp would have found it harder than she could bear. chapter xiv. hetty's constancy. "i hope hetty is getting on better in the school-room now," said mrs. enderby to phyllis one day; "i have not heard any complaints for some time." "i think she is doing pretty well, mother; at least she behaves better to miss davis. as for me, i have very little to do with her. i notice, however, that she has quarrelled with mark. he and she used to be great friends, because she is such a romp and ready for any rough play. but now he does not speak to her." "that does not matter much," said mrs. enderby smiling; "she will be better with miss davis and you. you must continue to take an interest in the poor child, dear phyllis. i wish she gave as little trouble as you do." phyllis was one of those girls for whom mothers ought to be more uneasy than for the wilder and naughtier children who cause them perpetual annoyance. she was so proper in all her ways, and so well-behaved as never to seem in fault. her reasons for everything she said and did were so ready and so plausible, that it required a rather clever and far-seeing person to detect the deep-rooted pride and self-complacency that lay beneath them. to manage all things quietly her own way, to be accounted wise and good, and greatly superior to ordinary girls of her age, was as the breath of life to phyllis. to have to stand morally or actually in the corner with other naughty children was a humiliation she had unfortunately never experienced, but was one which would have done her a world of good. all those early storms of remorse, repentance, compunction, which do so much to prepare the ground for a growth of virtue in children's hearts, were an unknown experience to her. she believed in herself, and she expected others, young and old, to believe in her. such characters, if not discovered and humbled in time, are likely to have a terrible future, and to grow up the unconscious enemies of their own happiness and that of the people who live around them. mark kept up his indignation towards hetty for a week. he did not grieve over the quarrel as she did, but he missed her sadly in his games. however, an accident soon occurred which made them friends again. mark had had a piece of land given to him in a retired part of the grounds, and he was full of the project of making a garden of his own, according to his own particular fancy. his father was pleased to allow him to do this, being glad of anything that would occupy the restless lad while at home for his holidays. "i will draw all the beds geometrically myself," said mark, "and make it quite different from anything you have ever seen. and then i will build a tea-house all of fir, and line it with cones, and it will have a delightful perfume." then he said to himself that if hetty had not turned out so badly he would have asked her to make tea very often in his nice house among his flowers. but, of course, he could not ask a tell-tale duffer of a girl to do anything for him. he set to work to plan his beds, and one afternoon was busy marking off spaces with wooden pegs and a long line of cord. after working some time he came to the end of his pegs, and was annoyed to find that he had not enough to finish the particular figure he was planning. he did not like to drop his line to go for more pegs, as he feared his work was not secure enough, and would fall astray if the string was not held taut till the end should be properly secured. just as he looked around impatiently, not knowing what to do, he saw hetty coming along the path above him, walking slowly and reading. she was very often reduced to the necessity of taking a story-book as companion of her leisure hours, now that mark would have nothing to do with her. this afternoon phyllis and nell were out driving with their mother, and miss davis had seized the opportunity to write letters. hetty was therefore thrown on her own resources and was roaming about with a book. she would have rushed away to mrs. kane's at once, but she knew that this was john kane's dinner hour. but half an hour hence she would set off for the village, and have a nice long chat with her foster-mother. hetty descended the winding path with her eyes on her book, and before she saw him, nearly stumbled against mark. "do you mean to walk over a fellow?" said mark in an aggrieved tone. "oh, mark, i beg your pardon. i did not know you were here. now," she added, looking round wistfully, "if you wouldn't be cross with me what a nice time we could have working at your garden together." "if you weren't disagreeable, i suppose you mean. well, yes, we could. but you see we're not friends." "and you won't, won't be?" said hetty anxiously. "well, look here, if you hold this string for me a bit i'll think about it. my pegs are shaky until the string is fastened up tight, and i can't drop it, and i must go to the stable-yard for some more pegs. if you hold this string till i come back, perhaps i will forgive you." "oh yes, i will hold it," said hetty; and down went her book on the grass, and she took the cord and held it as mark directed. "be sure to keep steady till i come back," he said; "and you mustn't mind if i am kept a little while. i may have to look for jack, who has the key of the storehouse where the pegs are kept." and off he went. when he got to the stable-yard he met a groom who was coming to look for him, saying that his father wanted him to go out riding. mr. enderby was already in the saddle, and mark's pony was waiting beside him at the door. mark, who loved a ride, especially in company with his father, at once vaulted on the pony's back and was soon trotting out of the gates, laughing and chatting with his papa. he had completely forgotten hetty, and the pegs, and the cord that had to be held taut till he should come back. in the meantime hetty was standing just where he had left her, looking in the direction from which he was to return. a quarter of an hour passed, and her finger and thumb, which held the string exactly as mark had directed, were a little stiff. another quarter passed, and lest the cord should relax she changed it from one hand to the other. "jack must have gone out," she thought, "and mark is waiting for him. i wish he would come back, for i do want to see mrs. kane." however, another quarter passed and mark did not appear. hetty was very cold, for it was damp wintry weather with a sharp wind, and one gets chilly standing perfectly still so long in the open air. she felt tempted to put down the string and go to look for mark, but on reflection thought it would be disloyal to do so. he should not be disappointed in her again. something extraordinary had happened to keep him away, but he should find her at her post when he came back. then he would be sure to forgive her, and she would be happy again. another half-hour passed and her toes were half-frozen, and her fingers and her little nose pinched and red. she wished she had put on her gloves before she took the cord in her hands. now she could not drop it to put them on. the jacket she wore was not a very warm one. oh, why did not mark come back? it occurred to her that perhaps he might be playing a trick to punish her; but she could not believe he would be so cruel. should she drop the string at last, and tell him afterwards that she had held it as long as she could endure the cold? no, she would go on holding it. he should see that she could bear something for his sake. hetty had been about an hour shivering at her post when mark, riding gaily along the road many miles from home, suddenly remembered hetty and the cord. he felt greatly startled and shocked at his carelessness. "i ought to have sent jack with the pegs to finish the work, and to tell her i was going to ride," he reflected; "but it can't be helped now. she will never be such a goose as to stay there long." and he felt more sorry thinking of how the string would be lying slack until his return than for treating hetty so inconsiderately. trying to put the whole thing out of his head he began to chatter to his father about something that had happened at school, and thought no more about the matter till he had returned home an hour later. then he sprang from his pony and ran off to his garden to see if he could tighten up the string before it became quite dark night. could he believe his eyes? there was hetty holding the string as he had left her. "do you mean to say you have been there ever since?" he said in utter amazement. "yes," said hetty, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. "you told me not to mind if you were kept a while. and i did not mind." "but do you know that i have been two hours away, and have had a long ride with father?" said mark. "it seemed a long time," said hetty; "but i did not know what you were doing. i promised to stay and i stayed." "well, you were a precious goose," he said, taking the string out of her hand. "nobody but a stupid of a girl would do such a thing." hetty said nothing, but slapped her hands together, and tried to keep the tears of disappointment from coming into her eyes. "here, hold the string a moment longer while i put this peg properly into the ground. can't you catch it tight? oh, your fingers are stiff. there, that will do for to-night now, come home and get warm again." they walked up to the house together. hetty was too cold, and tired, and hurt to speak again, and mark was too much annoyed at his own carelessness, and what he called hetty's stupidity, to be able to thank her, and offer to make friends with her. hetty went up to her own room to take off her things, and when she came down to the school-room she found that the tea was over and she was in disgrace for staying out so long. phyllis cast a disapproving glance at her as she entered. punctuality was one of phyllis's virtues. miss davis rebuked hetty for staying out alone so late. "i must tell mrs. kane," she said, "not to keep you so late when you go to see her." then hetty was obliged to say that she had not been to see mrs. kane. "where, then, can you have been for two hours all alone?" "i was all the time in the grounds," said hetty. she had made up her mind that she would not "tell" this time of mark, and the consciousness that she was in an awkward position made her colour up and look as if guilty of some fault she did not wish to own. phyllis looked at her narrowly and glanced at miss davis, who had a pained expression on her face, but who said nothing more at the time, being willing to screen hetty if she could. "hetty, i am sure you have got cold," said nell after some time; "you are all shivery-shuddery." "my head is aching," said hetty; "i don't feel well." "i suppose you were sitting all the time reading a story-book," said phyllis, "that would give you cold in weather like this." "no, i was not reading, at least not long," said hetty. "but were you sitting?" "no." "walking?" "no, not much." "my dear, you must not cross-question like that," said miss davis. "perhaps hetty will tell me by and by what she was doing." a frown gathered on phyllis's fair brows and she turned coldly to her lesson book which she was studying for the next day. she could not bear even so slight a rebuke as this, but she knew how to reserve the expression of her displeasure to a fitting time. she herself believed that she bore an undeserved reproof with dignity, but some day in the future the governess would be made to suffer some petty annoyance or disappointment in atonement for her misconduct in finding fault with her pattern pupil. hetty raised her eyes with a thankful glance at miss davis, who saw that they were full of tears. a sudden warmth kindled in miss davis's heart as she saw that hetty trusted in her forbearance, and she said presently: "i think you had better go to bed now, hetty. you look unwell; and bed is the best place for a cold." "may i go with her, and see that she is covered up warm?" said nell. "yes," said miss davis, "certainly." and the two little girls left the room together, hetty squeezing nell's hand in gratitude for her kindness. when they got up to hetty's room nell's curiosity could no longer restrain itself. "oh, hetty," she said, "will you tell me what you were doing? i can see it is a great secret. and i won't tell anybody." "neither will i," said hetty laughing; "but i was not hurting anyone, nor breaking the laws." "now, you are making fun of me," said nell; "it is too bad not to tell me. and phyllis will be cool with me to-night for running after you." "then why did you not stay in the school-room?" said hetty sadly. "i don't want to make coolness between you and phyllis." "i shouldn't mind phyllis if you would let me have a secret with you. it is so nice to have a secret, and it is so hard to get one. everybody knows all about everything." "i don't agree with you; i hate secrets," said hetty. "this is not much of one, i think, but it is somebody else's affair, and i will not tell it." having wrung so much as this from hetty, nell grew wildly excited over the matter, and was so annoyed at not having her curiosity gratified that she went away out of the room in a hurry without having seen whether hetty was warm enough or not. on her return to the school-room she announced that hetty could not tell anything about how she had passed the afternoon, because it was somebody else's secret. "perhaps she has been bringing some village girl or boy into the grounds," said phyllis quietly. "i will talk to her myself about this," said miss davis; "pray attend to your studies." miss davis on reflection thought phyllis might be right, and that having made acquaintance with some young companion in mrs. kane's cottage, hetty might have been induced to admit her or him to the grounds so as to give pleasure. she knew how strongly the child was influenced by her likings and lovings, and feared that this might be the case of scamp over again, with the important difference that hetty was now a girl in her twelfth year, and that her new favourite might prove to be a human being instead of a dog. the next day hetty was seriously ill. she had caught a severe cold and lay tossing feverishly in her bed. miss davis came up to see her in the afternoon and sat at her bedside for half an hour. "hetty," she said, "i fear you must have been very foolish yesterday, and that your cold is the consequence. now that we are alone i expect you will tell me exactly all that you did." "i can't indeed, miss davis." "you disappoint me exceedingly. i had been thinking so much better of you; i conclude you were not alone yesterday." "not all the time, but most of it." "who was with you when you were not alone?" hetty hesitated, and then said, "mark." "but mark was out riding with his father." "yes." "and you were alone all that time." "yes." "and yet there is something behind that you will not tell. hetty, i always thought you frank till now. why are you making a mystery?" "i can't tell you, miss davis; i was not doing any harm." "how am i to believe that?" said miss davis. "oh, my head!" moaned hetty, as the pain seemed crushing it. she thought that if she were to die for it she would not tell that mark had treated her badly. miss davis went away hurt and displeased, and hetty was very much alone for several days, being too ill to leave her room, and too deeply in disgrace to be petted by anyone. she was very unhappy, and lay wondering how it was that with a strong desire to do right she seemed always going wrong. if she had dropped the string, gone away to see mrs. kane as she had been longing to do, and returned in good time to the school-room to tea, mark would perhaps have been better pleased with her than he actually was. he had not guessed that she had meant to please him, to make up for telling miss davis that they two had played her a trick. he did not ask about her now she was ill, or notice that she was keeping silence and allowing herself to be misunderstood in order that he might not be blamed. if all were told he could not be much blamed, it was true, for what was a mere piece of forgetfulness. but that carelessness of his was a fault of which his father was very impatient, and which always brought on him a severe reprimand. "and i will not tell this time," said hetty to herself, as her eyes feverishly danced after the spots on the wall-paper. "when i told before, it was to save miss davis from suffering, this time there is nobody to suffer but myself." in the meantime mark was spending a few days with a school-fellow at a distance of some miles, and had gone away without hearing about hetty's illness. as soon as he returned home he missed her, and learned that she was shut up in her room. he immediately went to inquire for her, and met miss davis on the stairs. "i'm sure i don't wonder she got a cold," he said, "but i never meant her to do it." "to do what?" asked miss davis. "why, did she not tell you?" "i have not been able to get her to tell me what she was about that day for two hours alone in the grounds. she has not behaved well, i am sorry to say; she has been in disgrace as well as ill." "then it was a jolly shame!" burst forth mark. "i left her to hold a string for me, and i forgot all about her, and went away to ride. and she stood holding the string for two hours in the cold. and i called her a duffer for not running away and letting all my pegs go crooked in the ground. oh, i say, miss davis, it makes a fellow feel awfully ashamed of himself." "so it ought," said miss davis, who now understood the whole thing. "she would not tell for fear of getting you blamed." "and i called her a tell-tale before," said mark, "because she told you about the trick. i've been punishing her for weeks about that. miss davis, can't i go in and see her and beg her pardon?" "certainly," said miss davis; "she is sitting at the fire, and her eyes are red with crying. come in with me and we will try to make her happy again." "why, hetty, you do look miserable!" cried mark, coming into the room and looking ruefully at her pale cheeks and the black shadows round her eyes. "and to think of you never telling after all i made you suffer!" "i wanted to show you that i am not a tell-tale, mark; but oh, i am so glad you have come. i thought you were never going to be friends with me again." "i was away four days," said mark; "and of course i thought you knew. but hetty, you are a jolly queer girl i can tell you, and i can't half understand you. think of anyone standing two hours to be pierced through and through with cold, rather than drop a fellow's string and run away!" hetty looked at him wistfully, recognizing the truth that he never could understand the sort of feeling that led her into making, as he considered, such a fool of herself. miss davis gazed at her kindly and pityingly, thinking of how many hard blows she would get in the future, in return for acts like that which had so puzzled mark. and she resolved that another time she would be slow in blaming any eccentric conduct in hetty, and would wait till she could get at the motive which inspired it. chapter xv. the children's dance. one day during these christmas holidays a lady came to visit at wavertree hall, bringing her two little girls. phyllis and nell had gone with miss davis to see some other young friends in the neighbourhood, and hetty, who was spending one of her lonely afternoons in the school-room with her books and work, was sent for to take the little visitors for a walk in the grounds, while their mother had tea with mrs. enderby. hetty was pleased at being wanted, and soon felt at home with the strange little girls, who at once took a great fancy to her. seeing she could give pleasure her spirits rose high, and she became exceedingly merry, and said some very amusing things. "i think," said edith, the elder of the young visitors, "that you must be the girl who told such funny stories one evening when mamma dined here. she said it was as good as going to the theatre." "that was a long time ago," said hetty; "i am not funny now. at least, very seldom." "i think you are funny to-day," said grace, the second sister; "i wish you would come to our house and act for us, as you did then." "i don't go to houses," said hetty, shaking her head; "i belonged to mrs. rushton then, and she meant me to be a lady. but now she is dead, and it is settled that i am not to be a lady when i am grown up. i am only to be a governess, and work for myself." "but governesses are ladies," said edith; "a dear friend of ours is a governess, and there never was a nicer lady." "oh, i know," said hetty; "miss davis is quite the same. but i mean, i am not to be the kind of lady that goes out to parties." "well, i will try and get you leave to come to our party," said edith. "we are going to have one before the holidays are over." "i don't think you will get leave from mrs. enderby," said hetty; "and then i have no frock." "they must get you a frock somewhere," said grace; "i could send you one of mine." "that would give offence, i am sure," said hetty smiling. "it is not for the trouble of getting the frock that mrs. enderby would keep me from going. she does not wish me to get accustomed to such things." "then she is horrid," cried edith; "making you just like cinderella." "no, no," said hetty, "you must not say that. cinderella was a daughter of the house, and i am nobody's child. that is what the village people say. and only think if they had sent me to a charity school!" edith and grace gazed at her gravely. hetty stood with her hands behind her back, looking them in the eyes as she stated her own case. "and you have nobody belonging to you, really, in the whole world?" said edith. "nobody," said hetty, "and nothing. at least nothing but a tiny linen chemise." "did you drop down out of the clouds in that?" asked grace with widening eyes. "no," said hetty laughing; "but i came out of the sea in it. i was washed up as a baby on the long sands. there were great storms at the time and a great many shipwrecks. and nobody ever asked about me. they must have been all drowned. john kane, one of mr enderby's carters, picked me up. so you see i am not the kind of girl to be going out to parties." "you will have to be very learned if you are going to be a governess," said grace; "i suppose you are always studying." "i work pretty hard at my books," said hetty; "but i am not clever. and how i am ever to be as well informed as miss davis i don't know. some things i remember quite well, and other things i am always forgetting. i am sure if i ever get any pupils they will laugh at me. i wish i could live in a little cottage in the fields, and work in a garden and sell my flowers." "i should always come and buy from you," said grace; "what kind of flowers would you keep?" "oh, roses," said hetty; "roses and violets. when i was in london i saw people selling them in the streets. i would send them to london and get money back." "i think i will come and live with you," said grace eagerly. "grace, don't be a goose," saith edith; "hetty has not got a cottage, and she is going to be a governess." "yes," sighed hetty; "but i shall never remember my dates." a few days after this conversation occurred, an invitation to a children's party came from edith and grace to all the children at wavertree hall, including hetty gray. mrs. enderby did not wish hetty to know that she had been invited, but nell whispered the news to her. "mamma and phyllis think you ought not to go," said nell; "but mark and i intend to fight for you. mark says he was so nasty to you lately that he wants to make up." hetty's eyes sparkled at the idea of having this pleasant variety. "i shall never be allowed to go," she said. "oh, if it is only a frock, you can have one of mine," said nell; "i got a new one for the last party, and my one before is not so bad." "it isn't the frock, i am sure," said hetty; "it is because i am not to be a lady. at least," she added, remembering edith's rebuke, "i am not to be a party-lady, not a dancing-and-dressing-lady. i am only to be a book-lady, a penwiper-lady, a needle-and-thread-lady, you know, nell." "oh, hetty! a penwiper-lady!" "yes, haven't you seen them at bazaars?" said hetty, screwing up her little nose to keep from laughing. "i never know whether you are in earnest when you begin like that," said nell pouting; "i suppose you don't want to come with us." however, when hetty heard that she had really got leave to go "for this once, because edith and grace had made such a point of it," there was no mistake about her gladness to join in the fun. "how will you ever keep me at home after this?" she said, as phyllis and nell stood surveying her dressed in one of their cast-off frocks, of a rose-coloured tint which suited her brunette complexion. "i shall be getting into your pockets the next time, and tumbling out in the ball-room with your pocket-handkerchief." "no one wants to keep you at home, except for your own good," said phyllis with an air of wisdom. "never mind, phyllis, it won't be into your pocket that i shall creep," said hetty gaily. phyllis did not feel like herself that evening, and was dissatisfied about she knew not what. she could not admit to herself that she was displeased because another was to enjoy a treat, even though she thought she had a right to her belief that it would have been better if hetty had been made to stay at home. "of course, as mother consents, it is all right," she had said; but still she did not feel as much enjoyment as usual in dressing for the party. half suspecting the cause of this, and willing to restore her good opinion of her own virtue, she brought a pretty fan to hetty and offered to lend it to her. hetty took it with a look and exclamation of thanks; but phyllis thought she hardly expressed her gratitude with sufficient humbleness. however, phyllis had now soothed away that faint doubt in her own mind as to her own kindness and generosity, and took no further notice of her unwelcome companion. arrived at the ball, hetty was warmly received by edith and grace, and was soon in a whirl of delightful excitement. she had "as many partners as she could use," as a tiny girl once expressed it, and she was not, like cinderella, afraid that her frock would turn to rags, or anxious to run home before the other dancers. everybody was very kind to her, and if anyone said, "that is the little girl whom mr. enderby is bringing up for charity," hetty did not hear it, and so did not care. "oh, hetty, you do look so nice!" said nell, dancing up to her. "a gentleman over there asked me if you were my sister. and i did not tell him you were going to be a governess." "you might have told him," said hetty. "i don't care. i have been speaking to such a nice governess. she is here in care of some little children. i think she is the prettiest lady in the room; and she looks quite happy. i wish i could turn out something like her. only i shall never remember the dates." hetty sighed, and the next minute was whirled away into the dance again. now phyllis had told herself over and over again in the course of the evening that she was very pleased poor hetty should be enjoying the pleasure of this party, always adding a reflection, however, that she hoped she might not be spoiled by so foolish an indulgence. "if i were going to be a governess," thought she, "i should try to fit myself for the position. of course it is father's and mother's affair, but when one has a little brains one can't help thinking, i believe if i were in mother's position i should be wiser; but then, of course, i cannot have any things or people to manage till i am grown up. it is the duty of a girl to do what she is told; afterwards people will have to do what she tells them. when the time comes for me to be a mistress i shall take good care that everybody does what is right." these reflections occurred to phyllis while she was sitting out a dance for which hetty had got a partner. soon afterwards, while the breathless flock of young dancers were fanning themselves on the sofas, the lady of the house requested hetty to recite or act something to amuse the company. at this proposal hetty was startled and dismayed. it was a very long time since she had done anything of the kind, except for the amusement of mark and nell, and she had forgotten all the old stories and characters that used to be found so entertaining by grown people. she felt a shyness amounting to terror at being obliged to come forward and perform before this company; and, besides, she was very sure that mrs. enderby would disapprove of her doing so. she therefore begged earnestly to be excused, and retreated into a corner. the lady of the house desisted for a time from her persuasions, but after another dance was finished she renewed her request. hetty's distress increased, but she felt quite unable to explain to her hostess the reasons why it was impossible she could comply with her wishes. she could only repeat: "i forget how to do it; indeed i do. and mrs. enderby does not like it." "mrs. enderby would like you to please me," said the hostess. "and i cannot think you forget. my daughters tell me you were most amusing last week when they saw you." "was i?" said hetty, dismayed. "but that was in the garden and came by accident. i could not do anything before all this crowd." "well, if you were a shy child i could understand," said the lady; "but you know i heard you long ago when you were much younger. if you were not shy then you cannot be so now." hetty could not explain that it was just because she was older now that she was shy. long ago she had been too small to realize the position she was placed in. she felt ready to weep at being found so disobliging, yet when she thought of the performance required of her, her tongue clove to her mouth with fright. the hostess now crossed the room to phyllis, who had been watching what had passed between her and hetty from a distance. "i have been trying to persuade little miss gray to recite for us, or to do some of her amusing characters, but she has all sorts of reasons why she cannot oblige me. is she always so obstinate?" phyllis hesitated. "i think she has a pretty strong will of her own," she said. "i am afraid she will not yield." "well, my dear, you know her better than i do, and it is nice of you not to be too ready to blame her. but i like little girls who do as their elders bid them. and i confess i expected to find her agreeable when i invited her here this evening." now if phyllis had been as generous as she would have liked to believe herself she would have said, "i know my mother does not approve of hetty's performances, and hetty knows it too. perhaps this is why she refuses." but phyllis, quite unconsciously to herself, was pleased to hear hetty blamed, and was willing to think that she ought to have put all her scruples aside in order to oblige mrs. enderby's friend. while she considered about what it would be pretty to say, her hostess went on: "i suppose she is a little conceited and spoiled. she is certainly exceedingly pretty and clever." it was much more difficult now for phyllis to make her amiable speech; yet she had not the least idea that she was a jealous or an envious girl. she always felt so good, and everybody said she was so. jealous people are always making disturbance. therefore it was quite impossible that phyllis could be jealous. "i will go and speak to her," she said to the lady of the house, and crossed the room to where hetty sat, looking unhappy. "hetty," said phyllis, "i think you ought to do as you are asked. it was exceedingly kind of mrs. cartwright to invite you here. of course she expected you to be obliging." "you mean that she asked me, thinking i would amuse the company?" said hetty quickly. "then i am very sorry you have told me so, phyllis, for i should never have guessed it. and now i shall feel miserable till i get away." "can't you be agreeable?" "no, i can't. just think of trying it yourself." "of course it would not be suitable for me," said phyllis. "our positions are different. however, if you choose to be ungrateful you must." and she walked away, leaving hetty sitting alone reflecting sadly on her words. so after all it was not kindness and liking for her that had made these people include her in their invitation. it was only the desire to have their party made more amusing by her performance. she wished she could do what was required of her, so that she need owe them nothing. but she could not; and how hateful she must seem. all her pleasure was over now, and she was glad when the moment came to get away. her silence was not noticed during the drive home, for every one else was too sleepy to talk. but hetty was too unhappy to be sleepy. the next morning miss davis asked at breakfast if the party had been enjoyable. "it was all very nice," said phyllis, "until towards the end, when hetty put on fine airs and refused to be obliging. after that we all felt uncomfortable." "that is not true, miss davis," said hetty bluntly. her temper had suddenly got the better of her. phyllis's blue eyes contracted, and her lip curled. "please send her out of the room, miss davis," she said. "hetty, i am sorry for this," said miss davis, "i could not have believed you would speak so rudely." "you have not heard the story, miss davis." "i have heard you put yourself very much in the wrong. phyllis would not tell an untruth of you, i am sure." "she said i put on fine airs," said hetty, trembling with indignation. "i did not put on airs. they wanted me to perform, and i could not do it. if i had done it phyllis would have been the first to blame me. i remember how she scorned me for doing it long ago." "i hope you will make her apologize to me, miss davis," said phyllis quietly. the more excited poor hetty became, the quieter grew the other girl. "she is ungenerous," continued hetty, striving valiantly to keep back her tears; "she knew her mother would not approve of my performing; and besides, i told her i was afraid. if i had done it she would have complained to mrs. enderby of my doing it." this passionate accusation hit phyllis home. she knew it was true--so true that though she had arraigned hetty before miss davis for the pleasure of humbling her, she yet had no intention of carrying the tale to her mother, fearing that mrs. enderby would say that hetty had been right. had hetty made "a show of herself" by performing, phyllis would perhaps have made a grievance of it to her parents. stung for a moment with the consciousness that this was true, before she had had time to persuade herself of the contrary, phyllis grew white with anger. the injury she could least forgive was a hurt to her self-complacency. "she must apologize, miss davis, or i will go to papa," said phyllis, disdaining to glance at hetty, but looking at her governess. miss davis was troubled. "this is all very painful," she said. "hetty, you had better go to your room till you have recovered your composure. whatever may have been your motives last night you have now put yourself in the wrong by speaking so rudely." hetty flashed out of the room, and phyllis, quiet and triumphant, turned to her lesson-books with a most virtuous expression upon her placid face. hetty wept for an hour in her own room. looking back on her conduct she could not see that she had been more to blame than phyllis. oh, how was it that phyllis was always proved to be so good while she was always forced into the wrong? she remembered a prayer asking for meekness which mrs. kane had taught her, and she knelt by her bedside and said it aloud; and just then she heard miss davis calling to her to open the door. "my dear," said the governess, "i have come to tell you that you really must apologize to phyllis. it was exceedingly rude of you to tell her so flatly that her words were untrue." hetty flushed up to the roots of her hair and for a few moments could not speak. she had just been on her knees asking for strength from god to overcome her pride, and here was an opportunity for practising meekness. but it was dreadfully hard, thought hetty. "i will try and do it, miss davis. but may i write a letter in my own way?" "certainly, my dear. i am glad to find you so willing to acknowledge yourself in fault." left alone to perform her task hetty opened her desk and sat biting her pen. at last she wrote: "dear phyllis,--i am very sorry i said so rudely that you did not tell the truth. but oh, why did you not tell it, and then there need not have been any trouble? "hetty." hetty brought this note herself into the school-room, and in presence of miss davis handed it to phyllis. "do you call that an apology?" said phyllis, handing the note to miss davis. "i don't think you have made things any better, hetty," said miss davis. "i said what i could, miss davis. phyllis ought to apologize to me now." phyllis gave her a look of cold surprise, and took up a book. "pray, miss davis, do not mind," said she over the edges of her book. "i expect nothing but insolence from hetty gray. mother little knew what she was providing for us when she brought her here." hetty turned wildly to the governess. "miss davis," she cried, "can i not go away somewhere, away from here? is there not some place in the world where they would give a girl like me work to do? how can i go on living here, to be treated as phyllis treats me?" miss davis took her by the hand and led her out of the room and upstairs to her own chamber. having closed the door she sat down and talked to her. "hetty," she said, "when you give way to your pride in passions like this you forget things. you asked me just now, is there any place where people would give work to a girl like you to do? i don't think there is--no place such as you could go to." "i would go anywhere," moaned hetty. "anywhere is nowhere," said miss davis. "just look round you and see all that is given to you in this house. there is your comfortable bed to sleep in, you have your meals when you are hungry, you have good clothing, you have a warm fireside to sit at, you have the protection of an honourable home. yet you would fling away all these advantages because of a few wounds to your pride. phyllis is trying, i admit--i have to suffer from her at times myself--but you and i must bear with something for the sake of what we receive." hetty raised her eyes and looked at miss davis's worn face and the line of pain that had come out sharply across her brow, and forgot herself for the moment, thinking of the governess's patient life. "but, miss davis, _you_ need not suffer from phyllis; you are not like me. any people would be glad to get you, who are so clever and so good. you could complain of her to her mother, and if she did not get better you could go away." "should i be any more safe from annoyance in another family? hetty, my dear, there are always thorns in the path of those who are poor and dependent on others, and our wisest course is to make the best of things. i might say to you, _you_ have no one to think of but yourself. for me, i have a mother to support, and i have to think of my dear young brother, who is not too wise for his own interests, and whose prospects are at the mercy of a rather capricious old uncle." "oh that i had a mother and a brother to work for!" cried hetty passionately. "perhaps that would teach you wisdom, my dear. however, profit by my experience and be cheered up. take no notice if phyllis is unkind. it is better to be here, even with her unkindness, than straying about the world alone, meeting with such misfortunes as you never dreamed of." after miss davis had left her, hetty sat a long time pondering over that lady's words. it seemed to her that the governess, good and patient as she was, had no motive for her conduct high enough to carry her through the trials of her life. it was certainly an excellent thing to be prudent for the sake of her mother and brother; to bear with present evils for fear of worse evils that might come. but yet--but yet, was there not a higher motive than all this for learning to be meek and humble of heart? looking into her own proud and stubborn nature, the little girl assured herself that miss davis's motives would never be in themselves enough for her, hetty--never sufficiently strong to crush the rebellion of self in her stormy young soul. instinctively her thoughts flew to mrs. kane, and seizing her hat and cloak she flew out of the house, and away down the road to the labourer's cottage. fortunately it was a good hour for her visit. john had gone out after his dinner. the cottage kitchen was tidied up, the fire shining, the two old straw arm-chairs drawn up by the hearth. mrs. kane was just screwing up her eyes, trying to thread a needle, when hetty dashed in and flung her arms around her neck. "oh, mrs. kane, the pride has got so bad again; and i have been quarrelling with phyllis and wanting to run away." "run away!" said mrs. kane; "oh, no, dearie, never run away from your post." "what is my post?" said hetty weeping; "i have no post. i am only a charity girl and in everybody's way. phyllis hints it to me in every way she can, even when she does not say it outright. oh, how can i have patience to grow up? why does it take so long to get old?" mrs. kane sighed. "it doesn't take long to grow old, dear, once you are fairly in the tracks of the years. but it does take a while to grow up. and you must have patience, hetty. there's nothing else for it but the patience and meekness of god." hetty drew a long breath. all that was spiritual within her hung now on mrs. kane's words. the patience of god was such a different thing from the prudence of this world. that was the difference between miss davis and mrs. kane. "there was something beautiful you said one day," said hetty in a whisper; "say it again. it was, 'learn of me--'" "learn of me; for i am meek and lowly of heart," said mrs. kane. "that is the word you want, my darling, and it was said for such as you." hetty's tears fell fast, but they were no longer angry tears. she was crying now with longing to be good. "there was something else," she said presently, when she could find her voice; "something that was spoken for me too." "blessed are the poor in spirit; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven," said mrs. kane, stroking her head. and then hetty cried more wildly, thinking with remorse of her own pride. "if he is for you, my dear, you needn't care who is against you," continued mrs. kane; "take that into your heart and keep it there." after that they had a long talk about all hetty's difficulties, and when at last the little girl left the cottage, it was with a lighter step than had brought her there. when she walked into the school-room just in time for tea the signs of woe were gone from her countenance, and she looked even brighter than usual. without giving herself time to think, or to observe the looks of those in the room, she went straight up to phyllis and said cheerfully: "phyllis, i am sorry i gave you offence. i hope you will forget it and be friends with me"; and then she took her seat at the table as if nothing had happened. miss davis, who had been rather dreading her appearance, fearing a renewal of the quarrel, looked up at her and actually coloured all over her faded face with pleasure and surprise. hetty had really taken her lessons to heart, and was going to be a wise and prudent girl after all. she little thought that a far higher spirit actuated the girl than had at all entered into her teachings. phyllis glanced round with a triumphant air as if saying, "now i am indeed proved in the right. she herself has acknowledged it!" and then she said gently: "i accept your apology, hetty, and i will not say anything of the matter to my mother." "is not phyllis good," whispered nell afterwards, "not to tell mamma? because you know, you were very naughty to her, hetty, and she is papa's daughter and the eldest." nell's friendly speeches were sometimes hard to bear, as well as phyllis's unfriendly ones. hetty would have been glad if the whole affair could have been laid before mrs. enderby, and saw no reason to congratulate herself on phyllis's silence to her mother as to the quarrel and its cause. but the others judged differently. miss davis was pleased that by her own tact she had been able to arrange matters without calling in the aid of mrs. enderby, who, she was aware, liked a governess to have judgment and decision sufficient to keep the mistress of the house out of school-room squabbles. nell was delighted that there was to be no more "fuss." phyllis above all was pleased, for now she felt no more necessity for questioning her own motives and conduct, no more danger of being told by her mother that hetty had in the beginning been in the right, while she, by opposing her, had brought on the wrong which had followed. falling back upon her own doctrine, that she must be right because her judgment told her so, phyllis was coldly amiable to hetty for the rest of the evening; while hetty, having made her act of humility, rather suffered from a reaction of feeling, and had to struggle hard to keep the moral vantage-ground she had gained. chapter xvi. a trial of patience. two more years passed over hetty's head. she had grown tall and looked old for her age, her large gray eyes were full of serious thought, her brow was grave, and the expression of her mouth touched with sadness. the haughtiness and mirth of her childhood were alike gone. earnest desire to attain to a difficult end was the one force that moved her, and this had become visible in her every word and glance. she was painfully aware that the time was approaching when she must go forth to battle with the world for herself, and that on her own qualifications for fighting that battle her position in the world must depend. that she had not sufficient aptitude for learning out of books, or for remembering readily all that she gathered from them, she greatly feared. her memory gave her back in pictures whatever had engaged her imagination; but much that was useful and necessary was wont to pass away out of her grasp. thorough determination, close application, did not remove this difficulty, and she was warned by those around her that unless she could make better use for study of the three years yet before her than she had made of those that lay behind her, she could never be a teacher of a very high order. of all that this failure meant, hetty understood more clearly now than when she had wished to live with mrs. kane and be the village schoolmistress. loving all that was beautiful and refined in life, she had learned to dread, from another motive than pride, the fate of being thrown upon a lower social level. and yet this was a fate which seemed now to stare her in the face. mr. enderby, who had of late taken a personal interest in her studies, examining her from time to time on various subjects, said to her: "my little girl, if you do not wake up and work harder i fear you will have to take an inferior position in life to that which i desired for you." poor hetty! was she not wide awake? so wide awake that when he and all the household were asleep she lay staring her misfortune in the face. and how could she work harder than she did, weeping in secret over the dry facts that would not leave their mark upon her brain? thus it was that life looked dreary to her, and her face was grave and pale. phyllis and nell, who were three and two years older than herself, had begun to talk of the joys which the magic age of eighteen had in store for them. they would leave off study and go forth into the enjoyment of their youth in a flattering world. idleness, pleasure, happiness awaited them. no one could say they were not sufficiently well educated to take that graceful place in life which providence had assigned to them; hetty was rebuked for being less learned than she ought to be, because for her there was no graceful place prepared; only a difficult and narrow path leading away she knew not where. of the difference between their position and hers she could not help thinking, but she had been so long accustomed to realize it that she did not dwell upon it much. miss davis was the person on whom her eyes were fixed as an image of what she ought to hope to become. to be exactly like miss davis. to look like her, think like her, be as well informed, as independent, as much respected; to teach as well, speak as wisely, be called an admirable woman who had fought her own way against poverty in the world, this was what hetty had been assured by mr. and mrs. enderby ought to be the object of her ambition and the end of all her hopes. and hetty tried honestly to will as they willed for her good. but her face was not less sad on that account. things were in this state when one day, a day never to be forgotten by her, hetty was feeling more than usually unhappy. only the evening before mr. enderby had examined her on several subjects, and had found her wanting. he had spoken to her with a little severity, and at the same time looked at her pityingly, and the girl had felt more miserable than can be told at having disappointed him. to-day she was left to spend a long afternoon by herself, as miss davis had taken phyllis and nell to visit some friends, and, though her morning's work ought to have been over, she still sat at her lessons, labouring diligently. at last becoming thoroughly tired she closed her book and raised her eyes wearily, when they fell on a jar of wild flowers which yesterday she had arranged and placed upon a bracket against the wall. it was spring, and in the jar was a cluster of pale wood-anemones with some sprays of bramble newly leafed. hetty's eyes brightened at the sight of these flowers, and noted keenly every exquisite outline and delicate hue of the group. it seemed to her at the moment that she had never seen anything so beautiful before. mechanically she took up her pencil and began to imitate on a piece of paper the waving line of the bramble wreath, and the graceful curves of the leaves. to her own great surprise something very like the bramble soon began to appear upon the paper. a sharp touch here, a little shadow there, and her drawing looked vigorous and true. after working in great excitement for some time hetty got up and pinned her drawing to the wall, and stood some way off looking at it. where had it come from? she asked herself. she had never learned to draw. she had not known that she could draw. oh, how delightful it would be if she could reproduce the flowers as they grew! not quite able to believe in the new power she had discovered in herself, she set again to work, altering the arrangement of the flowers in the jar, and taking a larger sheet of paper. it was only ruled exercise paper, but that did not seem to matter when the flowers blossomed all over it. the second drawing was even better than the first; and hetty stood looking at it with flushed cheeks and throbbing heart, wondering what was this new rapture that had suddenly sprung up in her life. as her work was done, and the afternoon was all her own, she was able to give herself up to this unexpected delight, and spent many hours composing new groups of flowers, and arranging them in fanciful designs. when a maid brought up her solitary tea she lifted her flushed face and murmured, "oh, can it be tea-time?" and then spread out all her drawings against the wall, and stared at them while she ate her bread and butter. she felt nervous at the thought of letting anybody see them, and locked them up in her desk before miss davis and the other girls came home. in earliest dawn of the next morning, however, she was out of bed and studying the drawings as she stood in her night-dress and with bare feet. were they really good, she asked herself, or were her eyes bewitched; and would mr. enderby laugh at them if he saw them? anguish seized on her at the thought, and she dressed herself with trembling hands. a new idea, striving in her mind, seemed to set all nature thrilling with a meaning it had never borne for her before. there had been great painters on the earth, as she knew full well, whose existence had been made beautiful and glorious by their genius; and there were artists living in the present day, small and great, who must surely be the happiest beings in the world. their days were spent, not in drudgery, and lecturing, and primness, but in the study and reproduction of the beauty lying round them. oh, if god should have intended her to be one of these! when the maids came to dust the school-room they found hetty hard at work upon a new wreath of ivy which she had hastily snatched from the garden wall and hung against the curtain, and they thought she was doing some penance at miss davis's bidding. by eight o'clock the drawings were hid away, the flowers and wreaths disposed of in the jars, and hetty was sitting at the table with a book in her hand. no one need know, she thought, of how she spent those early hours when everybody else was in bed. and so day after day she worked on steadily with her pencil, and there was a strange and unutterable hope in her heart, and a new light of happiness in her eyes. after some time she became more daring and attempted to bring colour into her designs. using her school-room box of paints, the paints intended only for the drawing of maps, she placed washes of colour on her leaves and along her stems, making the whole composition more effective and complete. day by day she improved on her first ideas, till she had stored up a collection of really beautiful sketches. with this new joy tingling through her young veins from morning till night, and from night till morning again, hetty began to look so glad and bright that everyone remarked it. miss davis looked on approvingly, thinking that her own excellent discipline of the girl was having an effect she had scarcely dared to hope for. nell was full of curiosity to know why hetty had become so gay. "may i not have the liberty to be gay as well as you?" said hetty laughing. "of course; but then you are so suddenly changed. miss davis says it is only because you are growing good. but i think there must be something that is making you good." "i am glad to hear i am growing good. something is making me very happy, but i cannot tell you what it is." nell, always on the look-out for a secret, opened her eyes very wide, but could get no further satisfaction from hetty, who only laughed at her appeals to be taken into confidence. that evening, however, she told miss davis that hetty had admitted that there was _something_ that was making her so happy. "i knew she had a secret," said nell mysteriously. "then it is the secret of doing her duty," said miss davis. "she has made great improvement in every respect during the last few weeks." "i know she gets up earlier in the mornings than she used to do," said nell, "and i don't think she is at her lessons all the time." "i hope she has not been making any more friends in the village," said phyllis. "i am sorry such thoughts have come into your minds, children," said miss davis; "i see nothing amiss about hetty. if she is happier than she used to be, we ought all to feel glad." phyllis did not like the implied rebuke, and at once began to hope that she might be able to prove miss davis in the wrong. if hetty could be found to have a secret, as nell supposed, phyllis decided that it ought to be found out. her mother did not approve of children having secrets. even if there was no harm in a thing in itself, there was a certain harm in making a mystery of it. so, having arranged her motive satisfactorily in her mind, phyllis, feeling more virtuous than ever, resolved to observe what hetty was about. the next morning she got up early and came down to the school-room an hour before her usual time. and there was hetty working away at her drawing with a wreath of flowers pinned before her on the wall. phyllis came behind her and was astonished to see what she had accomplished with her pencil; and hetty started and coloured up to her hair, as if she had been caught in a fault. "well, you are a strange girl," said phyllis; "i did not know drawing was a sin, that you should make such a mystery over it." "i hope it is not a sin," said hetty in a low voice. she felt grieved at having her efforts discovered in this way. she wished now that she had told miss davis all about it. phyllis opened the piano and began to practise without having said one word of praise of hetty's work; and the poor little artist felt her heart sink like lead. perhaps the beauty that she saw in her designs existed only in her own foolish eyes. she worked on silently for about half an hour, and then put away her drawing materials and her flowers, and began to study her lessons for the day. "of course you do not expect me to keep your secret from miss davis," said phyllis, looking over her shoulder. "i have been always taught to hate secrets, and my conscience will not allow me to encourage you in this." "do exactly as you please," said hetty; "i shall be quite satisfied to let miss davis know what i have been doing." "then why did you not tell her before?" asked phyllis. "i am not bound to explain that to you," said hetty; but finding her temper was rising she added more gently, "i am willing to give an account of my conduct to any one who may be scandalized by it"; and then, fearing to trust herself further, she went out of the room. on the stairs she met miss davis, and stopped her, saying: "phyllis has a complaint to make of me. i shall be back in the school-room presently after she has made it." "what is it about, my dear?" "she can tell you better than i can," said hetty. "please go down now, miss davis, and then we can have it over before breakfast." "miss davis, i find nell was right in thinking that hetty was doing something sly," began phyllis, as the governess entered the school-room. "i am sorry to hear it. what can it be?" "nothing very dreadful in itself perhaps. it is the secrecy that is so ugly, especially as there was no reason for it in the world." "what has hetty done?" repeated miss davis. "why, she has been getting up early in the mornings to draw flowers," said phyllis, unwillingly perceiving that the fault seemed a very small one when plainly described. "i did not know she could draw," said miss davis; "but, if she can, i see no harm in her doing it." "i think she ought to spend the time at the studies father is so anxious she should improve in," said phyllis; "and i imagine she knows it too, or she would not have been so secret." "there is something in that, phyllis; though i would rather you had not been so quick to perceive it." phyllis curled her lip slightly. "intelligence is given us that we may use it, i suppose," she said coldly; "but i have done my duty, and i have nothing more to say in the matter." breakfast passed over without anything being said on the subject of the great discovery; but after the meal was finished, miss davis desired hetty to fetch her her drawings that she might see them. hetty went to her own room immediately, and returned bringing about a dozen drawings in a very primitive portfolio made of several newspapers gummed together. miss davis was no artist, but she felt that the designs were good, and remarkable as having been executed by a girl so untaught as hetty. they increased her opinion of her pupil's abilities, yet she looked on them chiefly from the point of view phyllis had suggested to her, and considered them in the light of follies upon which valuable time had been expended. "my dear," she said, "these are really very pretty, and i am sure they have given you a great deal of pleasure. but i cannot countenance your going on with this sort of employment. think of how usefully you might have employed at your books the hours you have spent upon these trifles. i presume you were aware of this from the first yourself, and that this is why you have been so silent as to your new accomplishment." "no," said hetty decidedly; "i did not feel that i was wasting time. on the contrary, my drawing gave me better courage to work at my lessons. the hours i spent were taken from my sleep. i was always at my books before phyllis was at hers." "phyllis is not to be made a rule for you, my dear. she has not the same necessity to exert her powers to the utmost. if you can do without part of your sleeping time, you ought to devote it to your books. and pray, if you did not think you were committing some fault, why did you say nothing to anyone of what you were about?" "i cannot tell you that, miss davis," said hetty, her eyes filling with tears; "i mean i cannot explain it properly. i could not bring myself to show what i had done; but i had no idea of _wrongness_ about the matter." "well, my dear, we will say no more about it. take the drawings away; and in future work at your lessons every moment of your time. i will put you on your word of honour, hetty, not to do any more of this kind of thing." "do not ask me to give you such a promise, miss davis." "but hetty, i must, and i do." "then, miss davis, i will speak to mr. enderby." the governess and her two pupils gazed at hetty in amazement. "i mean," hetty went on, "that i hope he will think drawing a useful study for me. will you allow me to speak to him this evening, miss davis?" "certainly, my dear," said miss davis stiffly. "there is nothing to hinder you from consulting mr. enderby on any subject. i am sure he will be kind enough to give you his advice. only i think i know what it will be beforehand; and i would rather you had shown more confidence in me." hetty could not give her mind to her lessons that day, nor get rid of the feeling that she was in disgrace. when evening came, the hour when mr. enderby was usually to be found in his study, she asked miss davis's permission to go to him, and with her portfolio in her hand presented herself at his door. "come in, hetty," said mr. enderby; "what is this you have got to show me? maps, plans, or what? why, drawings!" hetty's mouth grew dry, and her heart beat violently. the tone of his voice betrayed that the master of wavertree had no more sympathy for art, or anything connected with it, than had miss davis. he was an accurate methodical man with a taste for mathematics, who believed in the power conferred by knowledge on man and woman; but who had little respect for those who concerned themselves with only the beauties and graces of life. art was to him a trifle, and devotion to it a folly. therefore hetty with her trembling hopes was not likely to find favour at his hands. "my child, i am sure they are very pretty; but this sort of thing will not advance you in the world." "but, mr. enderby,--i have been thinking--artists get on as well as governesses. i do these more easily than i learn my dates. if i could only learn to be an artist." mr. enderby put his eye-glass to his eye, and gazed at her a little pityingly, a little severely, with a look that hetty knew. "you would like to become an artist? well, my girl, i must tell you to put that foolish idea out of your head. in the first place, you are not to imagine that because you can sketch a flower prettily, you have therefore a genius for painting; and such fancies are only calculated to distract your mind from the real business of your life. besides, remember this, i have given, am giving, you a good education as a means of providing for you in life. having bestowed one profession upon you already, i am not prepared to enter into the expense and inconvenience of a second. so run away like a sensible girl and stick to your books. you had better leave these drawings with me and think no more about them." saying this, mr. enderby opened a drawer and locked up hetty's designs within it; and, humbled and despairing, hetty returned to the school-room. her face of grief and her empty hands told sufficiently what the result of her errand had been. no remark was made by miss davis or the girls, though nell, who thought the drawings wonderfully pretty, was impatient to know what her papa had said of them. she was too much in awe of miss davis to seek to have her curiosity gratified just then; and the evening study went on as if nothing had happened. chapter xvii. hetty's future is planned. this was the severest trial hetty had ever encountered. longing for special love, and delight in reproducing the beautiful, were part of one and the same impulse in her nature, and, crushed in the one, all her heart had gone forth in the other direction. now both had been equally condemned in her as faults, and she fell back, as before, on the mere dull effort towards submission which had already carried her surely, if joylessly, over so many difficult years of her young life. she worked patiently at her books and fulfilled her duties; and she grew thinner and paler, and the old sad look became habitual to her lips and eyes. another year passed, and as phyllis and nell approached nearer and nearer to the period for "coming out" they were more frequently absent from the school-room, and hetty's days were more solitary than they used to be. all her mind was now fixed on the idea of fitting herself as soon as possible for some sort of post as governess. she knew she never could take such a position as that which miss davis filled, and had meekly admitted to herself that a humble situation must content her. she often wondered how it would be with her when the enderby girls should no longer need miss davis; and decided according to her own judgment that she ought to be ready to seek a place for herself in the world as soon as the elder girls should have completed their studies. one evening she sat opposite to miss davis at the school-room fireside. phyllis and nell were in the drawing-room with their mother. miss davis was netting energetically, and hetty, who had been studying busily, dropped her book and was gazing absently into the fire. "hetty," said miss davis presently, "put away your book, i want to talk to you." hetty obeyed, and looked at her governess expectantly. "my dear, you know very well that in another year i shall no longer be needed here. phyllis and nell will then be eighteen and seventeen, and their mother has decided that they shall come out at the same time. when i am gone there will no longer be any object in your staying in this house. and yet, as you will then be only sixteen, you will be young to begin your life among strangers." "yes," said hetty with a sinking of the heart; "but it is very good of you to think about me like this. of course i shall have to go. i suppose i can get in somewhere as a nursery governess." "i have been thinking of something else. of course it will remain for yourself to decide." hetty's heart leaped. a wild idea crossed her mind that perhaps miss davis was going to suggest some way by which she might study to be an artist. though she had never spoken on the subject since mr. enderby had pronounced sentence upon her hopes, still the dear dream of a possible beautiful future had always lain hidden somewhere in the most distant recesses of her brain. now a sudden bright light shone into that darkened chamber. what delightful plan had miss davis been marking out for her? "i have made up my mind," said miss davis, "that instead of entering another family i will open a school in the town where i was born. my mother is getting old and she is lonely. if i succeed in my project i shall be able to live with her and continue to make an income at the same time." "how delightful!" murmured hetty. miss davis smiled sadly. "i don't know about that. the plan will have its advantages, but there are many difficulties. however, i think it is worth a trial." hetty said nothing, only wondered why miss davis was not more wildly glad at the thought of being always with her mother. she could not realize how long years of trial and disappointment had made it impossible to the governess to feel vivid anticipations of delight. "now as regards you--" hetty started. she had so completely thrown herself into miss davis's personality for the moment that she had entirely forgotten her own. "as regards you, i have been thinking that you might come with me and help me as an under teacher. in this way you might begin to be independent at the age of sixteen, and at the same time continue your own studies under my superintendence. later, when you were more thoroughly fitted to be a governess, i could endeavour to place you out in the world." "oh, how good of you to think of it! you are very, very kind!" said hetty, though tears of disappointment rushed to her eyes. she crushed back the ungrateful feeling of dismay which pressed upon her at the thought of trying to teach in school. her common-sense told her that nothing could be more advantageous for her interests than the plan miss davis had sketched for her. and she keenly appreciated the thoughtfulness for her welfare which had led the governess to include her in the scheme for her own future. "you would only have little children to teach at first," miss davis went on, "until you grow accustomed to the work and gain confidence in yourself. of course this is only a suggestion which i make to you, that you may turn it over in your thoughts and be ready to make arrangements when the moment shall arrive. perhaps by that time, however, mr. enderby will be able to provide you with a pleasanter home." "i do not think so," said hetty. "he could recommend me only as a nursery governess, and if i were once in that position i could never have any further opportunity to improve. with you i can continue my studies." "this is precisely what i think," said miss davis, "and i am glad you take such a sensible view of the matter. however, we need not speak of this for a year to come." and so the conversation ended. hetty longed to put her arms round miss davis's neck and thank her warmly for her kindness, but she felt instinctively that the governess would rather she abstained from all such demonstrations. it was only when she went up to bed that she allowed her thoughts to go back to the beautiful moment when she had fancied miss davis might have been thinking of making her an artist; and then she cried sadly as she thought of how foolish she had been in imagining even for a second that such a wild improbability had come true. however, hetty awakened next morning with a wholesome feeling of satisfaction in her mind which she could not at first account for. in a few moments the conversation with miss davis rushed back upon her memory, and she knew that her contentment was due to the prospect of independence that had been put before her as so real and so near. once installed under miss davis's roof, teaching in school and earning the bread she ate, neither servants nor companions could taunt her with being a charity girl any more, mr. enderby's fears for her would then be laid to rest, and the dread of disappointing him would be lifted off her mind. in miss davis's school she could live and work until she had acquired all that learning which to her was so hard to attain. with a sweet and brave, if not a glad, look on her face, hetty came into the school-room that morning and found phyllis and nell chatting more gaily than usual at the fire. "oh, hetty," cried nell, "you must hear our news! we are going to have such a delightful visitor in the house." "how you rush to conclusions, nell!" said her sister. "you have not seen her yet, and you pronounce her delightful." "i know from what mamma told us," cried nell. "she is pretty, amiable, clever--and ever so rich. only think, hetty--to be an heiress at twenty-one without anyone to keep you from doing just as you please! she has a country house in france, and a house in london, with a good old lady to take care of her, who does exactly what she bids her." "mother did not say all that," said phyllis. "oh! but i gathered it all from what she did say." "is she an orphan then?" asked hetty. "she has neither father, nor mother, nor brother, nor sister. now, hetty, don't look as if that was a misfortune. it is natural for you to feel it, of course. but if you had houses, and horses, and carriages, and money, you would not think it so bad to be able to do what you liked." "nell, i am shocked at you," said miss davis. "would you give up your parents for such selfish advantages as you describe?" "oh dear no!" cried nell. "but if i never had had them, like reine gaythorne, and did not know anything about them, i daresay i could manage to amuse myself in the world." this was the first mention of the name of reine gaythorne in the wavertree school-room, and it was certainly far from the last. mrs. enderby had met the young lady at a neighbouring country house, and had thought she would be a desirable acquaintance for her daughters. there was something interesting about the circumstances which had placed a young, beautiful, and wealthy girl alone, and her own mistress, in the world. mr. and mrs. enderby had been greatly attracted by her, and had invited her to pay a visit at their house. in the course of a few days she arrived at the hall, and then phyllis and nell were but little in the school-room. hetty and miss davis went on as usual filling their quiet hours with work in their secluded corner of the house. a week passed away during the visit of the charming stranger, and hetty had never once seen miss gaythorne. chapter xviii. reine gaythorne. mrs. enderby, her visitor, and her two daughters were sitting together one morning at needlework in the pretty morning-room looking out on an old walled garden, at wavertree hall. the distant ends of this old garden, draped with ivy and creepers, had been made into a tennis ground, a smooth trim green chamber lying behind the brilliant beds of flowers. sitting near the window the figures of the girls looked charming against so picturesque a background. miss gaythorne's face, upraised to the light, was full of goodness, sweetness, and intelligence. a low broad brow, soft bright dark eyes, a rich brunette complexion, and red brown hair, so curly as to be gathered with difficulty into a knot at the back of her neck, were some of this girl's beauties which the eye could take in at a glance. a longer time was necessary to discern all the fine traits of character that were so artlessly expressed in turn by her speaking countenance. she wore a pretty dress of maroon cashmere and velvet, with delicate ruffles of rich old yellow lace. her dainty little french shoes and fine gold ornaments were immensely admired by the two young girls beside her, who were not yet "out," and were accustomed to be clothed in the simplest attire. not only her dress, but her accent, which was slightly foreign, her peculiarly winning smiles, her merry little laugh and graceful movements all seemed to the enderbys more charming than could be described. even phyllis, usually so critical, was taken captive by their new friend, reine. miss gaythorne was just finishing a piece of embroidery. she was very skilful with her needle, and her work was pronounced perfection by phyllis and nell. mrs. enderby joined her daughters in warm praise of the delicate production to which their visitor was just now putting the last touches. "i could so easily work one like it for you while i am here," said reine, "if i had only a new design. i do not like repeating the same design." "i am sure hetty could draw one for you," said nell. "but i mean something original." "oh! hetty's drawings are original. she gathers a few flowers, and that is all she wants to begin with." "she must be very clever. who is hetty, if i may ask?" "oh! hetty is--hetty gray. she lives in this house. she is an orphan girl whom papa is educating to be a governess. she is always in the school-room with miss davis." "can she draw so cleverly?" "yes; it comes to her naturally. i will get a bundle of her drawings from papa to show you. he locked them up because she wanted to be an artist and he did not approve of it." "it is well she did not want to go on the stage," said phyllis. "she used to be an extraordinary actress. however, she gave that up and took a dislike to it. perhaps she has now taken a dislike to drawing, and will not care to make a design for reine." "i am sure she will," said nell. "drawing is different from acting. people don't feel shy about drawing. i will go directly and ask her." "perhaps you would let me see her drawings first," said miss gaythorne. "certainly," said nell; "papa is in his study, and i will go and fetch them." mr. enderby willingly surrendered the drawings to amuse and oblige the cherished guest, and hetty's work was spread out on a table before reine. "why, these are beautiful," cried she; "and they are really done by a girl of fourteen who never learned to draw!" "really," said nell, enjoying miss gaythorne's surprise. "and now, may i ask hetty to make you a design?" "if she would be so very good. if it would not give her too much trouble--" "why, hetty will be simply enchanted at the request. she is not allowed to draw, and of course the permission to do so will be delightful." "not allowed to draw?" exclaimed reine in astonishment. "nell, how strangely you put things!" said phyllis. "father warned her not to squander her time in drawing, while she has so much need to study." nell shrugged her shoulders. "put it as you like, phyllis," she said; "hetty is a born artist, and she is going to be thrust into the harness of a governess." "it is well neither father nor mother is in the room," said phyllis. "they would be much grieved to hear you make such a speech. i don't know where you get such ideas." "i don't know," said nell; "they come to me sometimes." reine listened in silence while she studied the drawings more closely. she was something of an artist herself, and had a cultivated taste; and a keen interest in the orphan girl who had a talent like this, and could not be allowed to draw, was springing up within her. nell soon danced off to tell hetty what was required of her. "miss gaythorne wants you to make a design for her, of the size and style of this, and you can use any flowers or foliage you please. mother hopes miss davis will allow you time to do it." hetty felt a rush of delight, which made the colour mount to her forehead. "thank you, dear nell," she said; "i know it is you who have got me this piece of good fortune. i shall have some delicious hours over the work." "now, mind you make it beautiful," cried nell; "for i have staked my reputation on you!" hetty thought she had never been so happy in her life before, as she went out to pick and choose among the flowers, looking for a theme for her composition. at last she satisfied herself, and came back to the school-room, and went to work. miss davis, who had been much pleased with her of late, looked on with approval. she thought the girl had fairly earned a holiday and a treat. hetty was more nervous over this drawing than she had been over any of the others. with them she had been only working to please herself, and of her own free will; but now it seemed as if the eyes of the world were upon every line she drew. she spoiled several beginnings; and at last, flushed and feverish, had to put away the work till to-morrow. "drawing seems to be not all unmixed happiness any more than dates," said miss davis, smiling at her anxious face. "come now and have some tea, or you will get a headache." the next day hetty went to work again, and succeeded at last in producing a striking and beautiful design. she was far from satisfied with it herself, and said to nell, "i fear your friend will not think it good enough, but it is the best i can do." "i think it is lovely," said nell; "and what trouble you have taken with it! she will be hard to please if she does not like it." and then nell fled away with it, and hetty turned to her books again with a happy feeling at her heart. it seemed to her that she had never before had an opportunity of performing any voluntary service for those who had been so generous towards her, but now she had been able to do something which would really give pleasure to the guest in their house. and then she wished she could see that charming miss gaythorne, who was said to be fond of drawing, and to know a great deal about it. she dreamed that night that she was walking through a picture-gallery with the girl called reine, who was pointing out all the beauties to her as they went. in the meantime reine was greatly delighted with the drawing. "the girl is really a little genius," she said; "will you not allow me to make her acquaintance?" "i will ask mamma to invite her to the drawing-room some evening," said nell. "mother does not like her to come often, for fear of spoiling her. phyllis has an idea that hetty needs a great deal of keeping down; but i think it is only because phyllis is so good herself that she thinks so badly of hetty." reine laughed, and a look of fun remained in her eyes a few moments after this naive speech of nell's. the peculiarities of phyllis's style of goodness had not escaped miss gaythorne's quick intelligence. "and mother minds what phyllis thinks a great deal more than she minds me; because phyllis is so wise, and never gives her any trouble." the next morning at breakfast reine said: "do you know, mr. enderby, little miss gray has made me such a beautiful drawing. she has a great talent. i can't help wishing you would let her be an artist." "has she been enlisting you against me?" said mr. enderby, with half a smile and half a frown. "i have never even seen her," said reine; "but i am greatly struck with her work." "it is clever," assented the master of wavertree; "but pray do not arouse foolish ideas in the child's head--ideas which have been fortunately laid to rest. i have great faith in the old warning, 'beware of the man of one book'; and i think hetty will do better to stick to what she has begun with. under miss davis she has excellent opportunities of becoming fitted to be a governess, which, after all, is the safest career for a friendless woman. she lives in a respectable home and is saved from many dangers. i do not hold with the new-fangled notion of letting girls run about the world picking up professions." and then mr. enderby deliberately changed the conversation. however, reine could not forget the little artist; and that evening, being dressed for dinner rather early, she suddenly bethought her of making her way uninvited to the school-room. "i really must see her and thank her," she reflected; "and i will ask pardon of mrs. enderby afterwards for the liberty." and then she set out to look for the school-room. it happened that hetty was sitting all alone at the school-room table; her chin in her hand, her eyes fixed on the pages of a book. a window behind her, framing golden sky and deep-coloured foliage, made her the foreground figure of a striking picture. her dark head and flowing hair, her pale but richly-tinted face with its thoughtful brow and intelligent mouth, her little warm brown hand and wrist were all softly and distinctly defined against the glories of the distance. as reine opened the door and came in, hetty looked up as much startled as if an angel had come to visit her. reine was dressed all in white shimmering silk, which enhanced the beauty of her bright brunette face. her soft luminous eyes beamed on hetty as she advanced to her with outstretched hands. "i came to see you and thank you," she began; "i am reine gaythorne and--" suddenly, as hetty sprang to her feet and came forward smiling and facing the light, reine's little speech died on her tongue, and a sharp cry broke from her. "my mother!" she exclaimed in a tone of deep feeling, and stood gazing at hetty as if a ghost had risen up before her. hetty retreated a step, and the two girls stood gazing at each other. miss gaythorne recovered herself quickly, but her hands and voice were trembling as she took hetty's fingers in her own. "have i frightened you, dear?" she said; "but oh, if you knew how strangely, how wonderfully like you are to my darling mother." "your mother?" stammered hetty. "such a sweet beauty of a young mother she was as i remember her--and i have a likeness of her at your age;--it seems to me that you are the living image of it." "how very strange!" said hetty, with a thrill of delight at the thought that she was like anybody belonging to this charming girl, especially her mother. hetty had fascinating fancies of her own about an ideal mother; no real mother she had known had ever reached her standard. but reine's mother must surely have been up to the mark. and to be told that she, hetty, was like her! she drew nearer to reine, who put her arms round her neck and kissed her. "i can't tell you how i feel," said reine, holding her off and looking at her. "i feel as if you belonged to me someway." "don't turn my head," pleaded hetty wistfully. "please remember i have no relations and must not expect to be loved. i have had great trouble about that; and it has been very hard for them to manage me." "has it?" said reine doubtfully. "as i'm now nearly grown up," said hetty, "of course i have had to learn to behave myself; so don't spoil me." "i wish i could," said reine. "i mean i wish i could get the chance. oh, don't look at me like that. but yes, do. oh, hetty, my mother, my mother!" and reine leaned her arms on the table, and laid her head on them, and wept. hetty stood by wondering, and stroked her head timidly for sympathy. "don't think me a great goose," said reine, looking up. and then suddenly silent again she sat staring at hetty. after a few moments she sprang up and folded her arms round her and held her close. "you strange darling, where have you come from; and how am i ever to let you go again?" a step was heard at the door, and reine and hetty instinctively withdrew from each other's embrace. there was something sacred about the feeling which had so suddenly and unexpectedly overpowered them both. nell came in. "reine, i have been looking for you everywhere." "i came here to thank miss gray for her design," said reine, "and i don't think i have even mentioned it yet." "you are as pale as death," said nell. "what has hetty been saying to you?" "nothing," said reine absently, her eyes going back to hetty's face and fixing themselves there. "how you stare at each other!" said nell, "and i declare your two faces are almost the same this moment." "nell!" "i always said you were like each other, though phyllis could not see it. now i am sure of it." a wild look came into reine's face. "that would be too strange," she said; "for she is so like--so like--some one--oh, nell, she is the very image of my mother!" "your mother!" echoed nell, gazing at hetty and thinking she did not look like anybody's mother, with her short frock and flowing hair. "but there is the dinner-bell!" she cried, glad of the interruption; for nell had a great dislike of anything like a sentimental scene. "you must talk about all this afterwards, for we must not be late." "i will come," said reine, passing her handkerchief over her face. "do i look as if i had been crying." "your nose is a little red," said nell; "but they will think it is the cold." "then don't say anything about this," said reine; "but i must come and see hetty again. goodnight, darling little mother!" "reine, all my respect for you is gone," said nell as they hastened toward the dining-room. "i thought you were as wise as phyllis. and to think of you crying and kissing like that because hetty reminds you of--" "don't, nell," said reine. "i can't bear any more just now." chapter xix. if she was drowned, how can she be hetty? a few friends had joined the wavertree family circle that evening, and reine had no further opportunity of speaking about hetty. she was absent and thoughtful; but wakened up when asked to sing, and sang a thrilling little love song with such power and sweetness as went to everybody's heart. she was thinking as she sang of hetty's face, and it was her strange yearning for hetty's love that inspired her to sing as she did. that night she could not sleep. her mother's eyes, with the loving look she remembered so well, were gazing at her from all the corners of the room. her mind went back over the recollections of her childhood; and her father's voice and her mother's smiles were with her as though she had only said good-night to both parents an hour ago. the lonely girl, who had everything that the world could offer her, except that which she longed for most, the affection of family and kindred, felt the very depths of her heart shaken by the experience of the past evening. that a girl who seemed so much a part of herself should have risen up beside her, and yet be nothing to her, seemed something too curious to be understood. her imagination went to work upon the possibilities of mr. enderby's being induced to give hetty up to her altogether, to be her adopted sister and to live with her for evermore. she was aware that people would distrust this sudden fancy for a stranger, and that opposition would probably be offered to her plan; but then she was not her own mistress; and by perseverance she must surely succeed in the end. oh, the delight of having a sister! reine had had a sister, a baby sister lost in infancy, and had often taken a sad pleasure in fancying what that sister might have been like if she had lived. she had been six years younger than reine. hetty was fifteen, about the age that the little sister might now have been. reine sat up in her bed and counted the years between fifteen and twenty-one twice over on her fingers to make perfectly sure. hetty was the very age of the little sister. and so like her mother! if the baby sister of whom she had been bereft could be still alive, then reine would have declared she must be hetty. she was now in a fever of excitement. her curly brown hair had risen in a mop of rings and ringlets around her head with tossing on her pillow, her eyes were round and bright, and a burning spot was on each of her cheeks. at last she sprang out of bed and in a minute was at nell's bed-room door. nell was awakened out of a sound sleep by the opening of her door. "don't be frightened, nell; i'm not a burglar--only reine." "what's the matter?" said nell, rubbing her eyes. "have you got the toothache?" "i never had toothache. i want to know something." "i often want to know things," said nell, now sitting bolt upright in her little bed; "i'm sometimes _dying_ of curiosity. but it never routed me out of my sleep in the middle of the night." "it's about hetty," said reine, sitting on the floor in a faint streak of moonlight, and looking like a spirit--if spirits have curly hair. "you've gone hetty-mad!" said nell; "wouldn't hetty keep till morning? we're not going to transport her or lock her up. you will have all next week to sit looking at her." "where did you get her?" asked reine. "i know she is a foundling; but she must have had a beginning somewhere." "of course she had; and a most peculiar one. she was found on the long sands. that is a place three miles from wavertree on the sea-shore, where wrecks often come in. john kane, one of the carters, found her, and mrs. kane took her home. then aunt amy, who is dead, fancied her and adopted her. when aunt amy died she was left unprovided for, and papa brought her here; and here she is." "found on the shore where wrecks come in! and she is just fifteen. oh, nell, are you sure you are telling the truth?" there was a sound in reine's voice that startled nell. "the plain truth. every village child knows it. what has it got to do with you?" "i don't know. i don't know. i am afraid to think. why, nell, listen to me. when i was a child of seven years old, my mother and father took me to france. they had inherited a property there and were going to take possession of it. they were fond of the sea, and they long travelled by sea. while still near this coast the vessel was overtaken by storm and wrecked. my father, mother, and myself were saved. but my little baby sister was washed out of my mother's arms and drowned." "well?" "well!" "if she was drowned how can she be hetty, if that is what you mean?" "they thought she was drowned. we were taken into another vessel and carried on to france." "and never asked any more questions about the baby?" "i don't know. my father and mother are both dead," said reine pathetically; "i am sure they did all they could. but i know they thought they saw her drowned before their eyes." "and i suppose they did. reine, stop walking about the floor like crazy jane, in your bare feet, and either come into my bed or go back to your own." "i am going," said reine; "please forgive me, nell, for spoiling your sleep." "don't mention it. we can talk all the rest in the morning. if you are allowed to go on any more now, you will be mad to-morrow, and, what is worse, you will have a cold in your head." nell curled herself up in her pillows again, and was soon fast asleep. but reine could not sleep; and came down to breakfast next morning looking as pale as a ghost. after mr. enderby had gone to his study nell began: "mamma, do you know reine has got a bee in her bonnet!" "my dear, where did you get such an expression?" "never mind. it is quite accurate. she believes that hetty is her sister who was drowned when she was a baby." mrs. enderby looked at reine with a face of extreme surprise. "nell talks so much nonsense," she said, "that i scarcely know what to think of her speeches sometimes." and then seeing reine's eyes full of tears, she added kindly: "dear child, is there any grain of truth in what this wild little scatter-brain has said?" reine burst into tears. "don't mind me, mrs. enderby, please; i have been awake all night, and i don't feel like myself. it is only that hetty gray is so--so _distressingly_ like my mother. and nell says she was found on the sea-shore after a storm and wrecks. and it is fourteen years ago. and that is the very time when our vessel was wrecked, and my father and mother believed that our baby was drowned. oh, mrs. enderby, only think! is it not enough to turn my head?" "it is a very remarkable coincidence at least," said mrs. enderby; "but, dear reine, try to compose your thoughts. you must not jump too hastily at conclusions. at the end of fourteen years it will be very difficult to find evidence to prove or disprove what you imagine may be true." reine shook her head. "i have thought of that; i have thought of it all night." "in the first place, are you quite sure about the dates?" "quite, on my own side. i have a little new testament in which my father wrote down, the day after our rescue, the date of the wreck and a record of the baby's death." "we must send for mrs. kane," said mrs. enderby; "and hear what she has to say before we allow our imaginations to run away with us." "and oh, mrs. enderby,--if you saw the likeness of my mother at just hetty's age! may i telegraph for it at once--to let you see it?" "certainly, my dear; for it and that copy of the testament. but not a word to hetty. it would be cruel to run the risk of subjecting her to a heavy disappointment" the telegram was sent; and mrs. kane appeared, wondering greatly why she was wanted at the hall in such a hurry. "now, mrs. kane," said mrs. enderby, "here is a young lady who is greatly interested in the story of the finding of hetty gray on the long sands by your husband, and i have promised she shall hear of it from your own lips." they were all gathered round a sunny window in the great brown hall, lined with carved oak and decorated with armour and antlers. mrs. enderby herself pushed a stately old oaken chair towards the rose-framed sash and said encouragingly: "sit down, mrs. kane, and make yourself comfortable. there is nothing to be nervous about. you know we are all friends of your favourite, hetty." mrs. kane was trembling with some curious excitement, and could not remove her eyes from reine gaythorne's face. "i do not know who the young lady may be, ma'am," she said, "but this i will say, that she is as like my hetty as if she was her own born sister." a flood of colour rushed over reine's pale face, and she clasped her hands and fixed her eyes on mrs. enderby. "never mind that," said mrs. enderby, "tell the young lady what you remember." "there's but little to tell," said mrs. kane, "beyond what everybody knows. john happened to be down upon the sands that night, and he got the baby lying at his feet. he brought her to me wrapped in his coat, and says he, 'anne, here's god has sent us a little one.' and we kept it for our own, seeing that nobody asked for it. i have the day and the year written in my prayer-book; for i said to myself, some day, may-be, her friends will come looking for her--out of the sea, or over the land, or whatever way providence will send them. and for one whole week we called her nothing but 'h.g.'" "h.g.!" echoed reine. "those were the letters wrought upon the shoulder of her beautiful little shift," said mrs. kane. "and afterwards we made out that they stood for hetty gray." "she had on a little shift?" "mrs. rushton got it," said mrs. kane. "the finest bit of baby clothes i ever set my eyes on." reine had come close to mrs. kane, and her lips were trembling as she went on questioning her: "were the letters in white embroidery--satin stitch they call it? were they all formed of little flowers curling in and out about the letters; and was the chemise of fine cambric with a narrow hem?" "that's the description as plain as if you were looking at it," said mrs. kane. "i have half a dozen like it at home in one of my mother's drawers," said reine turning red and pale. "where is this little garment? is it not to be found?" "i have it, dear," said mrs. enderby quietly. "after mrs. rushton's death i took possession of it. i hardly anticipated so happy a day as this for poor hetty, but i thought it my duty to take care of it." the little chemise was produced, and reine identified it as one of the set belonging to her baby sister supposed to have been drowned, and marked with her initials standing for helen gaythorne. "my mother marked them herself," said reine, examining the embroidery as well as she could through eyes blinded by tears. "she was wonderfully skilful with her needle, and took a pride in marking all our things with initials designed by herself. oh, mrs. enderby, is not this evidence enough?" "it seems to me so," said mrs. enderby, "especially taken with the dates and the likeness to your family. when your mother's portrait comes----" "i must send for the little baby-garments too," said reine; "but oh, why need we wait for anything more? may i not run to my sister, mrs. enderby?" "calm yourself, my dear reine, and be persuaded to take my advice. we must consult a lawyer and get information as to the wrecking of the vessel, and the place where the shipwreck occurred. it will then be seen whether it was possible for a child lost on the occasion to have lived to be washed in upon this shore." "possible or not, it happened!" cried reine. "oh, mrs. enderby, unless you can make me sleep through the interval i shall never have patience to wait." the portrait of reine's mother taken at fifteen years of age and the packet of tiny embroidered chemises arrived the next morning from london. the former looked exactly like a picture of hetty; the latter was the counterpart of the baby-garment produced by mrs. enderby from a drawer of her own. mr. enderby was then consulted, and admitted that the case seemed established in hetty's favour. however, prudent like his wife, he insisted that nothing should be said to hetty till lawyers had been consulted, and information about the wreck of the vessel obtained. in the meantime reine was abruptly sent home to london. "she will make herself ill if she is allowed to stay in the house with hetty, and obliged to be silent towards her as to her discovery," said mr. enderby. "when the chain of evidence is complete, we can think of what to do." so mr. enderby himself carried off reine to london that very night. "it will be necessary to come, my dear," he said, "and make inquiries at once. you will thus arrive more quickly at your end. now just run into the school-room for a minute and say good-bye to hetty. but if you love her, say nothing to disturb the child's peace." it cost reine a great struggle to obey these sudden orders; but she saw their drift, and was wise enough not to oppose them. in her travelling dress she appeared in the school-room, where hetty, all unconscious of the wonderful change for her that was hanging in the balance of fate, sat at work as usual with miss davis. "i have come to say good-bye," said reine; "i am called off to london in a hurry. but you must not forget me. we shall surely meet again." hetty's heart sank with bitter disappointment she had been living in a sort of dream since yesterday, a dream of happiness at being so suddenly and unexpectedly loved by this sweet girl who had risen up like an angel in her path. the hope of seeing her again and enjoying her friendship had kept a glow of joy within her, which now went out and left darkness in its place. she strove to keep her face from showing how deeply she felt what seemed like caprice in reine. reine looked in her face with that long strange gaze which had so impressed hetty's heart and imagination, smothered a sob, snatched a kiss from her sister's quivering lips, held her a moment in a close embrace, and then turned abruptly and was gone. "miss gaythorne seems a rather impulsive young lady," said miss davis disapprovingly. "i wish she had taken a fancy to some one else than my pupil. you must try to forget her, hetty. girls like her, with wealth and power and nobody to control them, are apt to become capricious, and work mischief with people who have business to attend to. i hope you understand me, hetty." "yes," said hetty with a long sigh. "you must not expect to see miss gaythorne again. she will probably have forgotten you to-morrow." miss davis was not in the secret which was occupying the minds of several of the inmates of wavertree hall. chapter xx. happy hetty. about three weeks had passed away. hetty had endured the worst throes of her disappointment, and had almost succeeded in banishing reine out of her thoughts. she had steadily turned away her eyes from looking back at that beautiful evening, when, as if by enchantment, a girl who looked and spoke like a sister had held her in a loving embrace, lavishing kisses and loving words upon her, hetty, who was known to be nobody's child. the quiet studious days went on as if no brilliant interruption had ever flashed in upon them. miss davis, at mrs. enderby's desire, kept hetty more than ordinarily busy, and hindered her from paying her customary visits to mrs. kane. mrs. enderby distrusted the good woman's ability to keep a secret, and, with that prudence which had always distinguished her in her dealings with hetty, she was resolved that the girl should hear no whisper to disturb her tranquillity till such time as her identity should be considered satisfactorily proved. at the end of three weeks' time, however, news came from london to mr. enderby which placed it beyond a doubt that hetty was helen gaythorne, the baby who had been supposed to be drowned. although mrs. enderby and her daughters had been prepared for this result of the inquiries that had been on foot, yet the established fact, with its tremendous importance for hetty, seemed to come on them with a shock. the child who had been protected in their house, no longer needed their protection. the girl who was to have been sent out soon as a governess to earn her bread, would henceforth have pleasant bread to eat in a sister's luxurious home. the dependant, whom it had been thought judicious to snub, was now the equal of those who had so prudently dealt with her according to their lights. mr. and mrs. enderby were extremely pleased at the child's good fortune, and thankful that they had not been induced to send her to a charity school. "you are always right, dear," said mrs. enderby, looking at her husband with pride. "when i was a coward in the matter you insisted on having her here. and if she had gone elsewhere she would never have met reine, and her identity could hardly have been discovered." "and her sister may thank you that she does not receive her a spoiled, passionate, unmanageable monkey. your prudent treatment of the girl has had admirable results. her demeanour has pleased me very much of late. meekness and obedience have taken the place of her wilfulness and pride." nell was perfectly wild with excitement and delight, clapped her hands over her head and danced about the room. "i was always the one who liked hetty the best," she said triumphantly, "and now she will remember it. she will ask me to france to stay with her. and nobody can warn me any more not to give her too much encouragement. i can be allowed to make a companion of miss helen gaythorne." "what a very unpleasant way you always have of twisting things!" said phyllis, who had been remarkably silent all along as to the change in hetty's circumstances. "i am as glad as anyone of hetty's discovery; but i do not see why it should make any difference to us." "phyllis takes a more disinterested view of the matter than you do, nell," said mrs. enderby smiling; "but then my phyllis was always a wise little girl." nell pouted, and phyllis held her head high. mrs. enderby thought she knew the hearts of both. but the woman who could be so exceedingly prudent in the management of "nobody's child" was blind to a great deal that required skilful treatment in the characters and dispositions of her own daughters. miss davis was more affected than anyone in the house by the news of hetty's extraordinary good fortune. unconsciously to herself she had learned to love the girl, whom she had counted upon having by her side for many years to come, and it was not without a pang that she saw the young figure disappear suddenly out of her future. hetty alone knew nothing of the change that had befallen her. "no, my dear," said mrs. enderby to nell, "i will not allow you to tell her. indeed, i am a little nervous about the matter, for hetty is such a strangely impressionable girl one never knows what way she will take things. i must break the truth to her myself." so hetty was sent for to mrs. enderby's dressing-room, and went with rather a heavy heart, thinking some complaint had been made of her. she had never been so sent for except when trouble was impending. "i must try to be patient," she was thinking as she went up the stairs. "i do not know what i can have done so very wrong, but i suppose there must be something." but her sadness was soon turned into amazement and joy. "hetty," said mrs. enderby, "miss gaythorne wishes to have you with her in london, on a visit. mr. enderby and i have consented to allow you to go; and i suppose you will not object to give her pleasure." "miss gaythorne!" exclaimed hetty, scarcely believing she had heard rightly. "she has taken a fancy to you, and wishes to have you with her. she is a charming girl, and i am sure she will make you happy." hetty's face, glowing with delight, sufficiently answered this last speech; but her tongue could find no words. "in fact, i may as well tell you," continued mrs. enderby, "that reine has discovered you are some kind of relation of hers; and, as she is her own mistress and very independent, she will be disposed to make the most of the relationship." hetty was turning slowly pale. "relationship!" she murmured. "am i really related to miss gaythorne?" and reine's cry, "my mother, oh, my mother!" seemed to ring again in her ears. "i believe so, my dear. there, do not think too much of it. at all events, you are to go to her now, and she will tell you all about it. but mind, you and she are to come back and spend christmas with us. mark will be at home then, and he will be anxious to see his old playfellow." "christmas!" echoed hetty, in new astonishment. this was only the end of september. "you see, i fancy reine will not let you go in a hurry once she has got you," said mrs. enderby; "and now, my dear, don't stand there in a dream any longer, but run away and get ready for the mid-day train. mr. enderby has to do some business in london, and he will leave you in portland place. no, you will not have time to go to see mrs. kane. i will give her your love, and tell her you will see her when you come back." "i am not going to have her told till she is in her sister's house," reflected mrs. enderby; "and mrs. kane would be sure to pour out everything suddenly. the child is of so excitable a nature, i do not know what might be the consequences to her." that she could not say good-bye to mrs. kane made the only flaw in hetty's happiness; but she left a little note for her with miss davis, who promised to have it safely delivered. and then, with smiles and good wishes from everyone, and pondering over a few mysterious glances which she caught passing from one person to another over her head, hetty took her place by mr. enderby in his trap, and was whirled away to the railway-station. mr. enderby talked to her kindly as they went along, about the pleasures in store for her in london, especially in the picture-galleries, as she had a taste for art. "and always remember, my dear," he said, "that in the rules i laid down for your education with a view to your future, i acted as i thought best for your good." hetty said warmly, "i know--i am sure of that"; and then she began to wonder at his curious manner of speaking, as if all his dealings with her were in the past, and he had no longer any control over her. could it be, she asked herself, that reine was going to take her and have her taught to be an artist? the thought was too delightful to be borne with, considering the likelihood of disappointment. she tried to put it out of her head, and listened to mr. enderby as he talked to her of westminster abbey and the tower. that afternoon about five o'clock, in a certain handsome drawing-room in portland place, reine was flitting about restlessly with flushed cheeks, now re-arranging the roses in some jar, now picking up her embroidery and putting a few stitches in it, then going to the window and looking out. the afternoon tea equipage was on a little table beside her, but she did not help herself to a cup. she was evidently waiting for some one. at last there was a sound of wheels stopping, and reine's trembling hands dropped her work into her basket. a ring came to the door, and reine was in the middle of the room, pressing her hands together, and listening to the closing of the door with impatient delight. "miss helen gaythorne!" announced the servant, who knew that his mistress's young sister was expected, and who had not asked hetty for her name. in the excitement of the moment hetty heard, but hardly understood the announcement. she thought the servant had made a curious blunder. "mr. enderby will come in the evening," began hetty advancing shyly, and then, as the servant disappeared, she raised her eyes and saw reine. "hetty--helen! my darling! my sister!" cried reine, snatching her into her arms and laughing and crying on her shoulder. "sister?" murmured hetty breathlessly, feeling quite stunned. "oh, miss gaythorne, what are you saying?" "do you mean that they have not told you?" cried reine, covering her face with kisses. "some kind of a relation," murmured hetty, "that was what they told me. oh, miss gaythorne, think of what you have said! do not make fun of me, i cannot bear it." "fun of you! why, hetty, helen! i tell you, you are my sister. my ownest, dearest, darlingest daughter of my mother--the mother you are so like!" "but how--how can it be?" asked hetty with a look almost of terror on her face. "you are our baby who was supposed to have been drowned," said reine. _"that's_ how it comes to be. we were wrecked going to france, and you were washed out of my mother's arms. and we thought you were drowned. but god was keeping you safe for me at wavertree." "how have you found it all out?" said hetty, still holding fast by her doubt, which seemed the only plank that could save her from destruction in case this enchanting story should prove to be all a dream. "it is completely proved, you little sceptic!" cried reine. "mr. enderby would not have you told till the lawyers had pronounced you to be helen gaythorne. so ask me no more questions at present, but give me back some of my kisses. you and i are never going to part any more; are we?" hetty gave her a long, strange, troubled look, and then suddenly broke out into wild weeping. "oh, is it true? is it really true? oh, reine, my sister; if, after this, it comes to be false--i shall die!" "it cannot come to be false, because it is reality," insisted reine, as she rocked her weeping sister in her arms. "i shall be mother and sister and all to you, helen--my poor little motherless darling! cry away, my dearest, for this once, and then you shall have some tea. and after that you are never to cry any more. you and i will have a great deal too much to say and do together to spend our time over crying. but oh, hetty--helen--if mother and father were only here this day!" and then reine cried again herself, and hetty was the comforter. they sat with their young heads together and their warm cheeks touching, and told as much of their life's stories to each other as they could think of at the moment. to reine the great discovery had come gradually, and so the present hour was not so strange as it was to hetty. for hetty the world seemed to have got suddenly under a spell of enchantment. she could not believe in herself as helen gaythorne--could not get accustomed to her new vision of life. "and i shall not need to be a governess. and perhaps i may be an artist if i like." "you will not need to be either. there is enough of wealth for both of us," said reine. "but you can study art to your heart's content. and we will go to italy. and you shall be as happy as a queen." * * * * * and here i think we may take leave of hetty gray, in the fulness of her happiness, and in reine's loving arms. when i last heard of the sisters they were leading a busy, active, and joyous life. john kane having died, mrs. kane has found a home with them; and scamp, who is now quite an old dog, spends his days in tranquil ease at hetty's feet. http://www.archive.org/details/sonofhismother viebiala the son of his mother by clara viebig authorised translation by h. raahauge london: john lane the bodley head new york: john lane company toronto: bell & cockburn mcmxiii the anchor press, ltd., tiptree essex book i the son of his mother chapter i the husband and wife were of a literary turn of mind, and as they had the money to cultivate their artistic tastes he wrote a little and she painted. they also played and sang duets together, at least they had done so when they were first married; now they went to concerts and the opera more frequently instead. they were liked wherever they went, they had friends, they were called "charming people," and still something was wanting to complete their happiness--they had no children. and they would probably not have any now, as they had been married for some time, and the likelihood of children being born to them was very remote. no doubt he sighed and knit his brow in unguarded moments when he sat at his desk in his office, but especially when he passed through the villages in the brandenburg march on the rides he took in the more distant environs of berlin--partly for his health, partly because he still retained the liking for riding from the time he was in the cavalry--and saw swarms of little flaxen-haired children romping on the sandy roads. however, he did not let his wife perceive that he missed something, for he loved her. but she could not control herself in the same manner. the longer she was married the more nervous she became. at times she felt irritated with her husband for no reason. she persistently turned her eyes away from the announcement of births in the newspapers with a certain shrinking, and, if her glance happened once in a way to fall on one in which happy parents notified the birth of a son, she put the paper aside hastily. in former years käte schlieben had knitted, crocheted, embroidered and sewn all sorts of pretty little children's garments--she used to be quite famous for the daintiness of her little baby jackets trimmed with blue and pink ribbons, all her newly married acquaintances would ask her for the wonderful little things--but now she had finally given up that sort of work. she had given up hope. what good did it do her to put her forefingers into the tiny sleeves of a baby's first jacket, and, holding it out in front of her, gaze at it a long, long time with dreamy eyes? it only tortured her. and she felt the torture twice as much in those grey days that suddenly put in an appearance without any reason, that creep in silently even in the midst of sunshine. on those occasions she would lie on the couch in her room that was furnished with such exquisite taste--really artistically--and close her eyes tightly. and then all at once a shout, clear, shrill, triumphant, like the cry of a swallow on the wing, would ascend from the street, from the promenade under the chestnut-trees. she stopped her ears when she heard that cry, which penetrated further than any other tone, which soared up into the ether as swiftly as an arrow, and cradled itself up there blissfully. she could not bear to hear anything like that--she was becoming morbid. alas, when she and her husband grew old, with minds no longer so receptive and too weary to seek incitement in the world, who would bring it to them in their home? who would bring them anything of what was going on outside? what youth with his freshness, with the joyousness that envelops those of twenty like a dainty garment, that beams from smooth brows like warmth and sunshine, would give them back a breath of their youth, which had already disappeared in accordance with the laws of time? who would wax enthusiastic at the things that had once made them enthusiastic, and which they would enjoy once more as though they were new for them too? who would fill the house and garden with his laughter, with that careless laughter that is so infectious? who would kiss them with warm lips, and make them happy by his tenderness? who would carry them on his wings with him, so that they did not feel they were weary? alas, there is no second youth for those who are childless. nobody would come into the inheritance of delight in what was beautiful, of taste for what was beautiful, of enthusiasm for art and artists which they would leave behind them. nobody would guard reverently all those hundreds of things and nicknacks she had gathered together so tastefully in her house with the delight of a collector. and nobody would, alas, hold the hand that was fast growing cold with loving hands, in that last difficult hour which all dread, and cry: "father, mother, don't go! not yet!" oh, god, such loving hands would not close their eyes---- when paul schlieben used to come home from his office in those days he was co-partner in a large business that his grandfather had founded and his father raised to a high position--he often found his wife's sweet face stained with tears, her delicate complexion marred by constant weeping. and her mouth only forced itself to smile, and in her beautiful brown eyes there lurked a certain melancholy. the doctor shrugged his shoulders. the lady was suffering from nerves, that was what was the matter with her. she had too much time for brooding, she was left to herself too much. in order to alter this, her anxious husband withdrew from the business for an indefinite period. his partners could get on just as well without him. the doctor was right, he must devote himself more to his wife; they were both so lonely, so entirely dependent on each other. it was decided they should travel; there was no reason whatever why they should remain at home. the beautiful house was given up, their furniture, all their costly things were stored. if they cared to do so they could remain away for years, get impressions, amuse themselves. käte would paint landscapes in beautiful countries, and he--well, he could easily find compensation in writing, should he miss his usual work. they went to italy and corsica--still further, to egypt and greece. they saw the highlands, sweden and norway, very many beautiful places. käte pressed her husband's hand gratefully. her susceptible mind waxed enthusiastic, and her talent for painting, which was by no means insignificant, felt powerfully stimulated all at once. how splendid to be able to paint, to keep hold of all that glow of colour, that wonderful effect of tone that revealed itself to her delighted eyes on her canvas. she was so eager that she went out with her painting materials in the morning, whether it was at capri, on the shores of the blue bosphorus, in the yellow sand of the desert, facing the precipitous pinnacles in the fjords, or in the rose gardens of the riviera. her delicate face got sunburnt; she no longer even paid any attention to her hands, which she used to take such care of. the ardent longing to manifest herself had seized hold of her. thank god, she could create something now. the miserable feeling of a useless life did not exist any longer, nor the torturing knowledge: your life ceases the moment your eyes close, there is nothing of you that will survive you. now she would at least leave something behind that she had produced, even if it were only a picture. her paintings increased in number; quite a quantity of rolls of canvas were dragged about now wherever they went. at first paul schlieben was very pleased to see his wife so enthusiastic. he politely carried her camp-stool and easel for her, and never lost patience when he remained for hours and hours near her whilst she worked. he lay in the scanty shadow of a palm-tree, and used to follow the movements of her brush over the top of his book. how fortunate that her art gave her so much satisfaction. even though it was a little fatiguing for him to lie about doing nothing he must not say anything, no, he must not, for he had nothing to offer her as a compensation, nothing whatever. and he sighed. it was the same sigh that had escaped him when the numerous flaxen-haired little children were playing about on the sandy roads in the brandenburg march, the same sigh which sundays drew from him, when he used to see all the proletariat of the town--man and wife and children, children, children--wandering to the zoo. yes, he was right--he passed his hand a little nervously across his forehead--that writer was right--now, who could it be?--who had once said somewhere: "why does a man marry? only to have children, heirs of his body, of his blood. children to whom he can pass on the wishes and hopes that are in him and also the achievements; children who are descended from him like shoots from a tree, children who enable a man to live eternally." that was the only way in which life after death could be understood--life eternal. the resurrection of the body, which the church promises, was to be interpreted as the renewal of one's own personality in the coming generations. oh, there was something great, something indescribably comforting in such a survival. "are you speculating about something?" asked his wife. she had looked up from her easel for a moment. "eh? what? did you say anything, darling?" the man started up in a fright, as one who has been straying along forbidden paths. she laughed at his absent-mindedness; it was getting worse and worse. but what was he thinking of? business?--surely not. but perhaps he wanted to write a novel, a tale? why should he not try his hand at that for once in a way? that was something quite different from sending short chatty accounts of one's journey to one of the papers. and of course he would be able to do it. people who had not half the education, not half the knowledge, not half the aesthetic refinement of feeling he had wrote quite readable books. she talked brightly and persuasively to him, but he shook his head with a certain resignation: nonsense, neither novels nor any other kind of writing. and he thought to himself: it is always said that a piece of work is like a child--that is to say, only a truly great piece of work, of course. was the work he and his wife created work in that sense? work that would exist eternally? he suddenly found things to censure severely in her picture, which he had politely admired only the day before. she got quite frightened about it. why was he so irritable to-day? was he going to develop nerves at the finish? yes, it was evident, the warm air of the south did not suit him, he had lost his briskness, looked so tired. there was nothing for it, her husband was more to her than her picture, she would leave off her painting at once. and that was what happened. they went away, travelled from one place to another, from one hotel to another, along the lakes, over the frontier, until they made a somewhat longer stay high up among the alps in switzerland. instead of lying under a palm-tree he lay in the shadow of a fir--now his wife was painting--and followed the movements of her brush with his eyes over the top of his open book. she was busily painting, for she had discovered a delightful subject. that green alpine meadow, with its wealth of flowers as variegated as they could possibly be and the backs of the brown cows with the sun shining on them, was as full of charm as the garden of eden on the first day of creation. in her eagerness to see she had pushed her broad-brimmed hat back, and the warm summer sun was burning little golden spots on her delicate cheeks and the narrow bridge of her finely shaped nose. she held the brush that she had dipped into the green on her palette up against the green of the meadow in order to compare the two, and blinked with half-closed eyes to see if she had got the colour right. at that moment a sound made her start--it was half a growl of displeasure at the disturbance, half a murmur of approval. her husband had risen and was looking at a couple of children who had approached them noiselessly. they were offering rhododendrons for sale, the girl had a small basket full of them, the boy was carrying his nosegay in his hand. what exceedingly pretty creatures they were, the girl so blue-eyed and gentle, the boy a regular little scamp. the woman's heart swelled. she bought all the rhododendrons from them, even gave them more than they asked for them. that was a stroke of great luck for the little swiss boy and girl--just think, to get more than they had asked for. they blushed with happiness, and when the strange lady asked them questions in a kind voice, they commenced to chatter ingenuously. she would have to paint _those_ children, they were really too delightful, they were a thousand times more beautiful than the most beautiful landscape. paul schlieben looked on with a strange uneasiness whilst his wife painted the children, first the big girl and then the small boy. how intently she gazed at the boy's round face. her eyes were brilliant, she never seemed to be tired, and only paused when the children grew impatient. all her thoughts turned on the painting. would the children come again that day? was the light good? surely there would not be a storm to prevent the children from coming? nothing else was of any interest to her. she displayed great zeal. and still the pictures turned out bad; the features were like theirs, but there was no trace of the child-mind in them. he saw it clearly: those who are childless cannot paint children. poor woman! he looked on at her efforts with a feeling of deep compassion. was not her face becoming soft like a mother's, lovely and round when she bent down to the children? the madonna type--and still this woman had been denied children. no, he could not look on at it any longer, it made him ill. the man bade the children go home in a gruff voice. the pictures were ready, what was the good of touching them up any more? that did not make them any better, on the contrary. that evening käte cried as she used to cry at home. and she was angry with her husband. why did he not let her have that pleasure? why did he all at once say they were to leave? she did not understand him. were the children not sweet, delightful? was it because they disturbed him? "yes," was all he said. there was a hard dry sound in his voice--a "yes" that came with such difficulty--and she raised her head from the handkerchief in which she had buried it and looked across at him. he was standing at the window in the carpeted room of the hotel, his hands resting on the window-ledge, his forehead pressed against the pane. he was gazing silently at the vast landscape before him, in which the mountaintops covered with snow that glowed in the radiance of the setting sun spoke to him of immortality. how he pressed his lips together, how nervously his moustache trembled. she crept up to him and laid her head on his shoulder. "what is the matter with you?" she asked him softly. "do you miss your work--yes, it's your work, isn't it? i was afraid of that. you are getting tired of this, you must be doing something again. i promise you i'll be reasonable--never complain any more--only stop here a little longer, only three weeks longer--two weeks." he remained silent. "only ten--eight--six days more. not even that?" she said, bitterly disappointed, for he had shaken his head. she wound her arms round his neck. "only five more--four--three days, please. why not? those few days, please only three days more." she positively haggled for each day. "oh, then at least two days more." she sobbed aloud, her arms fell from his neck--he must allow her two days. her voice cut him to the heart. he had never heard her beg like that before, but he made a stand against the feeling of yielding that was creeping over him. only no sentimentality. it was better to go away from there quickly, much better for her. "we're going away to-morrow." and as she looked at him with wide-open horror-struck eyes and pallid cheeks, the words escaped from his lips although he had not intended saying them, drawn from him by a bitterness that he could not master any longer: "they are not yours!" chapter ii and they went away. but it seemed to the woman as though every joy had disappeared with the emerald green meadow in the alps, in which she had painted the lovely children. there was the same old nervous twitch in her face, the corners of her mouth drooped slightly and she cried very easily. paul schlieben watched his wife with positive dismay. oh dear, had it all been in vain, the giving up of his work, all this travelling about without making any plans that was so fatiguing? had the old melancholy frame of mind taken possession of her again? when he saw her sitting there so disinclined to exert herself, her hands lying idle in her lap, a feeling akin to fury came over him. why did she not do something? why did she not paint? that confounded meadow in the alps was surely not the only place where she could work. was it not beautiful here as well? they had settled down in the black forest. but it was in vain that he hoped from day to day that one of the quiet green wooded valleys or one of the nut-brown maidens of the black forest with her cherry-red hat and enormous red umbrella, as vautier has painted them, would tempt her to bring out her painting materials. she felt no inclination--nay, she had positively a kind of dread of touching her brushes again. he reproached himself bitterly in secret. would it not have been better to have left her that pleasure and not have interfered? still--the thing would have had to end some time, and the longer it had lasted the more difficult the separation would have been. but he had made up his mind about one thing, they would return to berlin again late in the autumn. with the best will in the world he would not be able to stand it any longer. he was heartily tired of this wandering from hotel to hotel, this lounging about the world with nothing to show for it but an occasional short article for the papers, a chatty account of a journey to some corner of the earth of which people knew but little. he longed for a home of his own again, and felt a great desire to return to his business, which he had often looked upon as a fetter and so prosaic whilst he was in it. but käte! when he thought of her again spending many hours alone at home, with no interests beyond herself and her reading for in her state of hypersensitiveness she found little pleasure in associating with other women--a feeling of hopelessness came over him. then there would be the same sad eyes again, the same melancholy smile, the old irritable moods from which the whole house used to suffer, herself the most. and he subjected himself to an examination as though blaming himself for it. he passed his whole life in review: had he committed any crime that no son had been given to him, no daughter? ah, if only käte had a child everything would be right. then she would have quite enough to do, would be entirely taken up with the little creature round which the love of parents, full of hope and entitled to hope, revolves in an ever-renewed circle. both husband and wife were torturing themselves, for the woman's thoughts especially always ended at that one point. now that she had been separated from those dear children, from the, alas, much too short happiness she had experienced that summer, it seemed to have become quite clear to her what she missed--for had it not only weighed on her like a painful suspicion before? but now, now the terrible unvarnished truth was there: everything people otherwise call "happiness" in this world is nothing compared to a child's kiss, to its smile, to its nestling in its mother's lap. she had always given the children in the meadow a tender kiss when they came and went, now she longed for those kisses. her husband's kiss did not replace them; she would soon have been married fifteen years, _his_ kiss was no longer a sensation, it had become a habit. but a kiss from a child's lips, that are so fresh, so untouched, so timid and yet so confiding, was something quite new to her, something, exceedingly sweet. a feeling of happiness had flowed through her soul on those occasions as well as the quite physical pleasure of being able to bury her mouth in those delicately soft and yet so firm cheeks, which health and youth had covered with a soft down like that on the cheeks of a peach. her thoughts always wandered back to that meadow in the alps, full of longing. and this longing of hers that was never stilled magnified what had happened, and surrounded the figures that had appeared in her life for so short a time with the whole halo of tender memories. her idle thoughts spun long threads. as she longed for those little ones so they would also be longing for her, they would wander across the meadow weeping, and the large present of money she had left behind for each of them with the proprietor of the hotel--she had been obliged to leave without saying good-bye to them--would not console them; they would stand outside the door and cast their eyes up to the windows from which their friend so often had waved to them. no, she could not forgive paul for showing so little comprehension of her feelings. the stay in the black forest, whose velvety slopes reminded them too much of the swiss meadows and from whose points of view you could look over to the alps on a clear day, became a torture to both the man and woman. they felt they must get away; the dark firs, the immense green forest became too monotonous for them. should they not try some seaside resort for once? the sea is ever new. and it was also just the season for the seaside. the wind blew already over the stubble in the fields, as they drove down to the plain. they chose a belgian watering-place, one in which the visitors dress a great deal, and in which quite a cosmopolitan set of people offer something new to the eye every day. they both felt it, they had remained much too long in mountain solitudes. during the first days the gay doings amused them, but then paul and his wife, between whom something like a barrier had tried to push itself lately, both agreed all at once: this sauntering up and down of men who looked like fools, of women who if they did not belong to the demi-monde successfully imitated it, was not for them. let them only get away. the man proposed they should give up travelling entirely and return to berlin a little earlier, but käte would not listen to it. she had a secret dread of berlin--oh, would she have to go back to her old life again? so far she had never asked herself what she had really expected from these long months of travel; but she had hoped for something--certainly. what? oh dear, now she would be so much alone again, and there was nothing, nothing that really filled her life entirely. no, she was not able to return to berlin yet. she told her husband that she felt she had not quite recovered yet--she was certainly anæmic, she was suffering from poorness of blood. she ought to have gone to schwalbach, franzensbad or some other iron springs long ago--who knows, perhaps many things would be different then. he was not impatient--at least he did not show it--for he was moved with a deep compassion for her. of course she should go to some iron springs; they ought to have tried them long ago, have made a point of it. the belgian doctor sent them to the well-known baths at spa. they arrived there full of hope. in her the hope was quite genuine. "you will see," she said to her husband in a brighter voice, "this will do me good. i have a vague feeling--no, i really feel quite sure that something good will happen to us here." and he hoped so too. he forced himself to hope in order to please her. oh, it would be enough, quite enough if the characteristics of the landscape won so much interest from her that she took up her painting again, which she had neglected entirely. how pleased he would be at even that. if her former zeal for art showed itself again, that was a thousand times more health-bringing than the strongest iron springs at spa. the heather was in bloom, the whole plateau was red, the purple sun set in a mass of purple. it happened as he had hoped, that is to say, she did not begin to paint, but she made expeditions into the ardennes and the eifel with him on foot and in a carriage, and enjoyed them. the venn had bewitched her. in her light-coloured dress she stood like a small speck of light in the immense seriousness of the landscape, protected her eyes with her hand from the view of the sun, which is so open there, so unobstructed either by tree or mountain, and took deep breaths of the sharp clear air that has not yet been vitiated by any smoke from human dwellings, hardly by human breath. around her the venn blossomed like a carpet of one colour, dark, calm, refreshing and beneficial to the eye; it was only here and there that the blue gentian and the white quivering flock of the cotton-grass were seen to raise their heads among the heather. "oh, how beautiful!" she said it with deep feeling. the melancholy of the landscape flattered her mood. there was no gaudy tone there that disturbed her, no medley of colours. even the sun, which sets there in greater beauty than anywhere else--blushing so deeply that the whole sky blushes with it, that the winding venn rivulet hedged in by cushions of moss, that every pool, every peat-hole full of water reflects its beams ruddy-gold, and the sad venn itself wears a mantle of glowing splendour--even this sun brought no glaringly bright light with it. it displayed its mighty disc in a grand dignified manner, a serious victor after a serious struggle. käte looked into this marvellous sun with large eyes bathed in tears, until the last beam, the last rosy streak in the grey mass of clouds had vanished. now it had gone--the heavens were dead--but in the morning it would be there again, an eternal, imperishable, never-conquered hope. then should not, ought not the human heart to beat again too, revived anew, always full of hope? clouds of mist sped across the moor, veiled, indescribable, vague shapes. there was a whispering before the coming of the wind, a lisping through the heather and the cotton-grass--it seemed to käte as though the venn had something to tell her. what was it saying? ah, it must be for some reason that she had come there, that she felt she was being held fast as though by a strong and still kind hand. she walked on with quicker, more elastic steps, as though she were searching for something. her husband was delighted that his wife was so pleased with the neighbourhood. true, the landscape had no special attraction for him--was it not very desolate, monotonous and unfertile there? but the characteristic scenery was certainly harmonious, very harmonious--well, if she found pleasure in it, it was better than a paradise to him. they often drove up to baraque michel, that lonely inn on the borders between belgium and prussia, in which the douaniers drank their drams of gin when on the look-out for smugglers, and where the peat-cutters dry their smocks that the mist has wetted and their saturated boots at the fire that is always burning on the hearth. so many crosses in the venn, so many human beings who have met with a fatal accident. käte listened to the men's stories with a secret shudder--could the venn be so terrible? and she questioned them again and again. was it possible that the man from xhoffraix, who had driven off to get peat litter, had been swallowed up there so close to the road with cart and horse, and that they had never, never seen anything of him again? and that cross there, so weather-beaten and black, how had that come into the middle of the marsh? why had that travelling journeyman, whose intention it was to go along the high road from malmedy to eupen, gone so far astray? had it been dark or had there been a heavy fall of snow so that he could not see, or was it the cold, that terrible cold, in which a weary man can freeze to death? nothing of the kind; only a mist, a sudden mist, which confuses a man so, that he no longer knows which is forward or which is backward, which is left or which is right, that he loses all idea of where he is going, gets away from the road and runs round in a circle like a poor, mad, terrified animal. and all the mists that rise in the venn when daylight disappears, are they the souls of those who have never been buried, and who in garments that are falling to pieces rise every night from their graves, which have neither been consecrated by a benediction nor by holy water and in which they cannot find rest? that was a fairy tale. but was not everything there as in the fairy tale? so quite different to everywhere else in the world, in reality ugly and yet not ugly, in reality not beautiful and yet so exceedingly beautiful? and she herself, was she not quite a different being there? did she not wander about full of hope, in blissful dreams, like one to whom something wonderful is to happen? it was in the sixth week of their stay at spa. the nights were already as cold as in winter, but the days were still sunny. it was always a long journey up to the inn even for the strong ardennes horses, but paul and his wife were there again to-day. would they have to leave soon? alas, yes. käte had to confess it to herself with sorrow. everything was very autumnal, the heather had finished flowering, the air was raw; the grass that had already been frozen during the night rustled under her feet. they could have found use for their winter clothes. "ugh, how cold," said the man shivering, and he turned up the collar of his overcoat. he wanted to twist a shawl round his wife's neck, but she resisted: "no, no!" she ran on in front of him through the rustling heather with quick steps. "just look." it was a wide view that presented itself to their eyes there on the highest point in the venn, that is adorned with a rickety wooden tower. the whole large plateau covered with heather lay before them, with here and there a group of dark firs that only showed spreading branches on the side away from the storm. these firs that cowered so timidly were trees that had been planted there; they were hardly higher than the heather, and only recognisable on account of their different colour. and, here and there, there was a stray grey boulder and a cross that the wind had carried to the side of it. and a calm lay over the whole in the pale midday autumn light as though it were god's acre. when they had climbed up the tower they saw still more. from the plateau they looked down into the valley: a blue expanse around them, blue from the darkness of the forests and from autumn vapours, and in the beautiful blue outstretched villages the white houses half hidden behind tall hedges. and here, looking down on belgium, with its grey fumes hanging like a cloud in the clear transparent autumn air, lay the large town of verviers with its church-towers and factory chimneys towering above it. käte heaved a sigh and shuddered involuntarily: oh, was the workaday world so near? was grey life already approaching nearer and nearer to her wonderful fairy world? her husband gave a slight cough; he found it very cold up there. they went down from the tower, but when he wanted to take her back to the inn she resisted: "no, not yet, not yet. that's only the midday bell." the bell was ringing in fischbach chapel, that ancient little church with its slated roof, in whose tower the great red lantern was formerly hoisted to point out the safe harbour to the wanderer swimming in the wild sea of mists, and the bell rung unceasingly to save the man who had lost his way through his ear should his eye fail him. the bell rang out clear and penetrating in the solitude, the only sound in the vast stillness. "how touching that sound is." käte stood with folded hands and looked into the wide expanse, her eyes swimming in tears. what a charm there was in this venn. it encircled the soul as the tough underwood of the heather and the creeping tendrils of the club moss entangled the foot. when she thought of how soon she would have to leave it, to go away from that immense stillness that seemed to be concealing a secret, to be cherishing something marvellous in its deep lap, her heart contracted in sudden fear. what would happen to her, what would become of her? her seeking soul stood like a child on the threshold of fairyland asking for something--was there to be no gift for her? "what was that?" all at once she seized hold of her husband's arm with a low cry of terror. "didn't you hear it as well?" she had grown quite pale; she stood there with dilated eyes, raising herself on her toes with an involuntary movement and craning her neck forward. "there it is again. do you hear it?" something like a child's soft whimpering had penetrated to her ear. no, he had not heard anything. "i suppose there are some people in the neighbourhood. how you do frighten a body, käte." he shook his head a little angrily. "you know very well that all the women and children have left their villages in the venn to gather cranberries. that's all the harvest they have, you see. look, the berries are quite ripe." stooping down he took up a plant. the small cluster of berries of a deep coral in colour formed a beautiful contrast to the glossy dark green of the small oval leaf. but there were also some flowers on the plant, small pure white flowers. "like myrtle, just like the flower on a myrtle," she said, taking the plant out of his hand. "and the leaves are also exactly like myrtle leaves." twisting the stalk round between her finger and thumb she gazed at it thoughtfully. "the venn myrtle." and, raising the little flower to her mouth, she kissed it, full of delight. "do you still remember--that time--on the evening of our wedding-day, do you still remember? you kissed the myrtle that had been in my wreath and i kissed it too, and then we kissed each other. then--then--oh, how happy we were then." she said it very softly, as though lost in sweet memories. he smiled, and as she swayed towards him, with a dreamy look in her eyes that were fixed the whole time on the little green plant, he drew her closer and laid his arm round her. "and are we not--not"--he wanted to say "not just as happy," but all he said was: "not happy to-day, too?" she did not answer, she remained silent. but then, hurling the plant with its glossy leaves away with a sudden movement, she turned and ran away from him blindly into the venn, without noticing where she was going. "what's the matter, käte?" he hurried after her, terrified. she ran so quickly that he could not overtake her at once. "käte, you'll fall. wait, i say. käte, what is the matter with you?" no answer. but he saw from the convulsive movements of her shoulders that she was weeping violently. oh dear, what was the matter now? he looked troubled as he ran after her across the desolate venn. was she never to get any better? it was really enough to make a fellow lose all pleasure in life. how stupid it had been to bring her to the venn--real madness. there was no brightness to be found there. a hopelessness lurked in that unlimited expanse, a terrible hardness in that sharp aromatic air, an unbearable melancholy in that vast stillness. the man only heard his own quickened breathing. he ran more and more quickly, all at once he became very anxious about his wife. now he had almost reached her--he had already stretched out his hand to seize hold of her fluttering dress--then she turned round, threw herself into his arms and sobbed: "oh, here's both, blossom and fruit. but our myrtle has faded and not borne fruit--not fruit--we poor people." so that was it--the same thing again? confound it. he who as a rule was so temperate stamped his foot violently. anger, shame, and a certain feeling of pain drove the blood to his head. there he stood now in that lonely place with his wife in his arms weeping most pitifully, whilst he himself was deserving of much pity in his own opinion. "don't be angry, don't be angry," she implored, clinging more closely to him. "you see, i had hoped--oh, hoped for certain--expected--i don't know myself what, but still i had expected something here--and today--just now everything has become clear. all, all was in vain. let me cry." and she wept as one in whom all hope is dead. what was he to say to her? how console her? he did not venture to say a word, only stroked her hot face softly whilst he, too, became conscious of a certain feeling, that feeling that he had not always the strength to push aside. they stood like that for a long time without saying a word, until he, pulling himself together, said in a voice that he tried to make calm and indifferent: "we shall have to return, we have got quite into the wilds. come, take my arm. you are overtired, and when we--" "hush," she said, interrupting him, letting go of his arm quickly. "the same as before. somebody is in trouble." now he heard it as well. they both listened. was it an animal? or a child's voice, the voice of quite a small child? "my god!" käte said nothing more, but making up her mind quickly, she turned to the right and ran down into a small hollow, without heeding that she stumbled several times among the bushes, through which it was impossible for her to force a passage. her quick ear had led her right. there was the child lying on the ground. it had no pillow, no covering, and was miserably wrapt up in a woman's old torn skirt. the little head with its dark hair lay in the heather that was covered with hoar-frost; the child was gazing fixedly into the luminous space between the heavens and the venn with its large clear eyes. there was no veil, nothing to protect it; no mother either--only the venn. nevertheless they had deceived themselves. it was not crying, it was only talking to itself as quiet contented children generally do. it had stretched out its little hands, which were not wrapped up like the rest of its body, and had seized hold of some of the red berries and squashed them. then its little fists had wandered up to the hungry mouth; there were drops of the juice from the berries on its baby lips. "quite alone?" käte had sunk down on her knees, her hands trembled as they embraced the bundle. "oh, the poor child. how sweet it is. look, paul. how has it come here? it will die of cold, of hunger. do call out, paul. the poor little mite. if its mother came now i would give her a piece of my mind it's disgraceful to let the helpless little mite lie like this. call--loud--louder." he called, he shouted: "heigh! hallo! is nobody there?" no voice answered, nobody came. the whole venn was as quiet as though it were an extinct, long-forgotten world. "nobody is coming," whispered käte quite softly, and there was an expression of fear and at the same time trembling exultation in her voice. "its mother does not trouble--who knows where the woman is? i wonder if she's coming?" she looked round searchingly, turned her head in all directions, and then stooped over the child again with a sigh of contentment. what unpardonable thoughtlessness--no, what unspeakable barbarity to abandon such a mite in that place. if they had come only a few hours--only an hour later. it might already have been bitten by a snake then, might even have been torn to pieces by a wolf. then her husband had to laugh, although the sight of her over-excitement had slightly annoyed him. "no, my child, there are no poisonous snakes here and no more wolves either, so you can be at rest about that. but when the mists begin to rise, they would have done for him." "oh!" käte pressed the foundling to her bosom. she was sitting on her heels holding the child in her lap; she stroked its rosy cheeks, its little downy head, and showered caresses and flattering words on it, but the child continued to gaze into the luminous space with its large, dark, and yet so clear eyes. it did not smile, but it did not cry either; it took no notice whatever of the strangers. "do you think it has been left here intentionally?" asked käte suddenly, opening her eyes wide. the blood flew to her head in a hot wave. "oh then--then"--she drew a trembling breath and pressed the child to her bosom, as though she did not want to let it go again. "it will all be cleared up somehow," said the man evasively. "the mother will be sure to come." "do you see her--do you see her?" she inquired almost anxiously. "no." "no." she repeated it in a relieved tone of voice, and then she laughed. after that her eyes and ears belonged entirely to the helpless little creature. "where's baby--where is he then? laugh a little, do. look at me once with those big, staring eyes. oh, you little darling, oh, you sweet child." she played with it and pressed kisses on its hands without noticing that they were dirty. "what are we to do now?" said the man, perplexed. "we can't leave it here. we shall have to take it with us, of course." there was something very energetic about the delicate-looking woman all at once. "do you think i would forsake the child?" her cheeks glowed, her eyes gleamed. paul schlieben looked at his wife with a certain awe. how beautiful she was at that moment. beautiful, healthy, happy. he had not seen her like that for a long time. not since he had folded her in his arms as a happy bride. her bosom rose and fell quickly with every trembling breath she took, and the child lay on her breast and the venn myrtle bloomed at her feet. a strange emotion came over him; but he turned away: what had that strange child to do with them? still he admitted in a hesitating voice: "we certainly can't leave it here. but do you know what we can do? we'll take it with us to the inn. give it to me, i'll carry it." but she wanted to carry it herself, she only let him help her up. "there--there--come, my sweet little babe." she raised her foot cautiously to take the first step--then a shout tied her to the spot. "hallo!" a rough voice had shouted it. and now a woman came up to them; the figure in the fluttering skirt was outlined big and clear against the rarefied ether that flowed around it. where had she come from so suddenly? from there, from behind the mound of earth that had been thrown up near the peat pit. she had been creeping on all fours plucking berries; a pail that was almost ft hung on her arm, and in her right hand she carried the wooden measure and the large bone curry-comb with which she stripped off the berries. that was the mother! käte got a terrible fright; she turned pale. her husband was taken by surprise too. but then he gave a sigh of relief: that was decidedly the best way out of it. of course, they might have known it at once, how should the child have come into the desolate venn all alone? the mother had been looking for berries, and had put it down there meanwhile. but the woman did not seem to take it kindly that they had looked so carefully after the child during her absence. the strong bony arms took it away from the lady somewhat roughly. the woman's eyes examined the strangers suspiciously. "is it your child?" asked paul. he need not have asked the question; it had exactly the same dark eyes as the woman, only the child's were brighter, not dulled as yet by life's dust as the mother's were. the woman made no answer. it was only when the man asked once more, "are you the mother?" and put his hand into his pocket at the same time, that she found it worth while to give a curt nod: "c'est l' mi'n."[a] her face retained its gloomy expression; there was no movement of pride or joy. [footnote a: c'est le mien.] käte noticed it with a certain angry surprise. how indifferent the woman was. was she not holding the child as though it were a useless burden? she was filled with envy, torturing envy, and at the same time with hot anger. that woman certainly did not deserve the child. she would have liked to have torn it out of her arms. how rough she looked, what coarse features she had, what a hard expression. she might really frighten anybody terribly with her black looks. but now--now her expression brightened; ah, she had seen the piece of money paul had taken out of his purse. ugh, what a greedy expression she had now. the fruit-picker stretched out her hand--there was a large shining silver coin--and when it was given to her, when she held it in her hand she drew a deep breath; her brown fingers closed round it tightly. "merci." a smile passed quickly across the sullen face in which the corners of the mouth drooped morosely, her blunted expression grew animated for a moment or two. and then she prepared to trudge away, the shapeless bundle containing the child on one arm, the heavy pail on the other. they now saw for the first time how poor her skirt was; it had patches of all colours and sizes. dried heather and fir-needles stuck to her matted and untidy plaits, as they hung out from the gaudily spotted cotton handkerchief; she had an old pair of men's hobnailed shoes on her feet. they did not know whether she was old or young; her stout body and hanging breasts disfigured her, but that her face had not been ugly once upon a time could still be seen. the little one resembled her. "you've got a pretty child," said paul. to please his wife he started a conversation again with this woman who was so inaccessible. "how old is the boy?" the fruit-picker shook her head and looked past the questioner apathetically. there was no getting anything out of the woman, how terribly stupid she was. the man wanted to let her go, but käte pressed up against him and whispered: "ask her where she lives. where she lives--do you hear?" "heigh, where do you live, my good woman?" she shook her head once more without saying a word. "where do you come from, i mean? from what village?" "je ne co'pr nay,"[a] she said curtly. but then, becoming more approachable--perhaps she hoped for a second gift of money--she began in a whining, plaintive voice: "ne n'ava nay de pan et tat d's e'fa'ts."[b] "you're a walloon, aren't you?" "ay[c]--longfaye." and she raised her arm and pointed in a direction in which nothing was to be seen but the heavens and the venn. longfaye was a very poor village in the venn. paul schlieben knew that, and was about to put his hand into his pocket again, but käte held him back, "no, not her--not the woman--you must hand it over to the vestryman for the child, the poor child." [footnote a: je ne comprends pas.] [footnote b: nous n'avons pas de pain et tant d'enfants.] [footnote c: yes.] she whispered softly and very quickly in her excitement. it was impossible for the woman to have understood anything, but her black eyes flew as quick as lightning from the gentleman to the lady, and remained fixed on the fine lady from the town full of suspicion: if she would not give her anything, why should she let them ask her any more questions? what did they want with her? with the curtest of nods and a brusque "adieu" the walloon turned away. she walked away across the marsh calmly but with long strides; she got on quickly, her figure became smaller and smaller, and soon the faded colour of her miserable skirt was no longer recognisable in the colourless venn. the sun had disappeared with the child; suddenly everything became grey. käte stood motionless looking in the direction of longfaye. she stood until she shivered with cold, and then hung heavily on her husband's arm; she went along to the inn with dragging feet, as though she had grown tired all at once. the mist began to conceal the bright midday. cold damp air, which wets more than rain, made their clothes clammy. the stinging flies from the swamps flew in big swarms through the door and windows of the inn; a smouldering peat-fire was burning within, fanned to a bright flame by means of dry fir twigs, and the flies clung to the wall near the fire-place and to the ceiling--no, they would not die yet. autumn had come, sun and warmth had disappeared from the venn, it was wise to flee now. but outside, in the depths of the wilds above the highest point in the venn, a lonely buzzard was moving round and round in a circle, uttering the piercing triumphant cry of a wild bird. he was happy there in summer as in winter. he did not want to leave. chapter iii the vestryman of the small village in the venn felt somewhat surprised and embarrassed when such a fine lady and gentleman drove up to his house and wished to speak to him. he went out to them, walking through the filthy water in his yard that splashed up to his knees. he did not know where he should take them to, as the little pigs and the calf were in the house and the old sow was wallowing in front of the door. so they walked up and down the quiet village street from which the few farms lay somewhat back, whilst the carriage jolted slowly along in the deep ruts behind them. käte was pale, you could see from her eyes that she had only had very little sleep. but she was smiling, and a happy excitement full of expectation was written on her features, spoke in her gait; she was always a little ahead of the others. her husband's face was very grave. was he not committing a great imprudence, acting in an extremely hasty manner for the sake of his wife? if it did not turn out all right? they had had a bad night. he had brought käte home from the inn the day before in a strangely silent and absent-minded mood. she had eaten nothing, and, feigning extreme fatigue, had gone early to bed. but when he retired to rest a few hours later he found her still awake. she was sitting up in bed with her beautiful hair hanging down her back in two long plaits, which gave her quite a youthful appearance. her bewildered eyes gazed at him full of a strange longing, and then she threw both arms round his neck and drew his head down to her. her manner had been so strange, so gentle and yet so impetuous, that he asked her anxiously whether there was anything the matter with her. but she had only shaken her head and held him close in a silent embrace. at last he thought she had fallen asleep--and she was asleep, but only for quite a short time. then she woke again with a loud cry. she had dreamt, dreamt so vividly--oh, if he knew what she had been dreaming. dreaming--dreaming--she sighed and tossed about, and then laughed softly to herself. he noticed that she had something on her mind, which she would like to tell him but which she had hardly the courage to say. so he asked her. then she had confessed it to him, hesitatingly, shyly, and yet with so much passion that it terrified him. it was the child of which she had been thinking the whole time, of which she always must think--oh, if only she had it. she would have it, must have it. the woman had so many other children, and she--she had none. and she would be so happy with it, so unspeakably happy. she had become more and more agitated in the darkness of the night, uninterrupted by a single word from him, by any movement--he had lain quite quietly, almost as though the surprise had paralysed him, although it could not really be called a surprise any more. what was her whole life? she had said. a constant longing. all the love he showered on her could not replace the one thing: a child, a child. "my dear, good husband, don't refuse it. make me happy. no other mother on earth will be so happy--my darling husband, give me the child." her tears were falling, her arms clasped him, her kisses rained down on his face. "but why just _that_ child? and why decide so quickly? it's no trifle--we must think it over very carefully first." he had made objections, excuses, but she had pertinent answers ready for all. what was to be thought over very carefully? they would not come to any other result. and how could he think for a moment that the woman would perhaps not give them the child? if she did not love it, she would be glad to give it, and if she did love it, then all the more reason for her to be glad to give it, and to thank god that she knew it was so well taken care of. "but the father, the father. who knows whether he will agree to it?" "oh, the father. if the mother gives it, the father is sure to agree. one bread-eater less is always a good thing for such poor people. the poor child, perhaps it will die for want of food, and it would be so well"--she broke off--"isn't it like a dispensation of providence that just we should come to the venn, that just we should find it?" he felt that she was persuading him, and he strove against it in his heart. no, if she allowed herself to be carried away by her feelings in such a manner--she was only a woman--then he, as a man, must subordinate his feelings to common sense. and he enumerated all the difficulties to her again and again, and finally said to her: "you can't guess what troubles you may be preparing for yourself. if the affection you now think you feel for the child should not last? if he is not congenial to you when he grows older? bear in mind, he is and will always be the child you have adopted." but then she had almost flown into a passion. "how can you say such things? do you think i am narrow-minded? whether it is my own child or a child i have adopted is quite immaterial, as it becomes mine through its training. i will train it in my own way. that it is of your own flesh and blood has nothing to do with it. am i only to love a child because i have borne it? oh no. i love the child because--because it is so small, so innocent, because it must be so extremely sweet when such a helpless little creature stretches out its arms to you." and she spread out her arms and then folded them across her breast, as though she was already holding a child to her heart. "you're a man, you do not understand it. but you are so anxious to make me happy make me happy now. dear, darling husband, you will very soon forget that it is not our own child, you will soon not remember it any more. it will say 'father,' 'mother' to us--and we will be its father and mother." if she were right! he was silent, thrilled by a strange emotion. and why should she not be right? a child that one trains according to one's own method from its first year, that is removed entirely from the surroundings in which it was born, that does not know but what it is the child of its present parents, that learns to think with their thoughts and feel with their feelings, cannot have anything strange about it any more. it will become part of oneself, will be as dear, as beloved as though one had begotten it oneself. pictures arose before his mind's eye which he no longer expected to see, no longer ventured to hope for. he saw his smiling wife with a smiling child on her lap; he saw himself smile, and felt a pride he had never known when he heard its soft childish voice lisp: "fa-ther." yes, käte was right, all the other things that go by the name of happiness are nothing compared to this happiness. only a father, a mother, knows what joy is. he kissed his wife, and this kiss already meant half consent; she felt that. "let us drive there to-morrow, the first thing to-morrow morning," she implored, in a tone of suppressed rapture. he endeavoured to remain calm: after they had maturely considered the matter, they would first have to talk it over with their lawyer in berlin, and other intimate friends. then she lost her temper. she pouted, and then she laughed at him: was this a business matter? what had the lawyer and other people to do with such a very important, quite personal and private matter? nobody was to be asked about it, nobody was to interfere with it. not a single person must suspect where the child came from or who were its parents. they, he and she, were its parents, they were responsible for it, its life had begun when they took it, and they vouched for its future. this child was their work, their work entirely. "we'll fetch it the first thing to-morrow. the sooner it gets out of that dirt and misery the better--don't you agree with me, paul?" she did not give him a chance of saying anything more, she overwhelmed him with plans and proposals, in her sparkling vivacity; and her exuberant spirits overcame his scruples. one can have too many scruples, be too cautious, and thus embitter every pleasure in life, he said to himself. there was surely nothing extraordinary in what they were doing? they only picked up something that had been laid at their feet; in that way they were obeying a hint given them by fate. and there were really no difficulties in connection with it. if they did not betray it themselves nobody would find out about the child's antecedents, and there would not be any questions asked in the village either as to what had become of it. it was a nameless, homeless little creature they were going to take away with them, of which they would make what they liked. later on when the little one was old enough they would formally adopt it, and thus confirm also in writing what their hearts had already approved of long ago. now the only thing left to do was to get hold of the vestryman at longfaye, and make arrangements with the parents for the surrender of the child with his assistance. when paul schlieben had come to this decision, he was troubled with the same restlessness as his wife. oh, if only it were morning, she groaned. if anybody should steal a march on them now, if the child should no longer be there next morning? she tossed about in her impatience and fear. but her husband also turned from side to side without sleeping. how could they know whether the child was healthy? for a moment he weighed anxiously in his mind whether it would not be advisable to confide in the doctor at the baths at spa--he might drive with them and examine the child first of all--but then he rejected the thought again. the child looked so strong. he recalled its sturdy fists, the clear look in its bright eyes--it had lain on the bare ground in the cold and wind without any protection--it must have a strong constitution. they need not trouble about that. it was very early in the morning when husband and wife rose--weary as though all their limbs were bruised, but driven on by a kind of joyful determination. käte ran about the room at the hotel, so busy, so happy and excited, as though she were expecting a dear guest. she felt so sure they would bring the child back with them straightway. at all events she would commence packing the trunks, for when they had got it they would want to get home, home as quickly as possible. "the hotel is no place for such a little darling. it must have its nursery, a bright room with flowered curtains--but dark ones besides to draw in front of the windows so as to subdue the light when it goes to sleep--otherwise everything must be bright, light, airy. and there must be a baby's chest-of-drawers there with all the many bottles and basins, and its little bath, its bed with the white muslin curtains behind which you can see it lying with red cheeks, its little fist near its head, slumbering soundly." she was so young-looking, so lovely in her joyful expectation, that her husband was charmed with her. did not the sunshine seem to be coming now for which he had been waiting so long in vain? it preceded the child, fell on its path, making it clear and bright. both husband and wife were full of excitement as they drove to longfaye. they had taken a comfortable landau that could be closed that day, instead of the light carriage for two in which they generally made their excursions. it might be too cold for the child on the way back. rugs and cloaks and shawls were packed in it, quite a large choice. paul schlieben had taken his papers with him. they would hardly be likely to want any proof of his identity, but he stuck them into his pocket as a precaution, so as to provide against any delay that might be caused by their absence. he had been told that the vestryman was quite a sensible man, so everything would be settled smoothly. as the rowan trees on both sides of the road bowed their tops under their autumn load of red berries, so the heads of both husband and wife were bowed under a flood of thoughts full of promise. the trees flew quickly past the carriage as it rolled along, and so did their lives' different stages past their agitated minds. fifteen years of married life--long years when one is expecting something first with confidence, then with patience, then with faint-heartedness, then with longing, with a longing that is kept more and more secret as the years go by, and that becomes more and more burning on account of the secrecy. now the fulfilment was at hand--a fulfilment certainly different from what husbands and wives who love each other picture to themselves, but still a fulfilment. that old sentence in the bible came into the woman's mind and would not be banished: _but when the fulness of the time was come, god sent forth his son._ oh, this child from a strange, from an unknown land, from a land that had neither fields nor fruits, and was not blessed with rich harvests, this child was a gift from god, given by his goodness. she bowed her head full of gratitude, as though she had received a blessing. and the man pressed his wife's hand gently, and she returned the pressure. they remained sitting hand in hand. his glance sought hers and she blushed. she loved him again as in the first year of her marriage--no, she loved him much more now, for now, now he gave her the happiness of her life, the child. her eyes that were full of bliss swept over the poor venn district, which looked brown and desolate, and which was still a fairyland full of the most glorious wonders. "didn't i know it?" she murmured triumphantly, although trembling with an agitation that was almost superstitious. "i felt it--here--here." she could hardly wait until they reached the village hi the venn, oh, how far away from the world it lay, so quite forgotten. and so poor. but the poverty did not terrify her, nor the dirt--the result of the poverty; she was going to take the child away with her now, to take him where there was culture and prosperity, and he would never know that he had lain on the bare ground instead of in a soft bed. she thought of moses. as he had been found in the bulrushes on the banks of the nile, so she had found him on the grass in the venn--would he become a great man like him? desires, prayers, hopes, and a hundred feelings she had not known before agitated her mind. paul schlieben had some difficulty in making the vestryman understand him. it was not because the man was a walloon who hardly understood german, for nikolas rocherath of "good hope"--his house having received that name because it could be seen a good distance off in the venn, it being the largest in the village--was a german, but because he could not understand what the gentleman meant. what did he want with lisa solheid's jean-pierre? adopt him? he looked quite puzzled at first, and then he got offended. no, even if he was nothing but a simple peasant, he would not let the gentleman make a fool of him. it was only by degrees that schlieben could convince him that his intentions were serious. but the old man still continued to rub his stubbly chin doubtfully and cast suspicious glances at the lady and gentleman, who had broken in on his solitude so unexpectedly. it was only when käte, wearied and tortured by the long explanation, seized hold of his arm impatiently, and looking into his face cried impetuously, almost angrily, "for goodness' sake do understand. we have no child, but we want a child--now do you understand it?"--that he understood. no child--oh dear! no child! then people do not know what they are living for. now he nodded comprehendingly, and, casting a compassionate look at the lady who was so rich, so finely dressed and still had no children, he became much more approachable. so they were so pleased with lisa solheid's jean-pierre that they wanted to take him to berlin with them? how lucky the boy was. lisa would not be able to believe it. but nobody would begrudge her it. nobody in longfaye was as poor as she; many a day she did not know how to get sufficient food for herself and her five. formerly, whilst her husband was alive---- what, her husband was not alive? she was a widow? paul schlieben interrupted the vestryman, and drew a long breath as though of relief. although he had never spoken of it, he had always had a secret fear of the father: if he turned out to be a drunkard or a ne'er-do-well? a load fell from his mind now--he was dead, he could not do any more harm. or had he died of an illness after all, of a wasting disease that is handed down to children and children's children? he had been told that the mists on the venn and the sudden changes in the temperature may easily be injurious to the lungs and throat--added to that hard work and bad food--surely the young man had not died of consumption? he asked the question anxiously. but nikolas rocherath laughed. no, michel solheid had never known a day's illness all his life, and had not died of any illness. he had worked at the machine factory at verviers, covered with black soot and naked to the waist. cold and heat had had no effect on him. and he used to come over from verviers every saturday and spend sunday with his family. and it had been the saturday before the festival of st. peter and st. paul somewhat over a year ago now, and michel had bought his wife a side of bacon and one or two pounds of coffee for the money he had earned for overtime. "you must know, sir, everything is much too dear for us here, and it is much cheaper on the other side of the frontier," said the old man in a troubled voice; then, raising his fist slowly, he shook it at the venn that lay there so peaceful and remote from the world. "but they were soon on his tracks. they came after him from the baraque--the accursed douaniers. three, four of them. now you must know that michel could run as well as any of them. if he had thrown his parcel behind a bush and run, they would never have caught him. but no, he would not, he would have felt ashamed of himself if he had done so. so in order not to let them know where he was going, he ran to the left through the walloon venn in the direction of hill instead of to the right. then on through clefay and neckel,[a] and so on in all directions, and in this manner he got away from the neighbourhood he knew as well as he knew his own pocket. they were close at his heels above the pannensterz. and they ran after him calling out 'stop!' [footnote a: wooded districts in the high venn.] "look you, sir, if he had run into the great haard then and hidden in the thicket there, they would never have found him without a dog. but he lost his head, and ran out of the bushes straight across the venn. "'halt!--stop!'--and a third time 'halt!' but he bounded along like a stag. then one of them pulled his trigger and--jesus christ have mercy upon us, now and at the hour of our death!"--the vestryman devoutly made the sign of the cross and then wiped his nose with the back of his hand--"the shot pierced the side of bacon and went into his back, in from behind, out at the front. then solheid turned a somersault. it was a shame. such a fine fellow, for a side of bacon. "he still lived for over an hour. he told them that he was solheid from longfaye, and that they should fetch his wife. "i was just cutting my hedge that day, when somebody came running up. and i started off with lisa, who was six months gone with jean-pierre at the time. but when we came there it was already too late. "they had left him lying not far from the large cross. they had wanted to carry him to a house at ruitzhof, but he had said 'leave me. i'll die here.' and he gazed at the sun. "sir, it was as large and red in the sky that day--as large--as it will be on the day of judgment. sir, he was bathed in sweat and blood--they had chased him for hours--but he still enjoyed gazing at the sun. "sir, the fellow who had shot him was almost out of his mind; he held him on his knees and wept. sir, no,"--the vestryman gave himself a shake and his gestures expressed the aversion he felt--"i would not like to be a douanier!" the old man's voice had grown deeper and hoarser--it was a sign of the sympathy he felt--now it got its former even-tempered ring again. "if it's agreeable to you, ma'am, we'll go now." "oh, the child, the poor child," whispered käte, quite shaken. "do you think the widow will part with her youngest child?" asked paul schlieben, seized with a sudden fear. this child that had been born after its father's death--was it possible? "oh!" the old man rocked his head to and fro and chuckled. "if you give a good sum for it. she has enough of them." nikolas rocherath was quite the peasant again now; it was no longer the same man who had spoken of the sun in the venn and solheid's death. the point now was to get as much out of these people as possible, to fleece a stranger and a townsman into the bargain to the best of his ability. "hundred thalers would not be too much to ask," he said, blinking sideways at the gentleman's grave face. what a lot of money he must have, why, not a muscle of his face had moved. the old peasant had been used to haggling all his life when trading in cattle, now he gazed at the strange gentleman full of admiration for such wealth. he led the way to solheid's cottage with alacrity. chapter iv like all the houses in the village, the solheids' cottage stood quite alone behind a hedge that reached as high as the gable. but the hedge, which was to protect it against the storms that raged in the venn and the heavy snowdrifts, was not thick any longer; you could see that there was no man's hand there to take care of it. the hornbeams had shot up irregularly; dead branches lashed by the wind from the venn stretched themselves in the air like accusing fingers. ugh, it must be icy cold there in the winter. käte involuntarily drew her cloak of soft cloth lined with silk more tightly round her. and it must be doubly dark there on dark days. hardly any light found its way through the tiny windows owing to the protecting hedge, and the roof hung low over the entrance. there were no steps, you walked straight into the room. the vestryman rattled the iron knocker on the door, which had once been painted green but had no colour left now. the sound reverberated through the building, but the door did not open when they tried it. the woman was probably among the berries, and the children with her. the hungry screams of the youngest one was all that was heard inside the locked cottage. the poor child--oh, she had left it alone again. käte trembled with excitement, its screams sounded to her like a call for help. the vestryman sat down calmly on the chopping-block in front of the door and drew his pipe out of the pocket of his blue linen smock, which he had hastily drawn over his working coat in honour of the lady and the gentleman. now they would have to wait. the husband and wife looked at each other much disappointed. wait? käte had refused the seat on the chopping-block, which the old man had offered her with a certain gallantry. she could not rest, she walked restlessly up and down in front of the little window, trying in vain to look through the dark pane. the child inside screamed more and more loudly. old rocherath laughed: what a roar that was to be sure, jean-pierre had powerful lungs. käte could not listen to the screams any longer, they tortured her both bodily and mentally. oh, how they made her ears tingle. she covered them with her hands. and her heart trembled with compassion and anger: how could its mother remain away so long? her brow was wet with perspiration. she stared at the venn, at the bare, treeless, tortuous path with burning impatient eyes. at last she saw some figures--at last!--and yet her breath stopped all at once, her heart ceased to beat and then suddenly went hammering on at a furious pace as if mad. there came the child's mother! lisa solheid was carrying a bundle of fagots on her back, which was fastened round her shoulders with a rope the load was so heavy that it quite weighed her down, bending her head forward. three children--their small feet in clumsy shoes with big nails in them--stamped along in front of their mother, whilst a fourth was clinging to her skirt. it had also been looking for cranberries, and its little hands were coloured red like those of its older sister and brothers, who were carrying pails, measure and comb. pretty children, all four of them. they had the same dark eyes as little jean-pierre, and they stared with them half boldly, half timidly at the strange lady who was smiling at them. the woman did not recognise the lady and gentleman again who had given her a present in the venn the day before--or did she only pretend not to? the rope which had kept the bundle together had cut deep into her shoulders and bosom, now she undid it and threw off the burden with a powerful jerk; and then, seizing hold of the axe lying near the chopping-block, she began to chop up a couple of big branches with powerful strokes. "hallo, lisa," said the vestryman, "when you have chopped sufficient wood to cook the cranberries, just wait a bit." she looked up at him for a moment. the strange lady and gentleman had gone a little aside--without previous arrangement. let the vestryman tell her first. it was not so simple a matter as they had imagined. she was not very approachable. not a feature changed in the woman's reserved face; she went on with her work in silence, her lips compressed. the wood was split up by means of her powerful blows, and the pieces flew around her. was she listening at all to what the man was saying to her? yes--the spectators exchanged a hasty glance--and now she was answering too in a more lively manner than they would have supposed, judging from her sullen appearance. lisa solheid raised her arm and pointed to the cottage in which the little one was still screaming. her speech--an almost barbaric dialect--sounded rough, they understood nothing of it except a french word here and there. the vestryman spoke walloon too. both of them became excited, raised their voices and spoke to each other in a loud voice; it sounded almost like quarrelling. they did not seem to agree. käte listened in suppressed terror. would she give it? would he get it from her? she pulled her husband's sleeve when nobody was looking. "offer more, give her some more, a hundred thalers is much too little." and he must also promise the peasant something for his trouble. a hundred, two hundred, three hundred, a hundred times a hundred would not be too much. oh, how the poor child was screaming. she could hardly bear to stand outside the door doing nothing any longer. little jean-pierre's sister and brothers--a beautiful girl with untidy hair and three younger brothers--stood with their fingers in their mouths, their dirty noses unwiped, and did not move from the spot. their mother spoke to them angrily, "off with you!" and they darted off, one almost tumbling over another. they scraped the key out of the little hole under the door, and the biggest of them thrust it into the rusty lock, and, standing on her toes, turned it with all the strength of her small hands. then the woman turned to the strange lady and gentleman; she made a gesture of invitation with her thin right hand: "entrez." they stepped in. it was so low inside that paul schlieben had to bend his head so as not to knock against the beams in the ceiling, and so dark that it took a considerable time before they could distinguish anything at all. it could not have been poorer anywhere--one single room in all. the hearth was formed of unhewn stones roughly put together, above it hung the kettle in an iron chain that was made fast to the blackened beam; the smoke from the smouldering peat ascended into the wide sooty chimney. a couple of earthenware plates in the plate-rack--cracked but with gay-coloured flowers on them--a couple of dented pewter vessels, a milk-pail, a wooden tub, a long bench behind the table, on the table half a loaf of bread and a knife, a few clothes on some nails, the double bed built half into the wall, in which the widow no doubt slept with the children now, and little jean-pierre's clumsy wooden cradle in front of it--that was all. really all? käte looked round, shivering a little in the cold dark room that was as damp as a cellar. oh, how poor and comfortless. there were no ornaments, nothing to decorate it. oh yes, there was a glaringly gaudy picture of the virgin mary--a coarse colour-print on thin paper--a vessel for holy water made of white china beneath it, and there on the other wall close to the window so that the sparse light fell on it the picture of a soldier. a framed and glazed picture in three divisions; the same foot-soldier taken three times. to the left, shouldering his arms, on guard before the black and white sentry-box--to the right, ready to march with knapsack and cooking utensils strapped on his back, bread-bag and field-flask at his side, gun at his feet--in the centre, in full dress uniform as a lance-corporal, with his hand to his helmet saluting. that was no doubt the man, michel solheid as a soldier. käte cast a timid glance at the picture--that man had been shot in the venn whilst smuggling. how terrible! she heard the old man tell the story once more, saw the bleeding man lying in the heather, and the horror of his tragic end made her shudder. her glance fell on the picture again and again, the usual picture of a soldier which told nothing whatever in its stereotyped inanity, and then on little jean-pierre's cradle. did he resemble his father much? paul schlieben had expected his wife to speak--she would of course know best what to say to the other woman--but she was silent. and the vestryman did not say anything either; as he had started the negotiations he considered it polite to let the gentleman speak now. and lisa solheid was also silent. all she did was to drive away the children, who wanted to fall upon the hard bread on the table with ravenous appetites, with a silent gesture. then she stood quietly beside the cradle, her right hand, which still held the axe with which she had cut the wood, hanging loosely by her side. her face was gloomy, forbidding, and still a struggle was reflected on it. paul schlieben cleared his throat. he would have preferred some other person to have settled the matter for him, but, as this other person was not there and the vestryman only looked at him expectantly, he was compelled to speak. with an affability which might have been taken for condescension but which was nothing but embarrassment he said: "frau solheid, the vestryman will have told you what has brought us to you--do you understand me, my good woman?" she nodded. "it's our intention to take your youngest child away with us"--he hesitated, for she had made a movement as though she wanted to deny it--"as our own, to adopt it. do you understand?" she did not answer, but he continued with as much haste as if she had said yes. "we will treat it as if it really were our own. we shall be able to do more for it than you would, of course, and we----" "oh, and we'll love it so," his wife broke in. the black-eyed woman turned her head slowly to the side where the fair-haired lady was standing. it was a peculiar look with which she scanned the stranger, who had now approached the cradle. was it a scrutinising look or a forbidding one? a friendly or unfriendly one? käte looked at the child with longing eyes. it was no longer crying, it even smiled, and now--now it stretched out its little arms. oh, it was already so intelligent, it was looking at her, it noticed already that she was fond of it. it tried to get up--oh, it wanted to go to her, to her! her face flushed with joy. she had already stretched out her hands to take the child, when its mother pushed herself in front of the cradle like a wall. "neni,"[a] she said in walloon, in a hard voice. she raised her empty left hand to ward käte off. and then she made the sign of the cross on the child's forehead and then on its breast. [footnote a: non.] but why, why would she not give it all at once? käte trembled with dismay. she cast an imploring look at her husband, as much as to say: "help me. i must have the child." and then her husband said what he wanted to say before when his wife had cut him short: "we will secure your child's future. do you know what that means, my good woman? it will never have to trouble about its daily bread--never have to hunger. never have to work to prolong its life--only work for the pleasure of working. do you understand?" work--for the pleasure of working? the woman shook her head, she did not understand him. but then the words came into her mind: never hunger!--and a light shone in her dull eyes. never hunger--ah, the woman understood that; and still she shook her head again: "neni!" she pointed to herself and the other children, and then to the great venn outside with a comprehensive gesture: "nos avans tortos faim."[a] she shrugged her shoulders with the equanimity of one who is accustomed to it, and it even looked as though she wanted to smile; the corners of her sullen mouth did not droop quite so much, her lips that were generally tightly closed showed her strong healthy teeth. the vestryman stepped in now: "'pon my word, lisa, to hunger is surely no pleasure. good heavens, how can you be so foolish! the child will be taken from hell to heaven. remember what i've told you, the lady and gentleman are rich, very rich, and they are mad on the child--quick, give it to them, you still have four." still four! she nodded reflectively, but then she threw her head back, and a look--now it was plain, something like hatred flickered in it--flew to the others standing there so rich, so fine, with rings on their ringers, and at whom her jean-pierre was peeping. "neni!" she repeated it once more and still more curtly and more obstinately than before. but the vestryman was tenacious, he knew the people he had to deal with. "you must think it over," he said persuasively. "and they'll give you a good sum, i tell you--won't you?" he asked, turning to the gentleman. "haven't you said you weren't particular to a coin or two in the case of such a poor woman?" "no, certainly not," assured paul. and käte was too precipitate again. "it does not matter at all to us--we will gladly give what she asks--oh, the dear child!" "dju n' vous nin,"[b] muttered the woman. [footnote a: nous avons tous faim.] [footnote b: je ne veux pas.] "you won't? oh, nonsense." the old peasant almost laughed at her. "you are just like my mayflower when she won't stand, and kicks the milk-pail with her hind foot. don't offend the people. what advantage will it be to you if they grow impatient and go away? none at all. then you will have five who call out for bread, and the winter is near at hand. do you want to have such a winter as you had last year? didn't jean-pierre almost die of cold? the four others are already older, it's easier to rear them. and you can get a cow for yourself--just think of that, a cow. and you could have a better roof put on the house, which won't let the rain and the snow come through, and could have enough cranberries as well. it would certainly be a good stroke of business, lisa." käte wanted to add something more--oh, what a lot of good she would do the woman, if she would only give the child to her!--but the old man cleared his throat and winked at her covertly to warn her that she was to be silent. "kubin m'e dinroz--ve?"[a] inquired the woman all at once. [footnote a: combien me donnerez-vous donc?] she had been standing undecided for a long time with her head bowed, and a deep silence had reigned around her. the strange lady and gentleman had not moved, nor had the vestryman; no wind had whistled in the chimney, no fire crackled. a silent expectation weighed on them all. now she raised her head, and her gloomy eyes glanced at the miserable room, the small quantity of bread on the table and then at the hungry four, as though examining everything. she no longer looked at the fifth child. she had grown pale, the deep sunburn on her face had turned a greyish colour. "what's he going to give you? well, what will you give her?" said the peasant encouragingly. "i think you'll see that two hundred is too little. the woman is very much attached to the child, it will not be easy for her to give it up." he watched paul schlieben out of the corner of his eye, and called out as they call out at an auction: "two hundred, two hundred and fifty, three hundred. 'pon my word, it isn't too much. jean-pierre is a fine boy--just look at his fists. and his thighs. a splendid fellow." he noticed the longing expression in käte's eyes--"three hundred thalers is not worth talking about for the boy, is it, ma'am?" käte had tears in her eyes and was very pale. the air in the cottage oppressed her, it was all very repugnant to her--let them only get away quickly from there. but not without the child. "four hundred--five hundred," she jerked out, and she gazed imploringly at her husband as though to say: "do settle it quickly." "five hundred, willingly." paul schlieben drew out his pocket-book. the peasant craned his neck forward the better to see. his eyes were quite stiff in his head, he had never seen anybody pay so willingly before. the children, too, stared with wide-open eyes. the woman cast a hasty glance at the notes the gentleman spread on the table near the bread; but the covetous light that flashed in her eyes disappeared suddenly again. "neni," she said sullenly. "offer her some more--more," whispered the old man. and schlieben laid another couple of notes on the table beside the others; his fingers trembled a little as he did it, the whole thing was so unspeakably repugnant to him. he had never thought of haggling; they should have what they wanted, only let them get done with it. nikolas rocherath could not contain himself any longer at the sight of such generosity--so much money on the table, and that woman could still hesitate? he rushed up to her and shook her by the shoulders: "are you quite mad? six hundred thalers on the table and you don't take them? what man here can say he has six hundred thalers in cash? what money, what a sum of money!" his emaciated face, which had grown very haggard from years of toil and a life lived in wind and storm and which was as sharply outlined as though cut out of hard wood, twitched. his fingers moved convulsively: how was it possible that anybody could still hesitate? the axe which the woman still held fell out of her hand with a loud noise. without raising her head, without looking at the table or at the cradle she said in a loud voice--but there was no ring in the voice: "allons bon. djhan-pire est da vosse."[a] [footnote a: eh bien. jean-pierre est à vous.] and she turned away, walked to the hearth with a heavy tread and raked up the smouldering peat. what indifference! this woman certainly did not deserve to be a mother. käte's gentle eyes began to blaze. schlieben was angry too; no, they need not have any scruples about taking the child away from there. he was filled with disgust. the woman behaved now as though the whole affair did not concern her any longer. she busied herself at the hearth whilst the vestryman counted the notes--licking his fingers repeatedly and examining both sides of each one--and then put them carefully into the envelope which the gentleman had given him. "there they are, lisa, put them into your pocket." she tore them out of his hand with a violent gesture, and, lifting up her dress to a good height, she slipped them into her miserable ragged petticoat. the last thing had still to be settled. even if paul schlieben felt certain that nobody there would inquire about the child any more, the formalities had to be observed. loosening his pencil from his watch-chain--for where was ink to come from there?--he drew up the mother's deed of surrender on a leaf from his pocketbook. the vestryman signed it as witness. then the woman put her three crosses below; she had learnt to write once, but had forgotten it again. "there!" paul schlieben rose from the hard bench on which he had sat whilst writing with a sigh of relief. thank goodness, now everything was settled, now the vestryman had only to procure him the birth and baptismal certificates and send them to him. "here--this is my address. and here--this is for any outlay." he covertly pressed a couple of gold coins into the old man's hand, who smiled when he felt them there. well, now they would take the boy with them at once? he supposed. käte, who had been standing motionless staring at the mother with big eyes as though she could not understand what she saw, woke up. of course they would take the child with them at once, she would not leave it a single hour longer there. and she took it quickly out of the cradle, pressed it caressingly to her bosom and wrapped it up in the warm wide cloak she was wearing. now it was her child that she had fought such a hard battle for, had snatched from thousands of dangers, her darling, her sweet little one. little jean-pierre's sister and brothers stood there in silence with eyes wide open. had they understood that their brother was going away, going for ever? no, they could not have understood it, otherwise they would have shown how grieved they were. their big eyes were only interested in the bread on the table. paul schlieben pitied the little ones greatly--they would remain there in their wretchedness, their hunger, their poverty. he stuck a present into the hands of all four. none of the four thanked him for it, but their small fingers clasped the money tightly. the woman did not thank him either. when the strange lady took jean-pierre out of the cradle--she had seen it without looking in that direction--she had started. but now she stood motionless near the empty cradle, on the spot where the axe had fallen out of her right hand before with a loud noise, looking on in silence whilst jean-pierre was being wrapped up in the soft cloak. she had nothing to give him. paul schlieben had feared there would be a scene at the very last in spite of the mother's indifference--she surely could not remain so totally void of feeling, when they carried her youngest child away with them?--but the woman remained calm. she stood there motionless, her left hand pressed against the place in her skirt where she felt the pocket. did not that money in her pocket--paul felt very disturbed--give the lie to all the traditions about a mother's love? and still--the woman was so demoralised by her great poverty, half brutalised in the hard struggle for her daily bread, that even the feeling she had for the child she had borne had vanished. oh, what a different mother käte would be to the child now. and he pushed his wife, who had the little one in her arms, towards the door, in his tender anxiety for her. let them only get away, it was not a nice place to be in. they hastened away. käte turned her head once more when she reached the threshold. she would have to cast a glance at the woman who remained behind so stiff and silent. even if she were incomprehensible to her, a compassionate glance was her due. then ... a short cry, but loud, penetrating, terrible in its brevity, a cry that went through nerve and bone. one single inarticulate cry that agony and hatred had wrung from her. the woman had stooped down. she had snatched up the axe with which she had chopped the wood. she raised her arm as though to throw something--the sharp edge flashed past the lady's head as she hurried away, and buried itself in the door-post with a crash. chapter v they had hastened away with the child as though they were running away. they had bundled it into the carriage--quick, quick--the coachman had whipped up the horses, the wheels had turned round with a creaking noise. the village in the venn remained behind them, buried like a bad dream one wants to forget. a dull grey lay over the venn. the sun, which had been shining in the morning, had quite disappeared, as though not a single beam had ever been seen there. the venn mist, which rises so suddenly, was there covering everything. there was a wall now where there had been a wide outlook before. a wall not of stone and not of bricks, but much stronger. it did not crack, it did not burst, it did not totter, it did not give way before the hammer wielded by the strongest hand. it shaped itself out of the morasses, powerful and impenetrable, and stretched from the moor up to the clouds--or was it the clouds that had lowered themselves to the earth? the heavens and the venn, both alike. nothing but grey, a tough, damp, cold, liquid and still firm, unfathomable, mysterious, awful grey. a grey from which those who lose themselves on the moor never find their way out. the mist is too tenacious. it has arms that grip, that embrace so tightly, that one can neither see forward nor backward any more, neither to the left nor to the right, that the cry that wants to escape from a throat that is well-nigh choked with terror is drowned, and that the eye becomes blind to every road, every footprint. the driver cursed and beat his horses. there was nothing more to be seen of the road, nothing whatever, no ditch at the side of it, no telegraph poles, no small rowan trees. the broad road that had been made with such difficulty had disappeared in the grey that enfolded the venn. it was fortunate that the horses had not lost their way as yet. they followed their noses, shook their long tails, neighed shrilly and trotted courageously into the sea of mist. käte shuddered as she wrapped herself and the child up more tightly; they required all the warm covering now which they had taken with them so providently. her husband packed her up still more securely, and then laid his arm round her as though to protect her. it was a terrible journey. they had had the carriage closed, but the cold grey forced its way in notwithstanding. it penetrated through all the crevices, through the window-panes, filled the space inside so that their faces swam in the damp twilight like pale spots, and laid itself heavily, obstructively on their breath. käte coughed and then trembled. there was no joy in her heart now, all she felt was terror, terror on account of the possession she had had to fight so hard to obtain. if the mother were to come after them now--oh, that terrible woman with the glittering axe. she closed her eyes tightly, full of a horror she had never felt the like to before--oh, she could not see it again! and still she opened her eyes wide once more, and felt the cold perspiration on her brow and her heart trembling--alas, that sight would pursue her even in her dreams. she would not get rid of it until her last hour--never, never again--she would always see that woman with the glittering axe. it had whizzed close past her head--the draught of air caused by it had made the hair on her temples tremble. it had done nothing to her, it had only buried itself in the door-post with a loud noise, splitting it. and still she had come to harm. käte pressed both her hands to her temples in horror: she would never, never get rid of that fear. her heart was filled with an almost superstitious dread, a dread as though of a ghost that haunted the place. let them only get away from there, never to return. let them only destroy every trace as they went along. that woman must never know where they had gone. she knew it was to berlin--they had unfortunately given the vestryman their address--but berlin was so far away, the woman from the venn would never come there. and the venn itself? ugh! käte looked out into the grey mist, trembling with horror. thank god, that would remain behind, that would soon be forgotten again. how could she ever have considered this desolate venn beautiful? she could not understand it. what charm was there about these inhospitable plains, on which nothing could grow except the coarse grass and tough heather? on which no corn waved its spikes, no singing-bird piped its little song, no happy people lived sociably; where there was, in short, no brightness, no loud tones, only the silence of the dead and crosses along the road. it was awful there. "paul, let us leave to-day--as quickly as possible," she jerked out, full of terror, whilst her eyes sought in vain for a glimpse of light. he was quite willing. he felt ill at ease too. if this woman, this fury, had hit his wife in her sudden outburst of rage? but he could not help blaming himself: who had bade him have anything to do with such people? they were not a match for such barbarous folk. and he was seized with a feeling of aversion for the child sleeping so peacefully on his wife's arm. he looked gloomily at the little face; would he ever be able to love it? would not the memory of its antecedents always deter him from liking it? yes, he had been too precipitate. how much better it would have been if he had dissuaded his wife from her wish, if he had energetically opposed her romantic idea of adopting this child, this particular child. he frowned as he looked out of the window, whilst the grey mist clung to the pane and ran down it in large drops. the wind howled outside; it had risen all at once. and it howled still louder the nearer they approached the top of the high venn, whined round their carriage like an angry dog and hurled itself against the horses' chests. the horses had to fight against it, to slacken their trot; the carriage only advanced with difficulty. the child must never, never know from whence it came, as otherwise--the new father was wrapped in thought as he stared into the venn, whose wall of mist was now and then torn asunder by a furious gust of wind--as otherwise--what was he going to say? he passed his hand over his brow and drew his breath heavily. something like fear crept over him, but he did not know why. as he cast a look at his wife, he saw that she was quite absorbed in the contemplation of the sleeping child, which did not lessen his ill humour. he drew away her right hand, with which she was supporting its head that had fallen back: "don't do that, don't tire yourself like that. it will sleep on even without that." and as she gave an anxious "hush!" terrified at the thought that the little sleeper might have been disturbed, he said emphatically, "i must tell you one thing, my child, and must warn you against it, don't give him your whole heart at once--wait a little first." "why?" something in his voice struck her and she looked at him in surprise. "why do you say that so--so--well, as if you were vexed?" then she laughed in happy forgetfulness. "do you know--yes, it was horrible, awful in those surroundings--but thank god, now it's over. a mother forgets all she has suffered at the birth of her child so quickly--why should i not forget those horrors to-day too? do look"--and she stroked little jean-pierre's warm rosy cheek carefully and caressingly as he slept--"how innocent, how lovely. i am so happy. come, do be happy too, paul, you are generally so very kind. and now let's think about what we are to call the boy"--her voice was very tender--"our boy." they no longer heard the wind that had increased to a storm by now. they had so much to consider. "jean-pierre," no, that name should not be kept in any case. and they would go from spa to cologne that evening, as they would not dare to engage a nurse before they were there; not a single person there would have any idea about the venn, of course. and they would also buy all the things they required for the child in cologne as soon as possible. how were they to get on until then? paul looked at his wife quite anxiously: she knew nothing whatever about little children. but she laughed at him and gave herself airs: when providence gives you something to do, it also gives you the necessary understanding. and this little darling was so good, he had not uttered a sound since they left. he had slept the whole time as though there was nothing called hunger or thirst, as though there was nothing but her heart on which he felt quite at ease. it gradually became more comfortable in the carriage. it seemed as though a beneficial warmth streamed forth from the child's body, as it rested there so quietly. the breath of life ascended from its strong little chest that rose and fell so regularly; the joy of life glowed in its cheeks that were growing redder and redder; the blessings of life dropped from those tiny hands that it had clenched in its sleep. the woman mused in silence and with bated breath as she gazed at the child in her lap, and the man, who felt strangely moved, took its tiny fist in his large hand and examined it, smiling. yes, now they were parents. but outside the carriage the air was full of horrors. it is only in the wild venn that there can be such storms in autumn. summer does not depart gently and sadly there, winter does not approach with soft, stealthy steps, there is no mild preparatory transition. the bad weather sets in noisily there, and the warmth of summer changes suddenly into the icy cold of winter. the storm whistles so fiercely across the brown plateau that the low heather bends still lower and the small juniper trees make themselves still smaller. the wind in the venn chases along whistling and shrieking, clamouring and howling, pries into the quagmires and turf pits, whips up the muddy puddles, throws itself forcibly into the thickets of fir trees that have just been replanted, so that they groan and moan and creak as they cower, and then rages on round the weather-worn crosses. the blast roars across the moor like the sound of an organ or is it like the roar of the foaming breakers? no, there is no water there that rises and falls and washes the beach with its white waves, there is nothing but the venn; but it resembles the sea in its wide expanse. and its air is as strong as the air that blows from the sea, and the shrill scream of its birds is like the scream of the sea-mew, and nature plays--here as there--the song of her omnipotence on the organ of the storm with powerful touch. the small carriage crept over the top of the high venn. the winds wanted to blow it down, as though it were a tiny beetle. they hurled themselves against it, more and more furiously, yelped and howled as though they were wolves, whined round its wheels, snuffed round its sides, made a stand against it in front and tugged at it from behind as though with greedy teeth: away with it! and away with those sitting inside it! those intruders, those thieves, they were taking something away with them that belonged to the venn, to the great venn alone. it was a struggle. although the driver lashed away at them the brave horses shied, then remained standing, snorting with terror. the man was obliged to jump off and lead them some distance, and still they continued to tremble. something rose out of the pits and beckoned with waving gauzy garments, and tried to hold fast with moist arms. there was a snatching, a catching, a reaching, a tearing asunder of mists and a treacherous rolling together again, a chaos of whirling, twirling, brewing grey vapours; and plaintive tones from beings that could not be seen. had all those in the graves come to life again? were those rising who had slept there, wakened by the snorting of the horses and the crack of the whip, indignant at being disturbed in their rest? what were those sounds? the quiet venn had become alive. piercing sounds and whistling shrill cries and groaning and the flapping of wings and indignant screams mingled with the dull roar of the organ of the storm. a flight of birds swam through the sea of mist. they rowed to the right, they rowed to the left, looked down uneasily at the strange carriage, remained poised above it for some moments with wings spread out ready to strike it to the ground, and then uttered their cry, the startled, penetrating cry of a wild bird. there was nothing triumphant about it to-day--it sounded like a lamentation. and the venn wept. large drops fell from the mist. the mist itself turned into tears, to slowly falling and then to rushing, streaming, never-ending tears. chapter vi the schliebens had reached berlin safely. käte was exhausted when she got out of the train; her hair was untidy, she did not look quite so smart as usual. it had been no trifle to make that long journey with the child. but they had been fortunate hi finding a good nurse so quickly in cologne--a widow, fond of children and experienced, a typical, comfortable-looking nurse; however, the mother had had enough to see to all the same. had the child caught cold, or did it not like its bottle? it had cried with all the strength of its lungs--no carrying about, rocking, dandling, singing to it had been of any avail--it had cried with all its might the whole way to berlin. but, thank goodness, now they were at home. and everything was arranged as quickly as if by magic. true, the comfortable house they had had before was let, but there was villa after villa in the grunewald, and, as they required so much more room now, they moved into one of those. they rented it to begin with. later on they would no doubt buy it, as it was quite impossible to take a child like this one into a town. it would have to have a garden. they called him wolfgang. "wolf" had something so concise, vigorous, energetic about it, and--käte gave a slight happy shudder as she thought of it--it was like a secret memory of the venn, of that desolate spot over which they had triumphed, and to which they made only this slight concession. and did not "wölfchen"--if they made that the diminutive of wolf--sound extremely affectionate? "wölfchen"--the young mother said it about a hundred times every day. the young mother? oh yes, käte felt young. her child had made her young again, quite young. nobody would have taken her for thirty-five, and she herself least of all. how she could run, how she could fly upstairs when they said: "the child is awake. it's screaming for its bottle." she, who had formerly spent so many hours on the sofa, never found a moment's time to lie down the whole day; she slept all the more soundly at night as a result. it was quite true what she had heard other women say: a little child claims its mother's whole attention. oh, how empty, colourless those days had been in which she had only existed. it was only now that there was meaning, warmth, brilliancy in her life. she walked every day beside the child's perambulator, which the nurse pushed, and it was a special pleasure to her to wheel the light little carriage with its white lacquer, gilt buttons and blue silk curtains herself now and then. how the people stared and turned round when they saw the handsome perambulator--no, the beautiful child. her heart beat with pleasure, and when her flattered ear caught the cries of admiration, "what a fine child!" "how beautifully dressed!" "what splendid eyes!"--it used to beat even more quickly, and a feeling of blissful pride took possession of her, so that she walked along with head erect and eyes beaming with happiness. everybody took her to be the mother, of course, the young child's young mother, the beautiful child's beautiful mother. how often strangers had already spoken to her of the likeness: "the exact image of you, frau schlieben, only its hair is darker than yours." then she had smiled every time and blushed deeply. she could not tell the people that it really could not resemble her at all. she hardly remembered herself now that not a drop of her blood flowed in wölfchen's veins. it looked at her the first thing when it awoke. its little bed with its muslin curtains stood near the nurse's, but its first look was for its mother and also its last, for nobody knew how to sing it to sleep as well as she did. "sleep sound, sweetest child, yonder wind howls wild. hearken, how the rain makes sprays and how neighbour's doggie bays. doggie has gripped the man forlorn has the beggar's tatter torn----" sounded softly and soothingly in the nursery evening after evening, and little wolf fell quietly asleep to the sound of it, to the song of the wind and the rain round defenceless heads, and of beggars whose garments the dog had torn. paul schlieben had no longer any cause to complain of his wife's moods. everything had changed; her health, too, had become new, as it were, as though a second life had begun. and he himself? he felt much more inclination for work now. now that he had returned to business he felt a pleasure he had never experienced before when he saw that they were successful in their new ventures. he had never been enterprising before--what was the good? he and his wife had ample for all their requirements. of course he had always been glad to hear when they had done a good stroke of business, but he could not say it had ever pleased him to make money. he had always found more pleasure in spending it. his father had been quite different in that respect. he had never been so easy-going, and as long as he lived he had always reproached himself for having let his only son serve as a soldier in a cavalry regiment. something of a cavalryman's extravagance had clung to him, which did not exactly agree with the views of the very respectable well-to-do merchant of the middle class. and his daughter-in-law? hm, the old gentleman did not exactly approve of her either in his heart. she had too much modern stuff in her head, and paul had followed her lead entirely. you could be cultured--why not?--and also take an interest in art without necessarily having so little understanding for the real things of life. this honest man, this merchant of the old stamp and true son of berlin, had not had the joy of seeing what his partners now saw with unbounded astonishment. they had no need to shrug their shoulders at the man's lack of interest in the business any longer, and make pointed remarks about the wife who took up his attention so entirely; now he felt the interest they wished him to have. he was pleased to fall in with their plans now. he himself seemed to want, nay, even found it necessary to form new connections, to extend the calm routine of their business right and left, on all sides. he showed a capacity for business and became practical all at once. and in the middle of his calculations, whilst sitting absorbed at his desk, he would catch himself thinking: "that will be of use to the boy in the future." but at times this thought could irritate him so much that he would throw down his pen and jump up angrily from his desk: no, he had only adopted the child to please his wife, he would not love him. and yet when he came home to dinner on those delightful afternoons, on which he could smell the pines round his house and the pure air still more increased the appetite he had got from his strenuous work, and the boy would toddle up to him patting his little stomach and cry: "daddy--eat--taste good," and käte appear at the window, laughing, he could not refrain from swinging the hungry little chatterbox high up into the air, and only put him down on his feet again after he had given him a friendly slap. he was a splendid little chap, and always hungry. well, he would always have sufficient to eat, thank god. a certain feeling of contentment would come over the man on those occasions. he felt now what he had never felt before, that one's own home means happiness. and he felt the benefit of having an assured income, that allowed him to enrich his life with all sorts of comforts. the house was pretty. but when he bought it shortly he would certainly add to it, and buy the piece of ground next to it as well. it would be extremely disagreeable if anybody settled down just under their noses. it had been difficult for paul to make up his mind to take a house in the grunewald at the time, after he had lived in berlin itself as long as he could remember. but now he looked upon his wife's idea of going out there as a very good one. and not only for the child's sake. one enjoyed one's home in quite a different manner out there; one realised much more what it meant to have a home. and how much healthier it was--one's appetite certainly became enormous. in time one would think of nothing but material comforts. and the man followed the hungry boy into the house, as he also felt quite ready for his dinner. wolfgang solheid, called schlieben, received his first trousers. it was a grand day for the whole house. käte had him photographed in secret, as there had never been a boy who looked prettier in his first trousers. and she placed the picture of the little fellow who was not yet three years old--white trousers, white pleated tunic, horse under his arm, whip in his hand--in the middle of her husband's birthday table, surrounded by a wreath of roses. that was the best she could give him among all the many presents. how robust wölfchen was. they had not noticed it so much before; he was as big as a boy of four. and how defiant he looked, as bold as a boy of five, who is already dreaming of fighting other boys. the woman showed the man the picture full of delight, and there was such a gleam in her eyes that he felt very happy. he thanked her many times for the surprise and kissed her: yes, this picture should stand near hers on his writing-table. and then they both played with the boy, who romped about on the carpet in his first pair of trousers, which he still found rather uncomfortable. paul schlieben could not remember ever having spent such a pleasant birthday as this one. there was so much brightness around him, so much merriment. and even if wolf had torn his first pair of trousers by noon--how and where it had been done was quite incomprehensible to the dismayed nurse--that did not disturb the birthday; on the contrary, the laughter became all the gayer. "tear your trousers, my boy, tear away," whispered his mother, smiling to herself as the damage was pointed out to her, "just you be happy and strong." there was a party in the evening. the windows of the pretty villa were lighted up and the garden as well. the air was balmy, the pines spread their branches motionless under the starry sky, and bright coloured lanterns glittered in the bushes and along the paths that were overgrown with trees like large glow-worms. wölfchen was asleep on the first floor of the villa, in the only room that was not brightly lighted up. there was nothing but a hanging lamp of opal there, and every noise was kept away by thick curtains and venetian blinds. but they drank his health downstairs. the guests had already drunk the health of the master of the house at the table, and then that of his amiable wife--what greater honour could they pay their popular host and hostess now than to drink the health of the boy--their boy? dr. hofmann, the tried doctor and friend of the family for many years, asked if he might have the privilege of saying a few words. he, as doctor, as counsellor on many an occasion, was best able to say what had always been wanting there. everything had been there, love and complete understanding and also outward happiness, everything except--here he paused for a moment and nodded to his hostess who was sitting opposite to him, in a friendly manner full of comprehension--except a child's laughter. and now that was there too. "a child's laughter--oh, what a salvation!" he cried with twinkling eyes and voice full of emotion, as he thought of his own three, who were certainly already independent and had chosen their paths in life, but their laughter still sounded in his heart and ear. "no child--no happiness. but a child brings happiness, great happiness. and especially in this case. for i, as a doctor, have hardly ever feasted my eyes on a more magnificent chest, a more splendidly developed skull, straighter legs and brighter eyes. all his senses are sharp; the lad hears like a lynx, sees like a falcon, smells like a stag, feels--well, i've been told that he is already up in arms against the slightest corporal punishment. it is only his taste that is not so finely developed as yet--the boy eats everything. however, this is again a new proof to me of his very great physical superiority, for, ladies and gentlemen"--at this point the doctor gave a jovial wink--"who does not agree with me? a good stomach that can stand everything is the greatest gift a kind providence can give us on our journey through life. the boy is a favourite of fortune. a favourite of fortune in the two-fold meaning of the word for not only is he perfectly happy in himself, but his entry on the scene has also brought happiness to those around him. our dear hostess, for example, have we ever seen her like this before? so young with those who are young, so happy with those who are happy? and our honoured friend here--nobody could imagine that he had climbed to the middle of the forties--he is as full of energy, of plans and enterprise as a man of twenty. and at the same time he has the beautiful calm, the comfortable appearance of the happy father who has had his desires gratified. and this fortunate boy is the cause of it all. therefore thanks be to the hour that gave him, the wind that brought him here. from whence----?" the doctor, who had a small vein of malice in his nature, here made a pause intentionally, cleared his throat and straightened his waistcoat, for he saw many curious eyes fixed on him full of expectation. but he also saw the quick perturbed look the husband and wife exchanged, saw that frau schlieben had grown pale and was hanging anxiously, almost imploringly, on his lips, so he continued hastily with a good-natured laugh: "from whence, ladies--only have patience. i'll tell you now: he fell from the skies. just as the falling star falls to earth on a summer night. and our dear hostess, who was just going for a walk, held out her apron and carried him home to her house. and so he has become the star of this house, and we all and i especially--even if i have become superfluous here in my capacity of doctor--are pleased with him without asking from whence he came. all good gifts come from above--we learnt that already in our childhood--so here's to the health of the boy who fell down to our friends from the sky." the doctor had grown serious, there was a certain solemnity about him as he raised his champagne glass and emptied it: "god bless him! to the health of the child, the son of the house. may this fortunate lad grow, thrive and prosper." the finely cut glasses gave a clear and melodious sound as they clinked them. there was a buzzing, laughter and cheering at the table, so that the little fellow upstairs in his bed began to toss about restlessly. he murmured impatiently in his sleep, pouted and lowered his brow. the chairs were moved downstairs. the guests had risen, and, going up to the parents, had shaken hands with them as though to congratulate them. dr. hofmann had done that really very nicely, really exceedingly well. but the little fellow was awfully sweet. all the women present agreed they had rarely seen such a pretty child. käte's heart had beaten a little anxiously when the doctor commenced to speak--surely he would not betray what had only been confided to him and the lawyer under the influence of a good glass of wine and a good dinner?--but it was now full of happiness. her eyes sought her husband's, and sent him tender, grateful glances covertly. and then she went to their old friend, the doctor, and thanked him for all his good, kind words. "also in wölfchen's name," she said in a soft, cordial voice. "so you are satisfied with me all the same? well, i'm glad." he drew her arm into his and walked up and down with her somewhat apart from the others. "i saw, my dear lady, that you grew uneasy when i began about the boy's antecedents. what kind of an opinion can you have of me? but i did so intentionally, i have been burning to find an opportunity to say what i did for a long time. believe me, if i got a two-shilling bit every time i've been questioned about the boy's parentage--either openly or in a roundabout way--i should be a well-to-do man by now. i've often felt annoyed at the questions; what i said just now was the answer to them all. i trust they have understood it. they can keep their surmises to themselves in the future." "surmises?" käte knit her brows and pressed the doctor's arm. what did those people surmise?--did they already know something, did they guess about the venn? she was seized with a sudden terror. pictures passed before her mental vision with lightning speed--there in that bright festive room--dark pictures of which she did not want to know anything more. "how terrible," she said in a low voice that quivered. if the people got to know anything, oh, then she did not put her thought into words, for the sudden dread was almost choking her--then they would not get rid of the past. then that woman would come and demand her right, and could not be shaken off any more. "do you think," she whispered hesitatingly, "do you think they--they guess--the truth?" "oh no, they're very far off the mark," laughed the doctor, but then he grew grave again directly. "my dear lady, let us leave those people and their surmises alone." oh dear, now he had meddled with a delicate subject, he felt quite hot--what if she knew that they thought that her paul, that most faithful of husbands, had duties of a special kind towards the child? "surmises--oh, what is it they surmise?" she urged him to tell her, whilst her eyes scrutinised his, full of terror. "nonsense," he said curtly. "why do you want to trouble about that? but i told you and your husband that at once. if you make such a secret of the boy's parentage, all kinds of interpretations will be placed on it. well, you would not hear of anything else." "no." käte closed her eyes and gave a slight shudder. "he's our child--our child alone," she said with a strange hardness in her voice. "and nobody else has anything to do with him." he shook his head and looked at her questioningly, surprised at her tone. then she jerked out: "i'm afraid." he felt how the hand that was lying on his arm trembled slightly. amid the gaiety of the evening something had fallen on käte's joy that paralysed it, as it were. many questions were asked her about little wolf--that was so natural, they showed her their friendly interest by means of these questions--and they watched her quietly at the same time: it was marvellous how she behaved. they had hardly believed the delicate woman capable of such heroism. how much she must love her husband, that she took his child--for the boy must be his child, the resemblance was too marked, exactly the same features, the same dark hair--this child of a weak hour to her heart without showing any ill-will or jealousy. she, the childless woman, to take another woman's child. that was grand, almost too grand. they did not understand it quite. and käte felt instinctively that there was something concealed behind the questions they asked her--was it admiration or compassion, approval or disapproval?--something one could not get hold of, not even name, only suspect. and that embarrassed her. so she only gave reserved answers to their friendly questions about wölfchen, was concise in what she told them, cool in her tone, and still she could not hinder her voice vibrating secretly. that was the tender happiness she felt, the mother's pride she could not suppress, the warmth of her feelings, which lent her voice its undertone of emotion. the others took if for quite a different emotion. the ladies, who took a walk in the garden after the dinner was over, were chatting confidentially together. the paths that smelt of the pines and in which the coloured lanterns gave a gentle subdued light were just suitable for that. they wandered about in twos and threes, arm in arm, and first of all looked carefully to see if there were any listeners, for their hostess must on no account hear it. there was hardly one among the ladies who had not made her observations. how well she bore up. it was really pathetic to see how resentment and affection, dislike and warmth struggled to get the mastery as soon as there was any talk about the child. and how a restless look would steal into her bright eyes--ah, she must have had and still have much to contend with, poor thing. there was only one lady there who said she had known paul schlieben much too long and well not to feel sure that it was ridiculous--nay, even monstrous--to suppose he would do such a thing. he who was always such a perfect gentleman, not only in his outward behaviour and appearance but also in his thoughts, he, the most faithful of husbands, who even now, after a long married life, was as much in love with his wife as though they had just been married. the thing was quite different. they had always wished for children, what was more natural than that they should adopt one, now that they had finally given up all hope? did not other people do the same? of course that happened, there was no doubt about it. but then the particulars were always given as to whether it was an orphan or the illegitimate offspring of some one moving in the highest circles, whether it had been offered in the newspaper--"to be given away to noble-minded people"--or whether it was the child of a girl who had been left in the lurch or the unwished-for child of parents belonging to the labouring classes, who had already been too richly blessed with children, and so on. something at least was always known about it. but in this case why was such a secret made of it? why did they not say openly: we have got it from there or there, it happened in such and such a manner? it was difficult to question frau schlieben quite openly about the little one's parentage. they had already gone to her once with that intention, but as soon as they had introduced the subject such a terrified expression had come into the woman's eyes, something so shy and reserved into her manner, that it would have been more than tactless to continue the conversation. they were compelled to desist from questioning her--but it was peculiar, very peculiar. and the gentlemen in the smoking-room, whom the host had left alone for a moment, discussed the same theme. the doctor was catechised. "i say, doctor, your speech was excellent, worthy of a diplomatist, but you can't deceive us. you don't know anything about the little chap's antecedents either? now come!" it especially puzzled both partners that schlieben had told them so little. when everything under the sun was discussed in business, one had also a certain right to know the man's private affairs too, especially as they had already worked with the old gentleman. where would paul have been now, if they two had not safeguarded his interests so energetically at the time when he put everything else before business? herr meier, who was already elderly and very corpulent, and whose good-natured, intelligent face bore signs of his fondness for a glass of wine, felt really very hurt at such a want of confidence: "as though we should have placed any difficulties in the way--absurd! doctor, just tell us one thing. did he get the boy here?" but the other partner, herr bormann, who was somewhat choleric and had to go to carlsbad every year, interrupted him sharply. "well, really, meier! and what's it to us? they say they have brought him with them from their last journey, when they were away so long--good. where were they last? they went from switzerland to the black forest and then to spa, didn't they?" "no, to the north sea," said the doctor quietly. "you can see it as well, the boy has quite the frisian type." "that boy? with his black eyes?" no, there was nothing to be got out of hofmann. he looked so innocent that you might have thought he was speaking seriously instead of joking. aha, he had taken his stand; he had made up his mind not to say anything. they would have to let the subject drop. the doctor, who had already taxed himself with stupidity in his heart--oh dear, now he had aroused everybody's curiosity instead of helping the schliebens--heard the gentlemen pass on to politics with great relief. it was midnight before the last guests left the villa. their bright talk and laughter could still be heard distinctly from the end of the street in the silence of the night, as husband and wife met at the foot of the stairs leading up to the first floor. all the windows of the lower rooms were still open, the silver was still on the table, the costly china stood about--let the servants put it away for the time being. käte felt a great longing to see the child. she had seen so little of him that day--there had been visitors the whole day. and then what a number of questions she had had to listen to, what a number of answers she had had to give. her head was burning. as she and her husband met--the man was hurrying out of his room, he had not even given himself time to lock away the cigars--she had to laugh: aha, he wanted to go upstairs too. she hung on his arm and they went up together keeping step. "to wölfchen," she said softly, pressing his arm. and he said, as though excusing himself: "i shall have to see if the noise has not awakened the boy." they spoke in an undertone and moved along cautiously like thieves. they stole into the nursery--there he lay, so quietly. he had thrown off the covering in his sleep so that his naked rosy little legs were visible, and a warm, strong and wonderfully fresh smell ascended from the child's clean healthy body and mingled with the powerful odour of the pines, that the night sent into the room through the slightly open window. käte could not restrain herself, she bent down and kissed the little knee that showed dimples in its firm roundness. as she looked up again, she saw her husband's eyes fixed on the sleeping child with a thoughtful expression. she was so used to knowing everything that affected him, that she asked, "what are you thinking of, paul? does anything trouble you?" he looked at her absently for a few moments and then past her; he was so lost in thought that he had not heard her question at all. at last he murmured, "i wonder if it would not be better to be open about it? hm." then he shook his head and thoughtfully stroked his beard into a point. "what are you saying? what do you mean? paul!" she laid her hand on his. that aroused him. he smiled at her and said then: "käte, we must tell people the truth. why shouldn't we say where he comes from? yes, yes, it's much better, otherwise i fear we shall have a good deal of unpleasantness. and if the boy does find out in good time that he is not really our child--i mean our own child--what does it matter?" "good gracious!" she threw up her hands as though horrified. "no--not for the world--no! never, never!" she sank down on the bed, spread both her arms over the child's body as though protecting it, and nestled her head on the warm little breast. "then he would be lost to us, paul." she took a deep breath and trembled. her voice expressed such horror, such a terrible fear and prophetic gravity that it startled the man. "i only thought--i mean--i have really long felt it to be my duty," he said hesitatingly, as though making a stand against her fear. "i don't like that the--that people--well, that they talk. don't be so funny about it, käte; why shouldn't we tell?" "not tell! you ask why we shouldn't tell? paul, you know that yourself. if he gets to know it--oh, that mother! that venn!" she clasped the boy even more tightly; but she had raised her head from his breast. her face was pale, and her eyes looked quite bewildered as they stared at her husband. "have you forgotten her?" her tremulous voice grew hard. "no, he must never know it. and i swear it and you must promise me it as well, promise it sacredly now, here at his bedside whilst he's sleeping peacefully--and if i should die, not then either, paul"--her voice grew louder and louder in her excitement, and its hard tone became almost a scream--"we'll never tell him it. and i won't give him up. he's my child _alone_, our child alone." then her voice changed. "wölfchen, my wölfchen, surely you'll never leave your mother?" her tears began to stream now, and whilst she wept she kissed the child so passionately, so fervently that he awoke. but he did not cry as he generally did when he was disturbed in his sleep. he smiled and, throwing both his little arms round her neck as she bent down to him, he said, still heavy with sleep, but yet clearly, plainly, "mammy." she gave a cry of rapture, of triumphant joy. "do you hear it? he says 'mammy.'" she laughed and cried at the same time in her excessive joy, and caught hold of her husband's hand and held it fast. "paul--daddy--come, give our child a kiss as well." and the man also bent down. his wife threw her arm round his neck and drew his head still further down quite close to hers. then the child laid the one arm round his neck and the other round hers. they were all three so close to each other in that calm summer night, in which all the stars were gleaming and the moonbeams building silver bridges from the peaceful heavens down to the peaceful earth. chapter vii those were days of the purest happiness at the schliebens'. the villa had been bought now, some rooms had been built on to it, and another piece of land had been added to the garden as a play-ground. they could not think of not giving the boy sufficient space to romp about in. some sand was brought there, a heap as high as a dune in which to dig. and when he was big enough to do gymnastics they got him a swing and horizontal and parallel bars. but still it was not sufficient. he climbed over all the fences round the neighbouring villas, over all the walls that were protected by barbed wire and pieces of glass. "a splendid lad," said dr. hofmann when he spoke _of_ wolfgang. when he spoke _to_ him he certainly said: "what a little ruffian you are! just you wait till you go to school and they'll soon teach you to sit still." wolf was wild--rather too wild, his mother considered. the boy's high spirits amused her husband: that was because there was such a large amount of surplus energy in him. but käte felt somewhat surprised at so much wildness--no, she was not really surprised, she knew too well where all that wildness came from; it frightened her. she did not scold him when he tore his trousers--oh, they could be replaced--but when he came home with the first hole in his head she became incredibly agitated. she scolded him angrily, she became unjust. she was quite unable to stop the blood--ugh, how it ran!--she felt as if she were going to have a fit; she dragged herself into her room with difficulty and remained sitting silently in a corner, her eyes staring into space. when her husband reproached her for exaggerating in that manner, she never answered a word. then he comforted her: she could feel quite easy now, the thing was of no moment, the hole was sewn up and the lad as happy as though it had never happened. but she shuddered nervously and her cheeks were pale. oh, if paul knew what she had been thinking of, was forced to think of the whole time! how strange that the same memory did not obtrude itself on him. oh, michel solheid had laid bleeding on the venn--blood had dripped on the ground to-day as on that day. the little boy had not complained, just as little as his--she fought against using the word even in her thoughts--as his father, as michel solheid had complained. and still the red blood had gushed out as though it were a spring. how much more natural it would have been for him to have cried. did wolf feel differently from other children? käte went through the list of her acquaintances; there was not a single child that would not have cried if he had got such a wound, and he would not have been considered a coward on that account. there was no doubt about it, wölfchen was less sensitive. not only more insensible to bodily pain, no--and she thought she had noticed it several times--also more insensible to emotion. even in the case of joy. did not other children show their happiness by clapping their hands and shouting? did not they dance round the thing they wanted--the toy, the doll, the cake--with shouts of delight? he only held out his hand for it in silence. he took it because he had been told to do so, without all the childish chatter, without the rapturous delight that makes it so attractive and satisfactory to give children gifts. "as a peasant," her husband used to say. that cut her to the quick every time he said it. was wölfchen really made of such different material? no, paul must not say "peasant." wölfchen was not stupid, only perhaps a little slow in thinking, and he was shrewd enough. he had not been born in a large town, that was it; where they lived now was just like the country. "you peasant!" the next time his father said it--it was said in praise and not to blame him, because he was pleased the boy kept his little garden so well--käte flew into a passion. why? her husband did not understand the reason for it. why should he not be pleased? had not the boy put a splendid fence round his garden? he had made a palisade of hazel-sticks into which he had woven flexible willow-twigs, and then he had covered the whole with pine branches to make it close. and he had put beans and peas in his garden, which he had begged the cook to give him; and now he meant to plant potatoes there as well. had anybody told him how to do it? no, nobody. the first-rate cook and the housemaid were both from a town, what did they know about sowing peas and planting potatoes? "he's a born farmer," said the father laughing. but the mother turned away as though in pain. she would much, much rather have seen her son's garden a mass of weeds than that he should plant, weed and water so busily. she had made him a present of some flowers; but they did not interest him and he was not so successful with them either. there was only a large sunflower that grew and grew. it was soon as high as the boy, soon even higher, and he often stood in front of it, his childish face raised, gazing earnestly into its golden disc for quite a long time. when the sunflower's golden petals withered--then its seeds ripened instead and were examined every day and finally gathered--wolfgang went to school. he was already in his seventh year, and was big and strong; why should he not learn with other children now? his mother had thought how wonderful it would be to teach him the rudiments herself, for when she was a young girl with nothing to do at home and a great wish to continue her studies, she had gone to a training college and even passed her examination as a teacher with distinction; but--perhaps that was too long ago, for her strength was not equal to the task. especially her patience. he made so little progress, was so exceedingly slow. was the boy stupid? no, but dull, very dull. and it often seemed to her as though she were facing a wall when she spoke to him. "you are much too eager," said her husband. but how on earth was she to make it clear to him that that was an "a" and that an "o," and how was she to explain to him that if you put one and one together it makes two without getting eager? she became excited, she took the ball-frame and counted the blue and red balls that looked like round beads on a string for the boy. she got hot and red, almost hoarse, and would have liked to cry with impatience and discouragement, when wölfchen sat looking at her with his large eyes without showing any interest, and still did not know that one bead and one bead more make two beads after they had worked at it for hours. she saw to her sorrow that she would have to give up the lessons. "he'll do better with a master," said her husband, consolingly. and it was better, although it could not exactly be termed "good." wolfgang was not lazy, but his thoughts were always wandering. learning did not interest him. he had other things to think about: would the last leaves in the garden have fallen when he got home from school at noon? and would the starling, for whom he had nailed the little box high up in the pine-tree, come again next spring? it had picked off all the black berries from the elderberry, and had then gone away screaming; if it did not find any more elderberries, what would it eat then? and the boy's heart was heavy with grief--if only he had given it a little bag of berries when it went away. now the pines in the grunewald were covered with snow. when wolfgang had gone to school that morning, his knapsack on his back, the housemaid at his side, the white layer had crackled and broken under his boots. it was very cold. and then he had heard a bird's shriek, that sounded like a hungry croak. the housemaid thought it was an owl--pooh, what did she know about it? it was a raven, the hungry beggar in the jet-black coat, like the one in the primer. and the boy was thinking of it now as he sat on the bench, staring with big eyes at the blackboard, on which the teacher was writing words they were to find out. how nice it must be under the pines now. there flew the raven; brushing the snow off the branches with its black wings, so that it looked like powder as it fell. where was he going to fly to? his thoughts flew far, far away after the raven, as they had done after the starling. the boy's eyes shone, his chest rose with the deep breath he drew--at that moment the teacher called to him. "wolfgang, are you asleep with your eyes open? what's this?" the boy gave a start, got red, then pale and knew nothing. the other boys almost died of laughing--"are you asleep with your eyes open?"--that had been too funny. the teacher did not punish him, but wolfgang crept home as though he had been punished. he had hidden from the housemaid, who always came to fetch him--no, he would not go with her to-day. he had also run away from his comrades--let them fight without him today, to-morrow he would throw all the more snowballs at them. he walked quite alone, turned off from the street and wandered about aimlessly among the pines. he looked for the raven, but it was far away, and so he began to run too, run as quickly as he could, and tore the knapsack off his back with a loud cry, hurling it far from him up into the broad branches of a pine, so that it hung there and nothing but snow fell down silently in large lumps. that amused him. he filled both his hands with snow, made hard balls of it and began to regularly bombard the pine that kept his knapsack a prisoner. but it did not give it up, and when he had grown hot and red and tired but very much cheered, he had to go home without his knapsack. the housemaid had been back a long time when he arrived. she opened the door for him with a red face--she had run so hard after him--and an angry look. "hm," she said irritably, "you've been kept, i suppose?" he pushed her aside. "hold your tongue!" he could not bear her at that moment, when coming in from outside where everything had been so quiet, so free. his parents were already at table. his father frowned as he looked at him, his mother asked in a voice of gentle reproach in which there was also a little anxiety: "where have you been so long? lisbeth has been looking for you everywhere." "well?" his father's voice sounded severe. the boy did not give any answer, it seemed to him all at once as though his tongue were paralysed. what should he tell those people sitting indoors about what he had been doing outside? "he's sure to have been kept at school, ma'am," whispered the housemaid when she handed the meat. "i'll find it out from the other boys to-morrow, and tell you about it, ma'am." "oh, you!" the boy jumped up; although she had whispered it in a low voice, he had heard it all the same. his chair fell down behind him with a crash, and rushing up to the girl with clenched fist he seized hold of her so roughly that she gave a shrill scream and let the dish fall out of her hand. "you goose, you goose!" he howled in a loud voice, and wanted to strike her. his father only pulled him away with difficulty. "wölfchen!" käte's fork had fallen out of her hand with a clatter, and she was staring at her boy with dilated eyes. the maid complained bitterly. he was always like that, he was unbearable, he had said before to her: "hold your tongue!" no, she could not put up with it, she would rather leave. and she ran out of the room crying. paul schlieben was extremely angry. "you are to be civil to inferiors. you are to be polite to them, just because they have to serve. do you hear?" and he seized hold of the boy with a strong hand, laid him across his knees and gave him the whipping he so well deserved. wolfgang ground his teeth together and bore the punishment without uttering a sound and without a tear. but every stroke fell on his mother's heart. she felt as if she herself had been beaten and severely bruised. when her husband took his usual rest after the stormy dinner, smoked, read the paper and took a little nap between whiles, she crept up to the nursery in which the boy had been locked. was he crying? she turned the key softly--he was kneeling on the chair near the window, his nose pressed flat against the pane, looking attentively out at the snow. he did not notice her at all. then she went away again cautiously. she went downstairs again, but her mind was not sufficiently at rest to read in her room; she crept about the house softly as though she had no peace. then she heard lisbeth say to the cook in the kitchen between the rattling of plates: "i shall certainly not put up with it. not from such a rude boy. what has he got to do here?" käte stood rigid, overcome by a terror that paralysed her: what did she know? she became glowing hot and then icy cold. "not from such a rude boy--what has he got to do here?" oh, god, was that the way she spoke about him? she ran up to the nursery; wölfchen was still kneeling at the window. no other villa obstructed the view there as yet; from the window one looked out on a large piece of waste ground, where dandelions and nettles grew in the sand between hedge mustard in the summer time, but where the snow lay now, deep and clean, untouched by any footstep. the short winter evening was already drawing to a close, that white field was the only thing that still glittered, and it seemed to the mother that the child's face was very wan in the pale light of the luminous snow. "wölfchen," she called softly. and then "wölfchen, how could you say 'goose' and 'hold your tongue' to lisbeth? oh, for shame! where did you get those words from?" her voice was gentle and sad as she questioned him. then he turned round to her, and she saw how his eyes burned. something flickered in them, that looked like a terrified, restless longing. she noticed that as well, and quite against all rules of pedagogy she opened her arms and whispered--after it had escaped from her lips she did not know herself why she had said it, for he had everything, everything his heart desired--"you poor child!" and he ran into her arms. they held each other tightly, heart beating against heart. they were both sad, but neither of them knew the reason why, nor why the other one was sad. "it's not the whipping," he murmured. she stroked his straight hair away from his forehead with her soft hand; she did not ask him any more questions. for--did not something rise out of that field covered with snow, hover outside the window and lay its finger on its lips: "be quiet, do not ask, do not touch it"? but she remained with the boy and played with him; she felt as though she ought not to leave him alone to-day. yes, she must pay still more attention to him in the future. all at once the thought fell on her heart like a heavy weight: she had already left him much too much to himself. but then she consoled herself again: he was still so young, his mind was still a piece of quite soft wax, which she could mould as she liked. he must never again be allowed to stand at the window staring out at that desolate field with such burning eyes. what was he longing for? was not a wealth of love showered on him? and everything else that delights a child's heart? she looked round his pretty room. such a quantity of toys were piled up in it, trains and steamers, tin soldiers and picture books and all the newest games. "come, we'll play," she said. he was quite ready to do so; she was surprised how quickly he had forgotten his sorrow. thank god, he was still quite an innocent, unsuspecting child. but how restlessly he threw the toys about. "that's stupid," and "that's tiresome"--nothing really absorbed his attention. she soon felt quite exhausted with all her proposals and her endeavours to induce him to play this or that game. she did not think she had been so difficult to satisfy as a child. she had wanted to get up and go away half a dozen times already--no, she really could not stand it any longer, she had a frantic headache, it had got on her nerves, it was certainly much easier to stand at the fire and cook or do housework than play with a child--but her sense of duty and her love kept her back every time. she must not leave him alone, for--she felt it with a gloomy dread--for then somebody else would come and take him away from her. she remained sitting with him, pale and exhausted; he had tormented her a great deal. at last he found a woolly sheep that had been quite forgotten in the corner of the toy cupboard, a dilapidated old toy from his childhood with only three legs left. and he amused himself with that; that pleased him more than the other costly toys. he sat on the carpet as though he were quite a little child, held the sheep between his knees and stroked it. when he lay in bed at last, she still sat beside him holding his hand. she sang the song with which she had so often sung him to sleep: "sleep sound, sweetest child, yonder wind howls wild. hearken, how the rain makes sprays and how neighbour's doggie bays. doggie has gripped the man forlorn, has the beggar's tatter torn--" she sang it more and more softly. at last she thought he had fallen asleep, but then he tore his hand away impatiently: "stop that song! i'm not a baby any longer!" * * * * * * * * * * * * * it was fortunate that there were no street boys in the grunewald colony, as wölfchen would assuredly have played with them; as it was, his playfellows were only a hall-porter's children. there was certainly no want of nicer children to play with; school-fellows whose parents lived in similar villas to theirs used to invite him; and the families in berlin, with whom the schliebens were on friendly terms and who were pleased when their children could get out to the grunewald on their holidays, often asked him to come and see them too. all children liked to come to the shady garden, where auntie käte was always so kind to them. there was always plenty of cakes and fruit and hoops and balls and croquet and tennis, ninepins and gymnastic appliances. on sunny afternoons gay laughter and shrieks used to ascend high up into the green tops of the pines, but--käte noticed it with surprise--her boy, who was generally so wild, was the quietest of them all on those occasions. he did not care for those visits. he did not care for those well-behaved boys in white and blue sailor-suits, with their fresh faces showing above their dazzling collars; he never felt really at home with them. he would have preferred to have run away to a place far away from there, where nobody else went except now and then a beggar with a large bag, who would turn over every bit of paper with his wire hook to see whether something of value had not been left there the sunday before. he would have liked to help that man. or fill the large bag with pine-cones. but still wolfgang had some friends. there was hans flebbe--his father was coachman at the banker's, who owned the splendid villa on the other side of the road and lived in bellevuestrasse in berlin in the winter--and there were also artur and frida. but their father was only porter in a villa that was let out to different families. as soon as these three came home from school, they would stand outside the schliebens' villa. they could not be driven away, they would wait there patiently until wolfgang joined them. "he's like a brother to my hans," the coachman used to say, and he would greet him with a specially condescending flick of his whip from his high seat. and the porter and his wife used to state with much satisfaction: "yes, old schlieben always touches his hat, and she, his lady, also says 'how do you do?' to us in a very friendly style, but the little one, oh, he's quite different." those were wild games the four comrades played together, and in which frida was reckoned to be quite a boy: catch, hide and seek, but best of all, robbers and policemen. how wolf's eyes sparkled when he, as the robber captain, gave the policeman, hans flebbe, a kick in the stomach, so that he fell backwards on the ground and lay for a time without moving from pain. "i've shot him," he said to his mother proudly. käte, who had been called to the window by the noisy shrieks of the children who were rushing about wildly in the waste field behind the villa, had beckoned to her boy to come in. he had come unwillingly; but he had come. now he stood breathless before her, and she stroked the damp hair away from the face that was wet with perspiration: "what a sight you look! and here--look." she pointed reproachfully to his white blouse that was covered with dirt. where in all the world had he made himself so filthy? there were no real pools there. and his trousers. the right leg was slit open the whole way down, the left one had a three-cornered hole in the knee. pooh, that was nothing. he wanted to rush away again, he was trembling with impatience; his playfellows were crouching behind the bush, they dared not come out before he, their captain, came back to them. he strove against the hand that was holding him; but his struggles were of no avail that time, his father came out of the next room. "you are to stop here. you ought to feel ashamed of yourself to resist your mother like that. off with you, go to your room and prepare your lessons for tomorrow." paul schlieben spoke sharply. it had made him angry to see how the boy had striven with hands and feet against his delicate wife. "you rude boy, i'll teach you how to behave to your mother. here"--he seized hold of him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him up to her--"here, beg her pardon. kiss your good mother's hand. and promise not to be so wild again, not to behave like a street-boy. be quick--well, are you soon going to do it?" the veins on the man's forehead began to swell with anger. what a stubborn fellow he was. there he stood, his blouse torn open at front so that you could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest that was wet with perspiration--he was not breathing quietly even now, he was still panting from the rough game--and looking so wild, so turbulent, not at all like the child of nice parents. this could not go on any longer. "you must not tear about like that any more, do you hear?" said his father severely. "i forbid it. play other games. you have your garden, your gymnastic appliances and a hundred things others would envy you. and now come here, beg your mother's pardon." the boy went to his mother. she met him half way, she held out her hand to him already. he kissed it, he mumbled also, "i won't do it again," but the man did not hear any repentance in his voice. there was something in the sullen way he said it that irritated him. and he lost control of himself a little. "that wasn't an apology. ask your mother's pardon again--and distinctly." the boy repeated it. "and now promise that you will not rush about like that again. 'dear mother, i promise'--well?" not a word, no promise. "what's the meaning of this?" the man shook the boy, beside himself with anger. but the boy pressed his lips together. he gave his father an upward look out of his dark eyes. the woman caught the look--oh, god, that was the look!--that look--the woman's look! she put both her arms round the boy protectingly: "don't, don't irritate him." she drew him nearer to her and covered his eyes with her hands, so that he had to close them, and then she cast an imploring glance at her husband: "go, do go." paul schlieben went, but he shook his head angrily. "you'll see what your training will make of the boy." he raised his hand menacingly once more: "boy, i tell you, you'll have to obey." and then he closed the door behind him--he could not even have his midday rest undisturbed now. he heard his wife's voice in the next room. it sounded so gentle and trembled as though with a secret dread. "wölfchen, wölfchen, aren't you my good boy?" no answer. good heavens, had the unfeeling scamp no answer to give to that question uttered in that tone? then again the soft trembling voice: "won't you be my good boy?" if the boy did not answer now, then--! the blood surged to his head as he listened against his will, his fingers twitched, he wanted to jump up and rush in again and--ah, he must have answered now. it was probably nothing but a silent nod, but käte's voice sounded intensely happy: "there you see, i knew you were my good boy, my darling child, my--my----" hm, it was certainly not necessary for käte to lavish such endearing tones on the boy, after he had just been so naughty. and she must have kissed him, put her arms round him. her voice had died away in a tender breath. paul schlieben did not hear anything more now; neither the rustling of her dress nor any other sound--ah, she was probably whispering to him now. how she spoiled the scamp. but now--somebody was weeping softly. was that wolf's hard, defiant voice? yes, he was actually crying loudly now, and between his sobs he jerked out pitifully--you could hardly understand what he was saying: "i had to--to shoot him--he's the policeman, you know." and now everything was quiet again. the man took up his paper once more, which he had thrown aside before, and commenced to read. but he could not fix his attention on it, his thoughts wandered obstinately again and again to the next room. had the scamp come to his senses now? did he see that he had been naughty? and was not käte much too weak? there was nothing to be heard, nothing whatever. but still--was not that the door that creaked? no, imagination. everything was quiet. after waiting a little longer he went into the next room. it was indeed very quiet there, for käte was quite alone. she was sitting at the window, her hands in her lap, pondering. her thoughts seemed to be far away. "where's the boy?" she gave a terrified start, and thrust both hands forward as though to ward off something. he saw now that she was pale. the vexation she had had on account of the child had probably shaken her a good deal--just let him wait until he got hold of him, he should do twice as many sums to-day as a punishment. "is the boy at his lessons?" she shook her head and got red. "no." "no? why not?" he looked at her in amazement. "didn't i tell him that he was to go to his lessons at once?" "you said so. but i told him to run away. paul, don't be angry." she saw that he was about to fly into a passion, and laid her hand on his arm soothingly. "if you love me, leave him. oh paul, believe me, do believe me when i say he can't help it, he must run about, rush about, be out of doors--he must." "you always have some excuse. just think of the story of the knapsack when first he went to school--the rascal had thrown it up into a pine-tree. if a labourer had not found it by accident and brought it to us, because he read our name on the primer, we might have looked for it for a long time. you excused that--well, that was nothing very bad--a fit of wantonness--but now you are excusing something quite different; and everything." the man, who generally yielded to his wife in all points, grew angry in his grave anxiety. "i implore you, käte, don't be so incredibly weak with the boy. where will it lead to?" "it will lead him to you and me." she pointed gravely to him and herself. and then she laid her hand on her heart with an expression of deep emotion. "what do you mean? i don't understand you. please express yourself a little more clearly, i'm not in a humour to guess riddles." "if you can't guess it, you'll not understand it either if i say it more clearly." she bent her head and then went back to her former seat. but she was not lost in thought any longer, it seemed to him as if she were leaning forward to catch the shrill shouts of triumph that rose high above the roof from the waste field at the back of the house. "you'll never be able to manage the boy." "oh yes, i shall." "of course you will, if you let him do exactly what he likes." the man strode quickly out of the room; his anger was getting the mastery of him. paul schlieben was seriously angry with his wife, perhaps for the first time in their married life. how could käte be so unreasonable? take so little notice of his orders, as though he had never given them--nay, even act in direct opposition to him? oh, the rascal was cunning enough, he drew his conclusions from it already. and if he did not do so as yet, still he felt instinctively what a support he had in his mother. it was simply incredible how weak käte was. his wife's soft sensitive nature, which had attracted him to her in the first instance and which had had the same charm for him all the years they had been married, now seemed exaggerated all at once--childish. yes, this timorousness, this everlasting dread of what was over and done with was childish. they had not heard anything more about the boy's mother, why then conjure up her shade on all occasions? they had the boy's birth and baptismal certificates safely in their hands, and the venn was far away--he would never see it--why then this constant, tremulous anxiety? there was no reason whatever for it. they lived in such pleasant surroundings, their financial position was so sound, wolf possessed everything that fills and gladdens a child's heart, that it was real madness for käte to suppose that he had a kind of longing for his home. how in the world should he have got that longing? he had no idea that this was not really his home. it was sad that käte was so hypersensitive. she could positively make others nervous as well. and the man passed his hand over his forehead, as though to drive disagreeable thoughts away with a movement of his hand. he lighted a cigar. it was an extra fine one to-day, those he generally left for his guests; he had the feeling that he must have something to help him over an unpleasant hour. for the thing was unpleasant, really unpleasant and difficult, even if he hoped in time to solve the question of how to train such a child satisfactorily. at any rate not as käte was doing. that was clear to him already. paul schlieben sat in the corner of the sofa in his study, blowing blue rings of smoke into the air. his brows were still knit. he had come home very tired from the office that day, where there had been all sorts of complications--quite enough annoyance--he had had to dictate some hurried letters, had not allowed himself a moment's repose, and had hoped to have a pleasant rest at home--but in vain. strange how one child can alter the whole household, one's whole life. if the boy had not been there?... ah, then he would have had a short peaceful nap by now, stretched out on the divan with the newspaper in front of his face, and would be going across to käte's room for a cosy chat and a cup of coffee, which she prepared herself so gracefully on the humming viennese coffee-machine. he had always liked to sit and watch her slender, well-cared-for hands move about so noiselessly. it was a pity. he sighed. but then he conquered the feeling: no, one ought not to wish he were away because of a momentary annoyance. how many happy hours little wölfchen had given them. it had been charming to watch his first steps, to listen to his first connected words. and had not käte been very happy to have him--oh, who said _been_ happy?--she was still so. nothing could be compared to the boy. and that the hours of cloudless happiness they had had through him were not so numerous now as formerly was quite natural. he was not the same little boy any longer, who had taken his first bold run from that corner over there to this sofa, and had clung to his father's legs rejoicing at his own daring; that was all. he was now beginning to be an independent person, a person with wishes of his own, no longer with those that had been inculcated; he showed a will of his very own. now he wanted this and now he wanted that, and no longer what his teachers wanted. but was not that natural? on the whole, when a child begins to go to school, what a great many changes take place. one would have to make allowances, even if one did not wish to have one's whole way of living influenced by it first the parents, then the child. the man felt how he gradually became calmer. a boy--what a compound of wildness, roughness, unrestraint, ay, unmannerliness is included in that word! and all, all who were now men had once been boys. his cigar went out; he had forgotten to smoke it. the man thought of his own boyhood with a strangely gentle feeling not entirely free from a faint longing. let him only be honest: had he not also rushed about and made a terrible noise, dirtied himself, got hot and torn his trousers and been up to pranks, more than enough pranks? strange how he all at once remembered some of the severe lectures he had had given him and the tears he had forced from his mother's eyes; he also very clearly remembered the whipping he had once got for telling a lie. his father had said at the time--all at once he seemed to hear his voice, which had generally sounded anything but solemn, in fact very commonplace, but which had then been ennobled by the gravity of the situation, echo in the room: "boy, i can forgive you everything else except lies." ah, it had been very uncomfortable that day in the small office, where his father had leant against the high wooden desk holding the stick behind his back. he had pushed the little cap he wore on account of his baldness to one side in his agitation, his friendly blue eyes had looked at him penetratingly, and at the same time sadly. "one can forgive everything except lies"--well, had the boy, had wolfgang told a lie? certainly not. he had only been naughty, as the best children are now and then. the man felt ashamed of himself: and he, he had been so displeased with the boy simply because he had been naughty? he got up from the sofa, threw the remains of his cigar into the ash-tray and went out to look for wolfgang. he came across the four in the height of the game. they had lighted a small fire on the waste piece of ground close behind the garden railing, so that the overhanging bushes in the garden formed a kind of roof over them. they were crouching close together; they were in camp now. frida had some potatoes in her pinafore, which were to be roasted in the ashes; but the fire would not burn, the twigs only smouldered. wolfgang lay on his stomach on the ground, resting on his elbows, and was blowing with all the strength of his lungs. but it was not enough, the fire would not burn on any account. paul schlieben had come up softly, the children had not noticed him at all in their eagerness. "won't it burn?" he asked. wolfgang jerked himself up, and was on his feet in a moment. he had been red and fresh-looking, but now he grew pale, his frank look fell timidly, a miserable expression lengthened his round, childish face and made him look older. "have i to go in?" it sounded pitiful. the man pretended not to hear the question; he had really intended fetching him in, but all at once he hesitated to say so. it was hard for the boy to have to go away now before the fire burnt, before the potatoes were roasted. so he said nothing, but stooped down, and as he was not far enough down even then he knelt down and blew the fire, that was faintly crackling, with all the breath he had in his broad chest. sparks began to leap out at once, and a small flame shot up and soon turned into a big one. there was a shout of glee. frida hopped about in the circle, her plaits flying: "it's burning, it's burning!" artur and hans chimed in too; they also hopped from the one foot to the other, clapped their dirty hands and shouted loudly: "it's burning, it's burning!" "be quiet, children." the man was amused at their happiness. "bring me some twigs, but very dry ones," he ordered, full of eagerness, too, to keep alive this still uncertain flame, that now disappeared, now flared up again. he blew and poked and added more twigs. the wind drove the smoke into his face so that he had to cough, but he wiped his eyes, that were full of tears, and did not mind that his trousers got wet green spots from kneeling on the ground, and that chance passers-by would be greatly surprised to see herr paul schlieben occupied in that manner. he, too, found it fun now to keep up a fire for roasting potatoes under the pale, blue autumn sky, in which the white clouds were scudding along and the twittering swallows flying. he had never known such a thing--he had always lived in a town--but it was splendid, really splendid. the children brought twigs. wolfgang took them and broke them across his knee--crack!--the sticks broke like glass. what a knack the boy had at it. the flames flared up, the little fire emitted an agreeable warmth; one could warm one's hands at it--ah, that was really very nice. and then the man followed the smoke, which the wind raised from the field like a light cloud, with his eyes. it seemed grey at first, but the higher it flew the lighter it became, and the friendly sunshine shone through it, transforming it. it floated upwards, ever upwards, ever more immaterial, more intangible, until it flew away entirely--a puff, a whiff. now it was about time to bury the potatoes; wolfgang busied himself with it. they had not poked the fire any more, the flame had sunk down, but the ashes hid all the heat. the children stood round with wide-open eyes, quite quiet, almost holding their breath and yet trembling with expectation: when would the first potatoes be done? oh, did they not smell nice already? they distended their nostrils so as to smell them. but paul schlieben brushed his trousers now and prepared to go away--it would take too long before the potatoes were ready. he felt something that resembled regret. but it really would not do for him to stand about any longer; what would people think of him? he was himself again now. "that's enough now," he said, and he went away, carefully avoiding the impracticable parts of the field where the puddles were. then he heard steps close behind him. he turned round. "wolf? well, what do you want?" the boy looked at him sadly out of his dark eyes. "are you going home too?" there was astonishment in the man's question--he had not said that the boy was to go with him. the pines emitted a splendid smell, you could breathe the air so freely, so easily, and that pale blue sky with the fleecy white clouds had something wonderfully clear about it, something that filled the eyes with light. white threads floated over the countryside, driven from the clean east, and hung fast to the green branches of the pines, shimmering there like a fairy web. and the sun was still agreeably warm without burning, and an invigorating pungent odour streamed from the golden-coloured leaves of the bushes that enclosed the gardens at the back. the man drew a deep breath; he felt as if he had suddenly grown ten, twenty--no, thirty years younger. even more. "well, run along," he said. the boy looked at him as if he had not quite understood him. "run," he said once more curtly, smiling at the same time. then the boy gave a shout, such a shrill, triumphant shout that his playfellows, who were crouching round the potato fire, joined in immediately without knowing why. there was a gleam in the dark eyes of the boy, who loved freedom, the free air and to run about free. he did not say his father had made him happy, but he drew a deep breath as if a load had fallen off his chest. and the man noticed something in his face, that was now commencing to grow coarser, to lose the soft contours of childhood and get the sharp ones of youth, that made it refined and beautiful. wolfgang flew back across the field as quick as lightning, as if shot from a tightly strung bow. the man went back into his garden. he opened the gate cautiously so that it should not creak, and closed it again just as quietly--käte need not know where he had been. but she was already standing at the window. there was something touchingly helpless in her attitude, such an anxious scrutiny in her eyes--no, she need not look at him like that, he was not angry with her. and he nodded to her. when the housemaid asked whether the master did not know where the young gentleman was--she had had the milk warmed three times already for him and had run up and downstairs with it--he said in a low voice with an excuse in the tone: "oh, that does not matter, lisbeth. warm it for a fourth time later on. it is so healthy for him to be out of doors." book ii chapter viii it was frida lämke's birthday. "if you may come we are to have buns with raisins in, but if you mayn't there'll only be rolls like we have every day," she said to her friend wolfgang. "mind you get them to let you come." it was of most importance to her that wolfgang came; no differences were made on account of flebbe, although he always said he was going to marry her. and wolfgang teased his mother. "let me go--why not? i should like to so much--why mayn't i?" yes, why not? he had kept dinning this "why not?" into her ears for the last twenty-four hours; it had quite worn her out. what should she say to him? that she disliked frida? but what had the girl done that she had taken a dislike to her? nothing. she always curtseyed politely, was always tidily dressed, had even plaited the blue ribbon into her fair hair with a certain taste. the parents were also quite respectable people, and still--these children always hung about the streets, always, both summer and winter. you could pass their house whenever you liked, those lämkes were always outside their door. was it the life of the streets this snub-nosed girl, who was very developed for her age, reminded her of? no, he must not go to those people's house, go down into the atmosphere of the porter's room. "i don't wish you to go there," she said. she had not the heart to say: "i won't allow it," when he looked at her with those beseeching eyes. and the boy saw his advantage. he felt distinctly: she is struggling with herself; and he followed it up with cruel pertinacity. "let me--oh, do let me. i shall be so sorry if i can't. then i shan't care to do anything. why mayn't i? mammy, i'll love you so, if you'll only let me go. do let me--will you? but i will." she could not escape from him any more, he followed her wherever she went, he took hold of her dress, and even if she forbade him to ask her any more, she felt that he only thought of the one thing the whole time. so he forced her in that way. paul schlieben was not so averse to his accepting the invitation from the lämkes. "why not? they're quite respectable people. it won't harm the boy to cast a glance at those circles for once in a way. i also went to our hall-porter's home as a boy. and why not?" she wanted to say: "but that was something quite different, there was no danger in your case"--but then she thought better of it and said nothing. she did not want to bring him her fears, her doubts, her secret gnawing dread so soon again, as there was no manifest reason for them, and they could not be explained as every other feeling can be after all. something like a depressing mist always hung over her. but why should she tell him so? she neither wanted to be scolded nor laughed at for it; she would resent both. he was not the same man he used to be. oh--she felt it with a slight bitterness--how he used to understand her. he had shared every emotion with her, every vibration of her soul. but he had not the gift of understanding her thoughts now--or did she perhaps not understand him any longer? but he was still her dear husband, her good, faithful husband whom she loved more than anyone else in the world--no, whom she loved as she loved wölfchen. the child, oh, the child was the sun round which her life revolved. if paul only had been as he was formerly. she had to cast a covert glance at him very frequently now, and, with a certain surprise, also grow accustomed to his outward appearance. not that his broadening-out did not suit him; the slight stoutness his slender figure with its formerly somewhat stiff but always perfect carriage had assumed suited his years, and the silver threads that commenced to gleam in his beard and at his temples. it suited also the comfortable velvet coat he always put on as soon as he came home, suited his whole manner of being. strange that anybody could become such a practical person, to whom everything relating to business had formerly been such a burden, nay, even most repugnant. he would not have picked up the strange child from the venn now, and--käte gave her husband a long look--he would not have taken it home with him now as a gift from fairyland. had the years also changed her in the same manner? her looking-glass did not show her any very great change. there was still the same girlish figure, which seemed twice as slender beside her husband's stoutness. her hair was still fair, and she still blushed like a young girl to whom a stray look is enough to make the blood, that flows so easily, invade her delicate cheeks. yes, she had still remained young outwardly. but her mind was often weary. wolf caused her too much anxiety. a mother, who was ten, fifteen years younger than she, would not perhaps feel how every nerve becomes strained when dealing with such a child as she did. would not such a mother often have laughed when she felt ready to cry? oh, what a boisterous, inexhaustible vital power there was in that boy! she was amazed, bewildered, exhausted by it. was he never tired? always on his legs, out of bed at six, always out, out. she heard him tossing about restlessly at daybreak. he slept in the next room to theirs, and the door between the rooms always stood open, although her husband scolded her for it. the boy was big enough, did not want supervising. they need not have that disturbance at night, at any rate. but she wanted to watch over his sleep too; she must do so. she often heard him talk in his dreams, draw his breath so heavily, as though something were distressing him. then she would slip out of bed, softly, softly, so that her husband should not hear her; she did not light any candle, she groped her way into the other room on bare feet. and then she would stand at his bedside. he still had the pretty railed cot from his first boyhood--but how long would it be before it was too small? how quickly he was growing, how terribly quickly. she passed her hand cautiously and lightly over the cover, and felt the boy's long body underneath it. then he began to toss about, groan, stiffen himself like one who is struggling with something. what could be the matter with him? then he spoke indistinctly. of what was he dreaming so vividly? he was wet through with perspiration. if only she could see him. but she dared not light a candle. what should she say to her husband if he, awakened by the light, asked her what she was doing there? and wölfchen would also wake and ask her what she wanted. yes, what did she really want? she had no answer ready even for herself. she would only have liked to know what was occupying his mind in his dream to such an extent that he sighed and struggled. of what was he dreaming? of whom? where was he in his dream? she trembled as she stood at his bedside on her bare feet listening. and then she bent over him so closely that his breath, uneven and hot, blew into her face, and she breathed on him again--did not they mingle their breath in that manner? was she not giving him breath of her breath in that manner?--and whispered softly and yet so earnestly, imploringly and at the same time urgently: "your mother is here, your mother is near you." but he threw himself over to the other side with a jerk, turned his back on her and mumbled something. nothing but incomprehensible words, rarely anything that was distinct, but even that was enough; she felt he was not there, not with her, that he was far away. did his soul seek the home he did not know in his dreams? that he could not even know about, and that still had such a powerful influence that it drew him there even unconsciously? käte stood at wolfgang's bedside tortured by such an anxiety as she had never felt before: a mother and still not mother. alas, she was only a strange woman at the bedside of a strange child. she crept back to her bed and buried her throbbing brows deep in the pillows. she felt her heart beat tumultuously, and she scolded herself for allowing her thoughts to dwell on such unavailing things. she did not change anything by it, it only made her weary and sad. when käte rose after such a night she felt her husband's eyes resting on her anxiously, and her hands trembled as she coiled up her thick hair. it was fortunate that she dropped a hair-pin, then she could stoop quickly and withdraw her tired face with the dark lines under the eyes from his scrutinising glance. "i'm not at all satisfied with my wife's health again," paul schlieben complained to the doctor. "she's in a terribly nervous state again." "really?" dr. hofmann's friendly face became energetic. "i'll tell you one thing, my dear friend, you must take vigorous measures against it at once." "that's no use." the man shook his head. "i know my wife. it's the boy's doing, that confounded boy!" and he took wolfgang in hand. "now listen, you must not always be worrying your mother like that. if i notice once more that she is grieving about you because you are naughty, you shall see what i'll do to you." did he worry his mother? wolfgang looked very blank. and surely it was not naughty of him to want to go to the lämkes? it worried him to have to sit indoors, whilst the wind was whistling outside and playing about with one's hair in such a jolly manner. and it worried him, too, that he was not going to the lämkes that day. "well then, go," said käte. she even drove into berlin before dinner and bought a doll, a pretty doll with fair locks, eyes that opened and shut, and a pink dress. "take it to frida for her birthday when you go," she said in the afternoon, putting it into the boy's hands. "stop! be careful!" he had seized hold of it impetuously, he was so delighted to be able to bring frida something. and in a rare fit of emotion--he was no friend of caresses--he put up his face in an outburst of gratitude and let his mother kiss him. he did not want her kiss, but he submitted to it, she felt that very well, but still she was glad, and she followed him with her eyes with a smile that lighted up her whole face. "but you must be home again before dark," she called out to him at the last moment. had he heard her? how he ran off, as light-footed as a stag. she had never seen any child run so quickly. he threw up his straight legs that his heels touched his thighs every time. the wind blew his broad-brimmed sailor hat back, then he tore it off and ran on bareheaded, he was in such a hurry. what was it that drew him so powerfully to those people? the smile disappeared from käte's face; she left the window. wolfgang was happy. he was sitting with the lämkes, in the room in which they also did the cooking when the weather was cold. the parents' bed was divided off by means of a curtain, frida slept on the sofa, and artur in the little room next to it in which were also kept the shovels and brooms which lämke used for cleaning the house and street. it was not winter yet, still pleasant autumn, but the room was already warm and cosy. the stronger smell of the coffee, which frau lämke was making in the large enamelled pot, mingled with the delicate fragrance of the pale monthly rose and carnation, myrtle and geranium, which had been pushed close to the window that was almost level with the ground and were all in flower. at home wolfgang never got coffee, but he got some there; and he sipped it as he saw the others do, only he was even more delighted with it than they. and no fine pastry had ever tasted so good as did that plain bun, that was more like bread than like a cake. he ate it with his mouth open, and when mrs. lämke pushed a second one to him, the guest of honour, he took it with radiant eyes. frau lämke felt much flattered at his visit. but she had not made much of the doll; she had taken it from frida at once and locked it into the cupboard: "so that you don't smash it at once. besides, your father isn't a gentleman that you can play with dolls every day." but later on when her husband came down from the lodge, in which he sat in his leisure hours mending boots and shoes, to drink a cup of coffee and eat a bun on frida's birthday, the doll was fetched out again and shown him. "fine, isn't it? she's got it from wolfgang's mamma. just look, lämke"--the woman lifted the doll's pink dress up and showed the white petticoat trimmed with a frill edged with narrow lace--"such trimming. just like that i sewed round the dress frida wore at her christening. she was the first one; bless you, and you think at the time it's something wonderful. oh dear!"--she sighed and laid the doll back in the cupboard in which the clean pillowcases and frida's and her sunday hats were together with all kinds of odds and ends--"how time flies. now she's already nine." "ten," corrected frida. "i'm ten to-day, mother." "right--dear me, are you already ten?" the woman laughed and shook her head, surprised at her own forgetfulness. and then she nodded to her husband: "do you still remember, lämke, when she was born?" "if i remember!" he said, pouring another cup out of the inexhaustible coffee-pot. "those were nice carryings-on when she was born--none of that again, thanks. the girl gave you a lot of trouble. and me too; i was terribly afraid. but that's ten years since, old woman--why, it's almost forgotten." "and if it had happened a hundred years ago i shouldn't have forgotten it, oh no." the woman put out her hand as though to ward off something. "i was just going to make myself some coffee about four o'clock in the afternoon, like to-day, i had got such a longing for it, and then it started. i just got as far as the passage--do you remember, you were still working in stiller's workshop at the time, and we lived in the alte jakob, fifth storey to the left?--and i knocked at fritze's, the necktie maker's, whose door was opposite ours, and said: 'oh, please,' i said, 'send your little one as quickly as you can to frau wadlern, , spittelmarkt, she knows all about it'--oh dear, how bad i felt. and i fell down on the nearest chair; they had the greatest difficulty to get me home again. and now it began, i could not control myself however much i tried; i believe they heard me scream three houses off. and it lasted, it lasted--evening came on--you came home--it was midnight--five, six, seven in the morning--then at last at nine o'clock frau wadlern said: 'the child, it'll soon be----'" "that's enough now, mother," interrupted the man, glancing sideways at the children, who were sitting very quietly round the table listening, with wide-open, inquisitive eyes. "all that's over long ago, the girl's here, and has been a credit to you so far." "she was born at eleven sharp," said frau lämke dreamily, nodding her head at the same time and then drawing a deep breath as if she had climbed a high mountain. and then, overwhelmed by the pain and pleasure of a memory that was still so extremely vivid after the lapse of ten years, she called her daughter, her first-born, to come to her on this her tenth birthday. "come here, frida." and she gave her a kiss. frida, who was quite abashed at this unexpected caress, giggled as she cast a glance at her brother artur and the two other boys, and then ran to the door: "can we go and play now?" "be off with you." then they rushed out of the dark cellar, where the lämkes lived, in high spirits. it was so light in the street, the sun shone brightly, a fresh wind was blowing and somebody was flying a kite far away across the field. there were very few people on foot and no carriages. the road belonged to them, and they rushed to it with a loud hallo. the one who reached the lamp-post at the corner first was captain. wolfgang had never allowed anyone to deprive him of this honour before, but he had to be policeman to-day, he had been the last. he had followed the others slowly and silently. he had got something in his head to think about, which made him dull and hindered him from running; he had to think about it the whole time. he could not get rid of it even when he was in the midst of his favourite game; the only time he forgot it was when he was having a good scuffle with hans flebbe. the latter had scratched him in the face, and so he tore a handful of his hair out. they gripped hold of each other near the next garden-gate. artur, a feeble little creature, had not taken part in the fight, but he stood with his hands in his pockets giving advice in a screeching voice to the two who fought in silence. "give him it hard, flebbe. your fist under his nose--hard." "on with you, wolfgang. settle him. show him what you can do." frida hopped from one leg to the other, laughing, her fair plait dancing on her back. but all at once her laugh became somewhat forced and anxious: hans, who was several years older than wolfgang, had got him down on the ground and was hammering him in the face with his fist. "flebbe, you--!" she pulled his blouse, and as that did not help she nimbly put her foot out. he stumbled over it, and wolfgang, quickly taking advantage of it, swung himself up and belaboured his enemy. it was no game any longer, no ordinary scuffle between two boys. wolfgang felt his face burn like fire, he had a scratch on his cheek that went down to his chin, there were sparks before his eyes. all that had made him so silent before was forgotten, he felt a wild delight and gave a loud roar. "wolfgang, wolfgang, no, that's not fair," cried the umpire. "that's no longer fun." artur prepared to catch hold of wolfgang, who was kneeling on his opponent's chest, by his two legs. a jerk and off he flew. wolf now turned against him, trembling with rage; his black eyes gleamed. this was no longer a well-dressed child of better-class parents, this was quite an elementary, unbridled, unconquered force. he snorted, he panted--at that moment somebody called. "wolfgang, wolfgang." "wolfgang," cried frida warningly, "mother's calling. and your maid is standing near her beckoning." frau lämke's voice was again heard, coming from the door of her house: "wolfgang, wolfgang." and now lisbeth's sharp tones were also heard: "well, are you soon coming? you're to come home." frau lämke laughed. "oh, leave them, they were so happy." but she got a fright all the same when she saw the boy's dirty clothes, and began to brush them. "my goodness, what a sight your pretty blouse looks--and the trousers." she turned red, and still redder when she noticed the fiery scratch on the young gentleman's cheek. "they've made a nice mess of you, the brats. just you wait until i get hold of you." she shook her fist at hans flebbe and her own children, but her threat was not meant seriously. then she said to lisbeth in an undertone and with a twitching smile round the corners of her mouth, as she stood there motionless with indignation: "wild brats, aren't they? well, it'll always be like that, we were all like that when we were young." and, turning to wolfgang again, she passed her gnarled hand over his fiery scratch: "that was fine fun, eh, wolfgang?" "yes," he said from the bottom of his heart. and when he saw her looking at him with eyes so friendly and full of comprehension, a great liking for the woman sprang up in his heart. it had been a splendid afternoon. but he did not speak of it as he went home with lisbeth; she would have been sure to have turned up her nose at it. "hm, the mistress is nice and angry," said lisbeth--she never said anything but "the mistress" when speaking to the boy. "why did you stop there such an everlasting time? didn't you hear the mistress say you were to come home before it was dark?" he did not answer. let her chatter, it was not at all true. he stared past her into the twilight. but when he came into the room on reaching home, he noticed that his mother had waited for him. she was certainly not angry, but his evening meal, an egg, a ham sandwich, the milk in a silver mug, everything neatly prepared, was already there, and she sat opposite his place with her hands folded on the white table cloth, frowning impatiently. the large hanging-lamp, which cast a bright light on the table and made her bent head gleam like gold, did not brighten up her face. his mother was in silk, in light silk, in a dress trimmed with lace, which only had something that looked like a very transparent veil over the neck and arms. oh, now he remembered, she was to meet his father, who had not come home to dinner that day, in town at eight o'clock, and go to a party with him. oh, that was why he had had to come home so early. as if he could not have got into bed alone. "you've come so late," she said. "you could have gone," he said. "you know, my child, that i'm uneasy if i don't know that you are at home." she sighed: "how could i have gone?" he looked at her in surprise: why did she say that? had somebody been telling tales about him again? why was she so funny? he gazed at her with wide-open eyes, as though she were a perfect stranger to him in that dress that left her neck and arms so bare. he put his food into his mouth lost in thought, and munched it slowly. all at once he had to think a great deal of what he had heard frau lämke tell. his father and mother had never told anything about when _he_ was born. and suddenly he stopped eating and launched the question into the stillness of the room, into the stillness that reigned between him and her: "when i was born, did it last such a long time too?" "when what?--who?--you?" she stared at him. she did not seem to have understood him. so he quickly swallowed the food he still had in his mouth and said very loudly and distinctly: "did it last such a long time when i was born? it lasted very long when frida was. did you scream too, like frau lämke?" "i?--who?--i?" she turned crimson and then very pale. she closed her eyes for a moment, she felt dizzy; there was a buzzing in her ears. she jumped up from her chair, she felt she must run away, and still she could not. she clutched hold of the table with shaking hands, but the strong oak table had turned into something that shook uncertainly, that moved up and down, slid about. what--what was the boy saying? o god! she bit her lips, drew a deep breath, and was about to say: "leave off asking such stupid questions," and yet could not say it. she struggled with herself. at last she jerked out: "nonsense. be quick, finish eating. then off to bed at once." her voice sounded quite hoarse. the boy's astonished look fell on her once more. "why are you all at once so--so--so horrid? can't i even ask a question?" and he pushed his plate aside sulkily and stopped eating. why did she not answer him? why did she not tell him something like what frau lämke had told her frida? had he not been born as well? and had not his mother been pleased, too, when he was born? it was very nasty of her that she did not tell him anything about it. could she not see how much, how awfully much he wanted to know something about it? a burning curiosity was aroused in the child all at once. it tortured him, positively devoured him. he would not be able to sleep the whole night, he would have to think of it again and again. and he wanted to sleep, it was tiresome to lie awake--he wanted to know it he must know it. käte saw how gloomy the boy's face had grown. oh, the poor, poor boy. if only she had not let him go to those people. what had he been told there? what did he know? had they made him suspicious? what did those people know? oh, they had made him suspicious, otherwise why should he have tormented her with such questions? a burning dread filled her mind, and yet her hands and feet were growing as cold as ice. but her compassion was even greater than her dread--there he sat, looking so sad and with tears in his eyes. the poor child, who wanted to know something about his birth, and whom she could not, would not, dared not tell anything. oh, if only she could think of something to say, only find the right word. "wölfchen," she said gently, "you are still too young to hear about it--i can't tell you about it yet. another time. you don't understand it yet. when you're older--i'll tell you it another time." "no, now." she had gone up to him, and he caught hold of her dress and held her fast. he persisted with the dull obstinacy that was peculiar to him: "now. i will know it--i must know it." "but i--i've no time, wölfchen. i have to go--yes, i really must go, it's high time." her eyes wandered about the room, and she felt quite flustered: "i--no, i can't tell you anything." "you will not," he said. "and still frau lämke told her frida it." the sulky peevish expression had disappeared from the boy's dark face, and made way for one of real sadness. "you don't love me half so much, not in the same way as frau lämke loves her frida." she did not love him?--she did not love him?--käte could have screamed. if any mother loved her child it was surely she, and still this child felt instinctively that something was wanting. and was not that mysterious bond wanting that binds a real mother so indissolubly and mysteriously, so intimately to her real child? "wölfchen," she said in a soft tremulous voice, "my dear wölfchen," and she stroked his hot forehead with her icy cold hand. "you don't mean what you are saying. we love each other so much, don't we? my child--my darling child, tell me." she sought his glance, she hung on his answer. but the answer she longed for did not come. he looked past her. "you see, you won't tell me anything." he seemed to harp on that. this burning desire had taken possession of him all at once. somebody had instilled it into him, there could be no other explanation for it. "who--" she asked hesitatingly--"who has told you--you should question me in this manner? who?" she had taken hold of his shoulders, but he wriggled away from under her touch. "oh, why are you so funny? no-nobody. but i should like to know it. i tell you, i should like to know it. it worries me so. i don't know why it worries me, that's all." it worried him--already? so early? oh, then it was a suspicion, a suspicion--who knew from whence it came? he suspected what had happened in his earliest childhood unconsciously. what would happen? "o god, help me!" she cried to herself. the point now was to invent something, make something up, devise something. those torturing questions must never, never be asked again. and she forced herself to smile, and when she felt that her smile was no smile, she stepped behind his chair and laid her cheek on the top of his head and both her hands round his neck. he could not look round at her in that way. and she spoke in the low voice in which fairy tales are told to children. "father and i had been married a long time--just think, almost fifteen years!--and father and i wanted so much to have a dear boy or a dear little girl, so that we should not be so much alone. one day i was very sad, for all the other women had a dear child, and i was the only one who had not, and i walked about outside and cried, and then i suddenly heard a voice it came from heaven--no, a voice--a voice that--and--and----" she got bewildered, stammered and hesitated: what was she to say now? "hm," he said impatiently. "and--? tell me some more. and--?" "and next day you were lying in our cradle," she concluded hastily and awkwardly, in an almost stifled voice. "and"--he had pushed her hands away, and had turned round and was looking into her face now--"that's all?" "well--and we--we were very happy." "how stupid!" he said, offended. "that's not 'being born.' frau lämke told it quite differently. you don't know anything about it." he looked at her doubtfully. she evaded his glance, but he kept his eyes fixed on hers. it seemed to her as if those scrutinising eyes were looking right down into her soul. she stood there like a liar, and did not know what more to say. "you don't know anything about it," he repeated once more, bitterly disappointed. "good night." and he slouched to the door. she let him go, she did not call him back to give her his good-night kiss. she remained sitting without moving. she heard his steps in the room above. now he opened the door to throw his boots into the corner outside, now she heard them fall--now everything was quiet. oh, what was she to say to him later on when he asked her questions with full knowledge, a man justified in asking questions and demanding an answer to them? she let herself fall into the chair on which he had been sitting, and rested her head in her hands. chapter ix the boy's friendship with the lämkes was restricted. her boy should never go there again. in a manner käte had grown jealous of the woman who spoke of such improper things and did not mind what she said when children were present. frau lämke could not boast any longer of receiving a friendly greeting from the fine lady. frau schlieben walked past her house now without looking at her, and did not seem to hear her respectful: "good morning, ma'am." "tell me, wolfgang, what have i done to your mother?" she asked the boy one day when she had been out shopping and saw him again for the first time for several months. he was leaning against the railing that enclosed the plot of ground opposite their house, staring fixedly at their door. he gave a start; he had not heard her coming. and then he pretended not to see her, and stood flicking the whip he held in his hand. "are you never coming to see us again?" she went on. "have you been having a fight with artur or been quarrelling with frida? no, it can't be that, as they've been looking out for you so long. i suppose your mother won't let you, is that it? hm, we're not good enough any more, i suppose? of course not. lämke's only a porter and our children only a porter's children." her good-natured voice sounded mortified, and the boy listened attentively. he turned scarlet. "oh, i see, you are not allowed to. all right, stop away then, it's all the same to me." she turned round to go, full of anger. "well, what do you want now?" a sound from him made her stop; she remained against her will. there was something in the glance the boy gave her, as he looked her full in the face, that kept her standing. "i know, my dear," she said good-naturedly, "it's not your fault. i know that." "she won't let me," he muttered between his teeth, cracking his whip with a loud noise. "why not?" inquired the woman. "hasn't she said why you're not to play with artur and frida any more? artur has got a new humming top--oh my, how it dances. and frida a splendid ball from the lady who lives in our house." the boy's eyes flashed. he put out his foot and gave such a violent kick to a stone in front of him that it flew over to the other side of the street. "i shall play with them all the same." "come, come, not so defiant," said the woman admonishingly. "it may be the children were naughty--bless you, you can't be answerable for all they do. listen, little wolfgang, you must obey your mother if she won't hear of your coming." she sighed. "we've been very fond of you, my dear. but it's always like that, the friendship is very warm to begin with, and then all of a sudden the rich think better of it. and you really are too big to sit with us in the cellar now----" she was chattering on, when she felt someone seize hold of her hand. the boy held it in a very firm grip. bending down to him--for she was tall and thin and her eyes were no longer very good owing to the demi-obscurity of their room--she saw that he had tears in his eyes. she had never seen him cry before, and got quite a fright. "hush, hush, wölfchen. now don't cry, for goodness' sake don't, it isn't worth it." taking hold of a corner of her coarse blue working-apron--she had just run away from the wash-tub--she wiped his eyes and then his cheeks, and then she stroked the hair that grew so straight and thick on his round head. he stood quite still in the street that was already so sunny, so spring-like, as though rooted to the spot. he who had shrunk from caresses allowed her to stroke him, and did not mind if others saw it too. "i shall come to see you again, frau lämke. she can say what she likes. i will come to you." as he went away, not running as he usually did, but slowly and deliberately, the woman followed him with her eyes, and was surprised to see how big he had grown. käte had no easy time. however much she fought against wölfchen having any intercourse with the lämkes--positively stood out against it--the boy was stronger than she. he succeeded in gaining his end; the children were to come to him, even if he might not go to them. in the garden, at any rate--he had wrung that concession from his mother. they had had a struggle, as it were--no loud words and violent scenes, it is true, no direct prohibitions on her side, no entreaties on his, but a much more serious, silent struggle. she had felt that he was setting her at defiance, that the opposition in him increased more and more until it became dislike--yes, dislike of her. or did she only imagine it? she would have liked to speak to her husband about it--oh, how she wanted to do it!--but she dreaded his smile, or his indirect reproach. he had said a short time ago: "it's no trifle to train a child. one's own is difficult enough, how much more difficult"--no, he should not say "somebody else's" again, no, never again. this child was not somebody else's, it was their own--their beloved child. she gave way to wolfgang. anyhow there was no danger if the children came to him in the garden; she could always see and hear them there. and she would be good to them, she made up her mind the children should not suffer because she had already had to weep many a secret tear at night on her pillow on account of their friendship. she would make her boy fond of the garden, so fond that he would never long to go out into the street again. but when she hid the coloured eggs on easter sunday, the day she had given wölfchen permission to invite the lämkes and also the coachman's son into the garden, and put the nests and hares and chickens into the box-tree that was covered with shoots and among the clusters of blue scyllas that had just commenced to flower, something like anger rose in her heart. now these children would come with their bad manners and clumsy shoes and tread down her beds, those flower-beds with which they had taken so much trouble, and in which the hyacinths were already showing buds under the branches that protected them and the tulips lifting up their heads. what a pity! and what a pity they would not be able to enjoy this first really spring day quietly, listening undisturbed to the piping blackbird. and they had even refused to come. hans flebbe had certainly accepted the invitation without showing any resentment--the coachman knew what was the right thing to do--but the lämkes did not want to come on any account--that is to say, their mother did not wish it. lisbeth had been sent there twice; the second time she had come back quite indignant: "really, what notions such people have." "dear boy, it's no good, they won't come," käte had had to say. but then she had noticed how downcast he looked, and in the night she had heard him sigh and toss about. no, that would not do. she wanted to feel his arm, which he had flung so impetuously round her waist when she gave him permission to invite the children, round her neck too. and then she had sat down and written--written to this uneducated woman, addressing her as "dear madam," and had asked her to let the children look for eggs to please wolfgang. now they were there. they stood stiff and silent on the path dressed in their best clothes, and did not even look at the flower-beds. käte had always imagined she understood how to draw out children extremely well, but she did not understand it in this case. she had praised frida's bran-new, many coloured check frock, and had lifted up her fair plait on which the blue bow was dangling: "oh, how thick!"--and she had remarked on artur's shiny boots and flebbe's hair, which was covered with pomade and which he wore plastered down on both sides of his healthy-looking footman's face with a parting in the middle. she had also made inquiries about their school report at easter, but had never got any longer answer than "yes" and "no." the children were shy. especially frida. she was the eldest, and she felt how forced the friendly inquiries were. she made her curtsey as she always did, quickly and pertly like a water wagtail bobbing up and down, but her high girl's voice did not sound so clear to-day; the tone was more subdued, almost depressed. and she did not laugh. artur copied his sister, and hans flebbe copied the girl too, for he always considered all she did worthy of imitation. the two boys stood there, poor little wretches, staring fixedly at the points of their boots and sniffing, as they dared not take out their handkerchiefs and use them. käte was in despair. she could not understand that her wolfgang could find pleasure in having such playfellows. moreover, he was exactly like the others that day, taciturn and awkward. even when they commenced to look for the eggs, the children set about it very stupidly; she had positively to push them to the hiding-place. at last, tired out and almost irritable, käte went indoors; she would only stop there a short time. no, she could not stand it any longer, always to have to talk and talk to the children and still not get any answer out of them. but hardly had she reached her room, when she pricked up her ears; a cry reached her from outside that was as clear, as piercing and triumphant as a swallow's when on the wing. children shouted like that when they were thoroughly happy--oh, she knew that from former times, from the time before wölfchen had come. then she had often listened to such shouts full of longing. oh--_she_ had only to go, then the children were merry, then wolfgang was merry. she felt very bitter. she had gone to the window and was looking out into the garden, with her forehead pressed against the pane. how they ran, jumped, hopped, laughed. as though they had been set free. they were trying to catch each other. frida darted behind the bushes like a weasel, came into sight again with a sharp piercing laugh, and then disappeared once more with a shriek. wolfgang set off after her wildly. he took no notice of the beds in which the flowers were growing, his mother's delight; he jumped into the middle of them, caring little whether he broke the hyacinths or the tulips, his one thought being to prevent frida escaping. and the two others copied him. oh, how they trampled on the beds now. all three boys were after the girl. the fair plait flew up and down in the sunshine like a golden cord, now here, now there. at last wolfgang seized hold of it with a triumphant shout. frida endeavoured to get it away, but the boy held it fast. then she turned round as quick as lightning, and, laughing all over her face, grasped him firmly round the body with both hands. it was a harmless merry embrace, a trick of the game--the girl did not wish to be caught, she wanted to pretend that she had been the captor--it was quite a childish innocent embrace, but käte reddened. she frowned: hardly had she turned her back, when the girl from the street showed herself. and the mother went into the garden again with a feeling of hatred towards the girl who, in spite of her youth, already endeavoured to attract her boy. if käte had thought she would earn her boy's boisterous gratitude that evening after the children had gone home, loaded with easter eggs and having had plenty to eat, she was disappointed. wolfgang did not say a word. she had to ask him: "well, was it nice?" "hm." that might just as well mean yes as no. but she learnt that it had meant no when she bade him goodnight. it was his father's wish that he should kiss her hand; he did so that evening as usual with an awkward, already so thoroughly boyish, somewhat clumsy gesture. his dark smooth head bent before her for a moment--only a short moment--his lips just brushed her hand. there was no pressure in the kiss, no warmth. "haven't you enjoyed yourself at all?" she could not help it, she had to ask once more. and he, who was candid, said straight out: "you always came just when it was nice." "well then, i won't disturb you in the future." she tried to smile. "good night, my son." she kissed him, but after he had gone there was a great terror in her heart, besides a certain feeling of jealousy at the thought of being superfluous. if he were like that now, what would he be later on? wolfgang could not complain, his mother let the children come to him in the garden as often as he wanted them--and he wanted them almost every day. the friendship that had languished during the winter became warmer than ever now that it was summer. "pray leave them," paul schlieben had said to his wife, as she looked at him with anxious eyes: what would he say? would he really not mind wolfgang rushing about with those children in his garden? "i think it's nice to see how the boy behaves to those children," he said. "i would never have thought he could attach himself to anybody like that." "you don't think it will do him any harm only to associate with those--those--well, with those children who belong to quite a different sphere?" "nonsense. harm?" he laughed. "that will stop of its own accord later on. i infinitely prefer him to keep to the children of such people than to those of snobs. he'll remain a simple child much longer in that manner." "do you think so?" well, paul might be right in a manner. wölfchen was not at all fanciful, he liked an apple, a plain piece of bread and butter just as much as cake. but all the same it would have been better, and she would have preferred it, had he shown himself more dainty with regard to his food--as well as to other things. she took great trouble to make him more fastidious. when the cook came to her quite indignant one day: "master wolfgang won't have any more of the good saveloy on his bread now, nor of the joint from dinner either, ma'am he says it's 'always the same.' what am i to do now?" she was delighted. at last she had succeeded in instilling into him that people do not swallow everything thoughtlessly without making any choice, just for the sake of eating something. if she had seen how he stuffed bread and dripping with liver and onion sausage on it down his throat at frau lämke's, or gobbled up potato cake baked in oil hot from the pan, she would not have been so delighted. but now she was grateful for every finer feeling she thought she observed in him, be it ever so small. she did not notice at all what tortures she caused herself in this manner. oh, why did not her husband help her to train him? if only he would. but he no longer understood her. paul schlieben had given up remonstrating with his wife. he had done so several times, but what he had said had had no effect owing to the obstinacy with which she held fast to her principles. why should he quarrel with her? they had lived so many years happily together--it would soon be their silver wedding--and was this child, this boy who could hardly write correctly as yet, into whose head the master was just drilling the first rules in latin--this child who after all had nothing to do either with her or him--this outsider to separate him and his wife now after they had been married so long? rather than that it would be better to let many things pass which it would perhaps have been better for käte to have done differently. let her see how she could manage the boy in her way--she was so very fond of him. and when he, no longer the plaything, had outgrown her delicate hands, then he, the man, was still there to make him feel a more vigorous hand. fortunately there was no deceit in the boy. paul schlieben was not dissatisfied with wolfgang. he certainly did not show any brilliancy at school, he did not belong to the top boys of his form by any means, but still he kept quite respectably in the middle of it. well, there was no need for him to be a scholar. paul schlieben had not the same opinion as formerly of the things he used to find in his younger years the only ones worth considering: science, art, and their study. now he was content with his calling as merchant. and as this child had come into his life, had come into that position without having done anything to bring it about himself, it was the duty of him who allowed himself to be called "father" by him to prepare a future for him. so the man mapped out a certain plan. when the boy had got so far as to pass the examination that entitled him to one year's service in the army, he would take him away from school, send him a year to france, england and possibly also to america, to firms of high standing in each country, and then, when he had started from the bottom and learnt something, he would make him a partner. he thought how nice it would be then to be able to lay many things on younger shoulders. and the boy would no doubt be reliable; one could see that already. if only käte did not expect such a ridiculous amount of him. she was always after the boy--if not in person, then in her thoughts, at any rate. she worried him--it could not be helped, he was not an affectionate child--and did it make her happy? he had many a time given the boy an imperceptible, pacifying nod, when his eyes had sought his across the table as though asking for help. yes, it was really getting more and more difficult to get on with käte. * * * * * * * * * * * * * the schliebens went away. the husband had consulted the doctor with regard to his wife, and he had ordered franzensbad. but it was absolutely impossible for him to accompany her there. he would employ the time making some excursions on foot in the tyrol, as it was a long time since he had had a holiday. a couple of pounds less in weight would do him no harm. but where was wolfgang to be meanwhile? "at home," said his father. "he's old enough; eleven years. he is at school in the morning and in the garden in the afternoons, and hofmann can come and see him every other day--to reassure you." it was an unbearable thought for the mother to leave the child alone. she would have preferred to take him with her. but paul had got vexed: "what next?" and the doctor had said. "on no account." then käte had wanted to induce her husband to take the boy with him: "how healthy it would be for him to run about to his heart's content for once in a way." "it seems to me he does enough of that here. really, käte, the boy is as strong as can be, don't always make such a fuss about him. besides, i'm not going to take him away from school when it's quite unnecessary." to be sure, he must not lose his place in the form, and possibly become one of the last. käte was so ambitious on her son's account. but as the july holidays were almost over and she had not gone away with him during that time, which would have been more suitable, she would remain at home for the present. she declared she could not go away. however, the doctor and her husband arranged everything without her; the more nervously and anxiously she refused to go, the more urgent a thorough cure seemed to be to them. the day of departure had already been proposed. but lisbeth gave notice beforehand: no, if the mistress was going away for so long and the master too, she would go as well. remain alone with wolfgang, with _that_ boy? no, that she wouldn't. she must have saved a tidy little sum during the well-nigh ten years she had been in the house, for even the promise of a rise could not keep her. she persisted in her wish to leave, and threw an angry look at the boy, whose laughing face appeared outside above the windowsill at that moment. käte was beside herself. not only because she did not want the servant she had had so long to leave her, but she had reckoned so firmly on lisbeth keeping a watchful eye on the boy during her absence. and it pained her that she spoke of wolfgang in such a tone full of hate. what had the child done to her? but lisbeth only shrugged her shoulders without speaking, and looked sulky and offended. paul schlieben took the boy in hand. "just tell me, my boy, what's been the trouble between you and lisbeth? she has given notice, and it seems to me she's leaving on your account. listen"--he cast a keen glance at him--"i suppose you've been cheeky to her?" the boy's face brightened: "oh, that's nice, that's nice that she's going." he did not answer the question that had been put to him at all. his father caught him by the ear. "answer me, have you been cheeky to her?" "hm." wolfgang nodded and laughed. and then he said, still triumphing in the remembrance: "it was only yesterday. i gave her a smack in the face. why does she always say i've no right here?" the man did not tell anything of this to his wife; she would only have brooded over it. he had not punished the boy either, only shaken his finger at him a little. lisbeth went away. she left the house, in which she had served so long and faithfully and in which she had had to put up with so much--as she weepingly assured her mistress, who was also overcome with emotion--like an offended queen. another maid had been engaged, one in whom käte had certainly not much confidence from the commencement--lisbeth had straightway given her the impression of being much more intelligent--but there was no choice, as it was not the time of year when servants generally leave; and she had to go to the baths as quickly as possible. so cilia pioschek from the warthe district came to the schliebens. she was a big, strong girl with a face that was round and healthy, white and red. she was only eighteen, but she had already been in service a long time, three years as nurse at the farm bailiff's whilst she still went to school. paul schlieben was amused at her--she did not understand a joke, took everything literally and said everything straight out just as it came into her head--but käte called her behaviour "forward." on the other hand the new maid was on better terms with the old cook and the man-servant than lisbeth, as she put up with a good deal. "you can go away with your mind at rest," said paul. "do me this favour, käte, don't oppose our plan any longer. in six weeks you will be back again quite well, god willing, and i shall not see these"--he gave a slight tap with his finger--"these small wrinkles at the corners of your eyes any more." he kissed her. and she returned his kiss, now when she was to be separated from him for the first time since their marriage for so long; for they had always, always travelled together before, and since wölfchen had come to the house he had only once asked permission to leave her for a fortnight at the most. she had never left the child alone. and now she was to leave her dear ones for six long weeks. she clung to him. she had it on the tip of her tongue to ask him: "why don't you go with me as you used to? franzensbad and spa--there's surely no great difference between those two?" but why say it if he had never thought of doing so for a moment? years had gone by, and some of the tenderness that had united them so closely before, that they could only enjoy things together, and that made them feel they never could be separated, had disappeared under the winged flight of time. she sighed and withdrew quietly from the arm that he had thrown round her. "if anybody should come in and see us like this. such an old couple," she said, trying to joke. and he gave a somewhat embarrassed laugh, as she thought, and did not try to hold her. but when the carriage which was to take her to the station in berlin stood before the door early one morning, when the two large trunks as well as the small luggage had been put on the top of it, when he held out his hand to help her in and then took a seat beside her, she could not refrain from saying: "oh, if only you were going with me. i don't like travelling alone." "if only you had said so a little earlier." he felt quite perturbed; he was exceedingly sorry. "how easily i could have taken you there the one day, seen you settled there and come back the next." oh, he did not understand what she meant by "if only you were going with me." stay with her there as well--that was what she had meant. her sorrowful eyes sought the upstairs window behind which wölfchen was sleeping. she had had to say goodbye to him the evening before, as she was leaving so early. she had only stood at his bedside with a mute good-bye that morning, and her gloved hand had passed cautiously over his head, that rested so heavily on the pillow, so as not to waken him. oh, how she would have liked to have said some loving words to him now. "give my love to the boy, give my love to the boy," she said quickly, hastily, several times after each other, to the cook and friedrich, who were standing near the carriage. "and take good care of him. do you hear? give my love to the boy, give my love to the boy." she could not say anything more or think of anything more. "give my love to----" then the upstairs window rattled. stretching both her arms out she rose half out of her seat. the boy put his head out. his cheeks, that were hot with sleep, showed ruddy above his white night-shirt. "good-bye, good-bye. come back well. and be sure to write to me." he called it out in a very contented voice and nodded down to her; and she saw cilia's round, healthy, white and red face behind his and heard her friendly laugh. chapter x käte did not know herself how she got over those weeks in which she was separated from her home. it was not so bad as she had imagined. she felt that a greater tranquillity had come over her, a tranquillity she never could feel at home; and this feeling of tranquillity did her good. she wrote quite contented letters, and her husband's bright accounts of "magnificent mountains" and "magnificent weather" delighted her. she also heard good news from dr. hofmann, who used to send her his reports most faithfully, as he had promised. "the boy is in the best of health," he wrote, "you need not worry about him, my dear lady. he certainly has to do without his playfellows at present, for a boy and girl are ill, and he feels bored when alone with the fat boy who is still left. he is generally by himself in the garden; friedrich has given him some lettuce plants, and he has also sown some radishes. i have found him at his lessons as well." thank god! it seemed to the woman as if she could breathe freely now, as though free from a load. she carried the letter from her old friend about in her pocket for a long time, read it whilst out for a walk, when sitting on a bench and in the evening when lying in bed. "a boy and girl are ill"--oh, the poor children. what could be the matter with them? but thank god, he was mostly by himself in the garden now. that was the best. she wrote a letter to her boy, a very bright one, and he answered her in the same strain. the letter in itself was certainly rather funny. "beloved mother"--how comical. and the whole wording as though copied from a polite letter-writer. she made up her mind to enclose it in her next letter to her husband what would he say to it? "beloved mother"--but it pleased her all the same, and also "your obedient son" at the end of it. otherwise the letter really contained nothing, nothing of what he was doing, not even anything about the lämkes, also no longing "come back soon"; but it was written carefully, tidily and clearly, not such a scrawl as he usually wrote. and that showed her that he loved her. he had also enclosed a little picture, a small square with a border of lace paper, on which there was a snow-white lamb holding a pink flag. under it stood in golden letters, "agnus dei, miserere nobis." where could he have got that from? never mind from where, he had wanted to give her something. and the small tasteless picture touched her deeply. the good boy. she put the picture with the lamb of god carefully among her treasures; it should always remain there. a tender longing came over her for the boy, and she could not imagine how she had been able to stand it so long without him. * * * * * * * * * * * * * august was over and september already almost half gone when käte returned home. her husband, who had returned before her, came to meet her; they met in dresden, and their meeting was a very cordial one. he could never get tired of looking at her bright colour, her bright eyes; and she on her side found him very sunburnt, more youthful-looking and almost as slender as formerly. they sat hand in hand in the compartment he had had reserved for them; quite alone like two young lovers. they had an enormous amount to say to each other--there was nothing, nothing whatever that disturbed them. they gazed at each other very tenderly. "how delighted i am to have you again," she said, after he had told her a lot about his journey in a lively manner. "and i you." he nodded to her and pressed her hand. yes, it really seemed to both of them as if they had been separated from each other for an eternity. he drew her still closer, held her as tightly as though she were a precious possession that had been half snatched away from him, and she clung to him, leant her head on his shoulder and smiled dreamily. innumerable golden atoms danced on a slender slanting sunbeam before her half-closed eyes. the even rattling of the carriages and the calm feeling of a great joy in her heart lulled her to sleep. suddenly she started up--was it a jolt, a shock? she had all at once got a fright, as it were: she had not asked anything about the child as yet! "wölfchen--what's wölfchen doing?" "oh, he's all right. but now tell me, darling, how did you spend the whole day there? how was it divided? in the morning to the spring--first one glass, after that a second--and then? well?" she did not tell him. "wölfchen is surely well?" she asked hastily. "there must be something wrong--you say so little about him. i've had such a misgiving the whole time. oh dear, do tell me." her voice sounded almost irritable--how could paul be so indifferent. "what's the matter with wölfchen?" "the matter?" he looked at her in great surprise. "but why must there be something the matter with him? he's as strong as a horse." "really? but tell me, tell me something about him." he smiled at her impatience. "what is there to tell about such a boy? he sleeps, eats, drinks, goes to school, comes home, runs out into the garden, sleeps, eats, drinks again and so on, vegetates like the plants in the sunshine. it's much better for you to tell me how you are." "oh, i--i--" that seemed so superfluous to her all at once--"i--quite well, you can see that." how indifferent he was with regard to the child. and she--his mother--had been able to forget him so long too? she felt so ashamed of herself that she hastily raised her head from her husband's shoulder and sat up straight. now they were not lovers any longer, only parents who had to think about their child. and she only spoke of the boy. paul felt the sudden change in his wife. it depressed him: had they gone back to where they were before? did she already feel no interest again in anything but the boy? he no longer felt any inclination to speak of his journey. the conversation became more and more monosyllabic; he bought a paper at the next station, and she leant back in her corner and tried to sleep. but she did not succeed in doing so, in spite of feeling very tired; her thoughts continued to revolve round the one point: so there was nothing the matter with him. thank god! how indifferent paul was, to be sure. would wölfchen be very delighted when she came home? the dear boy--the darling boy. she must have slept a little at last nevertheless, for she suddenly heard her husband's voice, as though far away, saying: "get ready, darling; berlin," and she started up. they were already among the innumerable lines that cross each other there. then the train rushed into the glass-roofed station. "so we've got so far." he helped her out, and she began to tremble with impatience. would this running up and down stairs, this crossing to the other side of the station, and then the waiting and watching for the train to the suburbs never come to an end? would not wölfchen be asleep? it would be dark before they got home. "is the train soon coming? what time is it? oh dear, what a long time we have to wait." "calm yourself, the boy is waiting for you, never fear. he sits a long time with cilia every evening; she hasn't much time for him during the day. a nice girl. you've been very fortunate there." she did not catch what he said, she was thinking the whole time how she would find him. would he have grown very much? have changed? children at his age are said to change constantly--had he grown ugly, or was he still so handsome? but never mind! she used to attach more importance to his outward appearance--as long as he was good, very good, that was all that mattered now. in her thoughts she could already hear his shout of joy, already feel his arms round her neck, his kiss on her mouth. the wind, which had become pleasant towards evening after a day that had been hot in spite of it already being autumn, fanned her face without being able to cool her cheeks that glowed with emotion. as they stopped in front of the house, which, with its balconies full of bright red geraniums, lay prettily concealed behind the evergreen pines under the starry september sky, her heart beat as though she had run much too far and too quickly. at last! she drew a deep breath--now she was with him again. but he did not come running to meet her. how strange that he had not watched for her. "they'll be sitting in the veranda at the back," said her husband. "they always sit there in the evening." he remained behind a little. let käte see the boy alone first. and she hurried through the hall past the beaming cook and without seeing friedrich, who had donned his livery after decorating all the rooms with the flowers he had raised himself; she neither admired his successes in the garden nor the cake the cook had placed on the festive-looking table. she ran from the hall into her small sitting-room and from thence through the dining-room, the door of which led to the verandah. the door was open--now she stood on the threshold--those outside did not see her. there was only one of the shaded lamps on the veranda table that was burning, but it was bright enough to light up the space around it. but cilia was doing nothing. the stocking she was to darn lay in her lap; her right hand in which she held the long darning-needle rested idly on the edge of the table. she was leaning back a little; her face, which looked more refined and prettier in the twilight, was raised; she seemed to be lost in thought with her mouth half open. nothing was to be seen of wolfgang. but now his mother heard him speak in a tone full of regret: "don't you know any more? oh!" and then urgently: "go on, cilia, go on, it was so beautiful." ah, now she saw him too. he was sitting at the girl's feet, on quite a low footstool, leaning against her knee. and he was looking up at her imploringly, longingly at that moment, looking at her with eyes that gleamed like dark polished agate, and speaking to her in a tone his mother thought she had never heard from him before: "sing, cillchen. dear cillchen, sing." the girl began: "quoth she with voice subdued, 'cease from quaking-- "oh no. "not in wrath am i before thee standing-- "no, not that, either. "only why did i, weak one, believe thy vows-- "no, i don't know any more. well, i never! and i've sung it so often when i was at home. at home in the village when me and my sweetheart went for a walk together. dear, dear"--she stamped her foot angrily--"that i could forget like that." "don't be vexed, cillchen. you mustn't be vexed. begin again from the beginning, that doesn't matter. i would love to hear it again, again and again. it's splendid." "cillchen--cillchen"--how playful that sounded, positively affectionate. and how he hung on her lips. käte craned her neck forward; she was in the veranda now, but the two had not noticed her yet. the girl sang in a drawling, sing-song voice as she had sung in the village street at home, but the boy's eyes glistened and grew big as he listened to her. his lips moved as though he were singing as well: "satin and silk new-wed henry cover; wealthy his bride, brought from land o' rhine but serpent stings tease the perjured lover, bid slumbers sweet his rich bed decline. "the clock strikes twelve: sudden are appearing through curtain fringe, fingers, slender, white. whom sees he now? his once dear----" the singer came to a standstill--suddenly the sound of a deep-drawn breath passed through the veranda. the boy gave a terrified shriek--there she stood, there she stood! "why, wolfgang! wölfchen!" his mother stretched out her arms to him, but he buried his head in the girl's lap. käte frowned at the girl: what nonsense to sing such songs to him. "oh, the mistress!" cilia jumped up, her face crimson, and let everything she had on her lap stocking, darning ball, wool and scissors--fall on the floor; the boy as well. why were they both so terrified? wolfgang stared at her as if she were a ghost. he had risen now, had kissed his mother's hand, and mechanically raised his face to receive her kiss; but his face did not show that he was glad to see her. or was it embarrassment, a boyish shame because she had taken him by surprise? his eyes did not gaze straight at her, but always sideways. did he look upon her as a stranger--quite a stranger? an inexpressible disappointment filled the heart of the woman who had just returned home, and her voice sounded harsh without intending it as she told the girl to go away. she sat down on the seat near the table, which she had just vacated, and drew her boy toward her. "how have you got on, wölfchen? tell me--well?" he nodded. "have you missed your mother a little?" he nodded again. "i've brought such a lot of pretty things for you." then he grew animated. "have you also brought something for cilia? she could find use for a workbasket with all kinds of things in it very well: she has only an old one she used at school, you know. oh, she can tell such splendid stories--ugh, that make you shiver. and how she can sing. let her sing this one for you: "a smart pretty maiden, quite a young sprig, a farmer did choose for his bride; her favours, however, to a soldier man jig, and sly to her old man she cried-- "it's perfectly ripping, i can tell you." and he began to hum the continuation with a laugh: "he had much better toss the hay, hooray, the hay, hooray----" "hush!" she put her hand to his mouth. "that's not at all a nice song--it's a horrid one. you mustn't sing that any more." "but why not?" he gazed at her with eyes round with amazement. "because i don't wish it," she said curtly. she was indignant: she would give the girl a bit of her mind to-morrow, yes, to-morrow. her cheeks were no longer hot. a cold wind blew through the veranda, which pierced her to the very heart. when her husband called out: "why, käte, what have you been doing with yourself? do take off your things first," she quickly answered his call. the boy remained alone behind, and looked out into the mild night that was now quite dark, with blinking, dreamy eyes. oh, how beautifully cilia had sung. she would have to sing and tell him stories to-morrow as well. but if she were to come there again! never mind, they would be sure to be able to find a place where they would be undisturbed. käte did not sleep at all that first night, although she was dead-tired. perhaps too tired. she had had a long talk about it with paul after they were in bed. he had said she was right, that neither the one nor the other song was very suitable, but: "good gracious, what a lot of things one hears as a child that never leave any trace whatever," he had said. "not on _him_." and then she had said plaintively: "i've so often tried to read something really beautiful to him, the best our poets have written but he takes no interest in it, he has no understanding for it as yet. and for such--such"--she sought for an expression and did not find it--"for such things he goes into raptures. but i won't allow it, i won't stand it. such things may not come near him." "then let her go," he had said testily. he was on the point of falling asleep, and did not want to be disturbed any more. "good night, darling, have a good night's rest. now that you've come home again you'll do what you think right." yes, that she would! from that day forth she never let the boy out of her sight. and her ears were everywhere. there was no reason to send the girl away--she was honest and clean and did her duty--only she must not be alone with wölfchen again. wolfgang was now in his twelfth year, it was not a maid's place to look after him any more. but it was difficult for käte to live up to her resolutions. her husband, of course, had claims on her too, and also her house and her social life; it was not possible to shake off, give up, neglect everything else for the one, for the child's sake. besides, it might make her husband seriously angry with the child, if she constantly went against his wishes; she trembled at the thought of it. she had to go into society with him now and then, he was pleased when she--always well dressed--was in request as an agreeable woman. he was fond of going out--and went, alas, much, much too often. so she instructed the cook and the man-servant--even begged them earnestly to keep a watch on what was going on. they were quite amazed; if the mistress was so little satisfied with cilia, she should give her notice; there would be girls enough on the st of january. käte turned away angrily: how horrid of the servants to want to drive the other away. and if another one came into the house, might it not be exactly the same with her? servants are always a danger to children. wolfgang was developing quickly, especially physically. it was not that he was growing so tall, but he was getting broader, becoming robust, with a strong neck. when he threw snowballs with the lämkes outside the door he looked older than artur, who was of the same age, even older than frida. he was differently fed from these children. his mother was delighted to notice his clear, fresh-looking skin, and saw that he had plenty of warm baths and a cold sponge down every morning. and he had to go to the hairdresser every fortnight, where his thick, smooth mop of dark hair, which remained somewhat coarse in spite of all the care expended on it, was washed and a strengthening lotion rubbed into it. the lämkes looked almost starved when compared with him; they had not recovered from the effects of scarlet fever very long. if only wölfchen did not get it too. his mother had a great dread of it. she had kept him away from the lämkes until quite recently; but there was always the danger of infection at school. oh dear, one never had peace, owing to the child. * * * * * * * * * * * * * they had had a splendid time out of doors. the lake that lies below the villas like a calm eye between the dark edges of the woods was frozen; wolfgang and half of his form had been skating there. käte had also walked up and down the shore for some time after their midday meal, watching her boy. how nicely he skated already. he was more secure on his legs and skated better than many of the lads who were describing the figure eight and circles, skating in the dutch style and dancing with ladies. he was always trying to do all kinds of tricks already, he was certainly courageous. if only he did not fall down or tumble into the water! and he was always skating into the middle of the lake, where the wisps of straw had been placed to show that it was dangerous. it seemed to the mother that nothing could happen to him as long as she stood on the shore watching him incessantly. but at last her feet were quite frozen, and she had to go home. when the boy came home, as it was commencing to grow dark, he was very bright. he spoke of the skating with great glee. "oh, that was ripping. i should like to run like that for ever--to-morrow, the day after to-morrow--every day--and further and further every time. the lake is much too small." "aren't you tired at all?" inquired his mother, smiling at him. she never grew weary of gazing at him, he looked so beaming. "tired?" the corners of his mouth drooped with a smile that was almost contemptuous. "i'm never tired. not of such things. cilia said she would like to skate with me some time." "well, why not?" his father, who was sitting at the table drinking his coffee, smiled good-humouredly; it amused him to tease the lively boy a little. "then your mother will have to engage a second housemaid, as long as there's ice on the ground." wolfgang did not understand that he was bantering. he cried out, quite happy: "yes, she must do that." but then his face grew long: "but she has no skates, she says. father, you'll have to buy her some." "i'l be hanged if i will--well, what next?" his father gave a loud laugh. "no, my boy, with all due respect to cilia, it would be carrying it a little too far to let her skate. don't you agree with me?" he looked at his wife, who was rattling the cups loudly, quite contrary to her custom. she said nothing, she only gave a silent nod, but her face had quite changed and grown cold. the boy could not understand it. why should cilia not skate? did not his mother like her? funny. it was always like that, whenever there was anything he liked very, very much, she did not like it. he rested his head on both hands as he sat working at his desk: it felt so heavy. his eyes burnt and watered when he fixed them on his exercise-book--he must be tired, he supposed. his latin would not be good. in his mind's eye he already saw the master shrug his shoulders and hurl his book on to the bench over so many heads: "schlieben, ten faults. boy, ten faults! if you don't pull yourself together, you'll not get your remove to form iv. with the others at easter." pooh, he did not mind much--no, really not at all. on the whole nothing was of any importance to him whatever. all at once he felt so dead-tired. why did she begrudge cilia everything? she told such ripping stories. what was it she had told last night when his parents were out and she had crept to his bedside? about--about--? he could not collect his thoughts any more, everything was confused. his head sank on his desk; he fell asleep, with his arms stretched out over his books. when he awoke an hour might have passed by, but he did not feel rested all the same. he stared round the room and shivered. all his limbs ached. and they hurt him the whole night through, he could not sleep; his feet were heavy as he dragged himself to the lake to skate next afternoon. he returned home from skating much earlier than usual. he did not want to eat or drink anything, he constantly felt sick. "how green the boy looks to-day," said his father. his mother brushed his hair away from his forehead anxiously: "is anything the matter with you, wölfchen?" he said no. but when evening came round again and the wind whispered in the pine-trees outside and a ghostly hand tapped at the window--ugh, a small white hand as in cilia's song--he lay in bed, shivered with cold in spite of the soft warm blankets, and felt his throat ache and his ears tingle and burn. "he's ill," his mother said very anxiously next morning. "we'll get the doctor to come at once." "oh, it can't be anything much," said the man reassuringly. "leave him in bed, give him some lemon to drink so that he can perspire, and then an aperient. he has eaten something that has disagreed with him, or he's caught cold." but the doctor had to be telephoned for at noon. the boy was slightly delirious and had a great deal of fever. "scarlet fever!" the doctor examined his chest and then pulled up the cover again very carefully. "but the rash isn't quite out yet." "scarlet fever?" käte thought she would have sunk down on her knees--oh, she had always been so terribly afraid of that. * * * * * * * * * * * * * the clear frosty weather with the bright sunshine and a sky that was almost as blue as in summer was over. grey days with a heavy atmosphere hung over the roof of the villa; käte, who was standing at the window in the sick-room, staring out at the tops of the pines that were mourning in the dull mist with tired eyes, thought she had never seen anything greyer. the disease had seized hold of the boy with powerful grip, as though his vigorous, well-nourished body were just the sort of hot-bed for the flames of the fever to rage in. the doctor shook his head: the scarlet fever had taken such a mild form everywhere else except in this case. and he warned them against the boy catching cold, prescribed this and that, did his best--not only as his duty, no, but because he felt such deep and hearty sympathy for them--he had always been so fond of the robust lad. they all did their best. every precaution was taken, every care--everything, everything was to be done for him. käte was untiring. she had refused the assistance of a nurse; she violently opposed the wishes both of her husband and her old friend; no, she wanted to nurse her child alone. a mother does not grow tired, oh no. paul had never believed that his wife could do so much and be so patient at the same time--she, that nervous woman, to be so untiring, so undaunted. she had always had a light step, now she could not even be heard when she glided through the sick-room; now she was on the left side of the bed, now on the right. she, whose strength gave way so easily even if her intentions were good, was always, always on the spot. there were many nights in which she did not get an hour's sleep. next morning she would sit like a shadow in the large arm-chair near the bed, but still she was full of joy: wolfgang had slept almost two hours! "don't do too much, don't do too much," implored her husband. she put him off with: "i don't feel it. i'm so fond of doing it." how long was it to go on? would, could her strength hold out? "let the girl sit up with him for one night at least. she would be so glad to take your place." "cilia? no." cilia had offered her services again and again: oh, she would take such good care of him, she knew how, for a little brother of hers had died of scarlet fever. "let me do it," she implored, "i shall not fall asleep, i'll take such good care of him." but käte refused. it cut her to the heart every time she heard her boy say in his feverish dreams during the nights that were so long and so black: "cillchen--we'll toss the hay--hooray--cillchen." oh, how she hated that round-cheeked girl with her bright eyes. but she feared her more than she hated her. in the hours of darkness, in those hours in which she heard nothing but the sick boy's moans and the restless beating of her own heart, this girl seemed to wander about in another form. she appeared to her out of the night, large and broad, she stationed herself boldly near the child's bed, and something of the triumph of power flashed in her eyes, that were otherwise so dull and unintelligent. then the tired-out woman would press her hands to her throbbing temples, and stretch out her arms as though to ward her off: no, no, you there, go away! but the phantom remained standing at the child's bed. who was it: the mother--the venn--the maid--frau lämke? oh, they were all one. tears of anguish rolled down käte's cheeks. how the boy laughed now. she stooped over him so closely that their breaths intermingled, as she had done once before, and whispered to him: "your mammy is here, your mammy is with you." but he made no sign of recognition. cilia's face was swollen with weeping as she opened the kitchen door in the basement on hearing somebody give a gentle knock. frau lämke greeted her in a whisper; she had always sent the children so far, but they had come home the day before with such a confusing report, that her anxiety impelled her to come herself. she wanted to ask how he was getting on. two doctors' carriages stood outside the gate, and that had terrified her anew. "how is he? how is he to-day?" the girl burst into tears. she drew the woman into the kitchen in silence, where she found the cook leaning against the fireplace without stirring any pan, and friedrich just rushing upstairs to answer the electric bell as if somebody were in pursuit of him. "dear, dear!" frau lämke clasped her hands. "is the boy so bad, really so bad?" cilia only nodded and hid her streaming eyes in her apron, but the cook said dully: "it's about over." "about over? will he really die wolfgang, the boy?" the woman stared incredulously: that was impossible. but she had turned terribly pale. "well, it's bad enough," said the cook. "our doctor has called in another professor, a very well-known one--he was here yesterday--but they don't believe that they can do anything more. the illness has attacked the kidneys and heart. he no longer knows anybody, you know. i was in the room this morning, i wanted to see him once more--there he lay quite stiff and silent, as though made of wax. i don't believe he'll pull through." the good-natured woman wept. they all three wept, sitting round the kitchen table. frau lämke entirely forgot that she had made up her mind never to enter that kitchen again, and that her cabbage, that she had put on for their dinner, was probably burning. "oh, dear, oh dear," she repeated again and again, "how will she get over it? such a child--and an only child, whom she adored so." upstairs the doctors were standing at the sick-bed, the old family doctor and the great authority, who was still a young man. they were standing on the right and the left of it. the rash had quite disappeared; there was not a trace of red on the boy's face now, and his eyes with their extremely black lashes remained persistently closed. his lips were blue. his broad chest, which was quite sunken now, trembled and laboured. at every gasping breath he took his mother gasped too. she was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed, stiffly erect; she had sat like that the whole night. her piercing eyes with their terrified expression flew to the doctors' grave faces, and then stared past them into space. there they stood, to the right and to the left--but there, there!--did they not see it?--there at the head of the bed stood death! she started up with an inarticulate sound, then sank down again as though broken in spirit. the doctors had given the child, who was so dangerously ill, an injection; his heart was very weak, which made them fear the worst. then the authority took leave: "i'll come again to-morrow"--but a shrug of the shoulders and a "who knows?" lay in that "i'll come again to-morrow." the family doctor was still there; he could not leave them, as he was their friend. käte had clung to him: "help! help my child!" now he was sitting with paul schlieben downstairs in his study; käte had wished to remain alone with the sick boy, she only wanted to know that he was near. the two men sat in silence with a glass of strong wine before them. "drink, do drink, my dear friend," paul schlieben had said to the doctor; but he did not drink himself. how will she stand it, how will she stand it? that buzzed in his head the whole time. he was wrapped in thought, and there were deep lines on his forehead. and the doctor did not disturb him. käte was on her knees upstairs. she had sunk down in front of the chair in which she had watched through all those anxious nights, and was holding her hands pressed against her upturned face. she was seeking the god on high who had once upon a time laid the child so benignantly in her path, and was now going to cruelly tear it away from her again. she cried to god in her heart. "o god, o god, don't take him from me. thou must not take him from me. i have nothing else in the world beside him. god, god!" her surroundings, all her other possessions--also her husband--were forgotten. she had only the child now. that one child that was so dear, so good, so clever, so excellent, so obedient, so beautiful, so charming, so extremely lovable, that had made her life so happy, so rich that she would be poor, poor as a beggar were he to leave her. "wölfchen, my wölfchen!" how dear he had always, always been; so entirely her child. she did not remember anything more about the tears she had shed on his account; if she had ever shed any, they had been tears of joy, yes, only tears of joy. no, she could not do without him. starting up from the position in which she had been praying she dragged herself to his bedside. she took his body, which was growing cold, into her arms and laid it on her breast in her despair, and her glowing breath passed all over him. she wanted to let all her warmth stream into him, to hold him fast to this earth with the force of her will-power. when his breast fought for air, her breast fought too, when his heart-beat flagged, hers flagged too. she felt that his coldness was making her cold, that her arms were stiffening. but she did not let him go. she fought with death standing at the head of the bed--who was stronger, death or her love, the mother's love? nobody could get her away from the boy's bed, not even the nurse whom dr. hofmann had sent out when he had at last been compelled to go to town that afternoon. the nurse and her husband attempted to raise her by gentle force: "only an hour's rest, only half an hour's. in the next room or here on the sofa." but she shook her head and remained on her knees: "i'm holding him, i'm holding him." evening came on. then midnight. it had blown a good deal earlier in the day, but it was very quiet outside now. as quiet as death. there was no longer any wind to shake the pines around the house; they stood bolt upright against the clear, frosty sky, their tops as though cut out of stiff cardboard. the stars blinked mercilessly; the full moon was reflected on the glittering silvery surface of the frozen lake, from which the strong wind had swept all the damp snow the day before and made it clean. a terrible cold had set hi all at once, which seemed to lay hold of everything with its icy breath. the watchers shivered with cold. when paul schlieben looked at the thermometer, he was horrified to see how little it registered even in the room. was the heating apparatus not in order? you could see your own breath. had the servants forgotten to put coals on? he went down into the basement himself; he could have rung, but he felt he must do something. oh, how terribly little you could do. his wife cowered in the arm-chair in silence now, with large, staring eyes; the nurse was half asleep, nothing stirred in the room. the boy, too, was lying as quietly as if he were already dead. a great dread took possession of the man, as he groped his way through the dark house. there was something so paralysing in the silence; all at once everything, the rooms, the staircase, the hall seemed so strange to him. strange and empty. how the breath of youth had filled them with life before, filled them with the whole untamed thoughtlessness of a wild boy! he leant heavily on the banisters as he groped his way downstairs. would the servants still be up? he found them all there. they sat shivering round the table in the kitchen, which was as cold as though there had not been a bright, blazing fire there all day. the cook had made some strong coffee, but even that did not make them any warmer. an icy cold crept through the whole house; it was as though the ice and snow from outside had come in, as though the chill breath of frozen nature were sweeping through the house too, from attic to cellar. it was no use throwing more coals into the jaws of the huge stove, or that the water that streamed through all the pipes was hotter. nobody's feet or hands were any warmer. "we will try what a very hot bath will do for the patient," said the nurse. she had often seen this last remedy rewarded with success in similar cases. all hands were busy. the cook made a fire, the other two dragged the boiling water upstairs; but cilia carried more and was quicker about it than friedrich. she felt all the inexhaustible strength of youth in her that is glad to be able to do something. how willingly she did it for that good boy. and she murmured a short prayer in a low voice every time she poured a bucketful into the tub that had been placed near the bed. she could not make the sign of the cross, as neither of her hands was at liberty, but she was sure the saints would hear her all the same. "holy mary! holy joseph! holy barbara! holy guardian angel! holy michael, fight for him!" the cook, who remained downstairs in the kitchen, looked for her hymn-book; she was a protestant and did not use it every day. when she found it she opened it at random: the words would be sure to suit. oh dear! she showed it to friedrich, trembling. there was written: "when my end is drawing nigh, ah, leave me not----" oh dear, the boy was to die. they were both as though paralysed with terror. meanwhile nimble cilia was flying up and down stairs. she did not feel so dismayed any longer. he would not die, she was sure of that now. whilst those who were in the room lifted him into the bath, paul schlieben and the nurse, and his mother placed her feeble hands underneath him to support him, cilia stood outside the door and called upon all her saints. she would have liked to have had her manual of devotion, her "angels' bread," but there was no time to fetch it. so she only stammered her "help" and "have mercy," her "hail" and "fight for him," with all the fervour of her faith. and the boy's pallid cheeks began to redden. a sigh passed his lips, which had not opened to utter a sound for so long. he was warm when they put him back into the bed. very soon he was hot; the fever commenced again. the nurse looked anxious: "now ice. we shall have to try what ice-bags will do." ice! ice! "is there any ice in the house?" paul schlieben hurried from the sick-room. he almost hit the girl's forehead with the door as she stood praying outside. ice! ice! they both ran down together. but the cook was at her wits' end too; no, there was no ice, they had not thought any would be required. "go and get some, quick." the man-servant rushed off, but oh! before he could reach the shop, awake somebody and return, the flame upstairs might have burnt so fiercely that there was nothing left of the poor little candle. the man looked round, almost out of his mind with anxiety, and he saw cilia with a chopper and pail running to the back-door. "i'm going to fetch some ice." "but where?" "down there." she laughed and raised her arm so that the chopper glittered. "there's plenty of ice in the lake. i'm going to chop some." she was already out of the kitchen; he ran after her without a hat, without a cap, with only the thin coat on he wore in the house. the terrors of the night gave way before the faint hope, and he did not feel the cold at first. but when the villas were lost sight of behind the pines, when he stood quit alone on the banks of the frozen lake that shone like a hard shield of metal, surrounded by silent black giants, he felt so cold that he thought he should freeze to death. and he was filled with a terror he had never felt the like to before a--deadly fear. was not that a voice he heard? hallo! did it not come from the wood that had the appearance of a thicket in the blue, confusing glitter of the moonlight? and it mocked and bantered, half laughed, half moaned. terrible. who was shrieking so? "the owl's screeching," said cilia, and she raised the chopper over her shoulder with both hands and let it whiz down with all her might. the ice at the edge splintered, it cracked and broke; the sound was heard far out on the lake, a growling, a grumbling, a voice out of the deep. would the boy die--would he live? the man gazed around him with a distraught look. o god! yes, that was also in vain--would also be in vain. despite all his courage he felt weak as he stood there. here was night and loneliness and the wood and the water--he had seen it all before, it was familiar to him--but it had never been like this, so quiet and still, so alive with terrors. the trees had never been so high before, the lake never so large, the world in which they lived never so far away. something seemed to be lurking behind that large pine--was a gamekeeper not standing there aiming at him, ready to shoot an arrow through his heart? the silence terrified him. this deep silence was awful. true, the blows of the chopper resounded, he could hear the echo across the lake, and nothing deterred cilia from doing her work--he admired the girl's calmness--but the menace that lay in the silence did not grow any less. the distracted man shuddered again and again: no, he knew it now--oh, how distinctly he felt it--nobody could do anything against that invisible power. everything was in vain. he was filled with a great grief. he seized hold of the pieces of ice the girl had chopped off with both hands, and put them into the pail; he tore his clothes, he cut himself on the jagged edges that were as sharp as glass, but he did not feel any physical pain. the blood dripped down from his fingers. and now something began to flow from his eyes, to drip down his cheeks, heavy and clammy--slow, almost reluctant tears. but still the hot tears of a father who is weeping for his child. chapter xi "dear me, how big you've grown!" said frau lämke. "i suppose we shall soon have to treat you as a grown-up gentleman and say 'sir' to you?" "never!" wolfgang threw his arms round her neck. the woman was quite taken aback: was that wolfgang? he was hardly to be recognised after his illness so approachable. and although he had always been a good boy, he had never been so affectionate as he was now. and how merry he was, he laughed, his eyes positively sparkled as if they had been polished. wolfgang was full of animal spirits and a never-ending, indomitable joyousness. he did not know what to do with himself. he could not sit still for a moment, his arms twitched, his feet scraped the ground. his master stood in terror of him. he alone, the one boy, made the whole of the fourth form that had always been so exemplary run wild. and still one could not really be downright angry with him. when the tired man, who had had to give the same lessons year after year, sit at the same desk, give the same dictations, set the same tasks, hear the same pieces read, repeat the same things, had to reprove the boy, something like a gentle sadness was mingled with the reproof, which softened it: yes, that was delight in existence, health, liveliness, unconsumed force--that was youth. wolfgang did not mind the scoldings he got, he had no ambition to become head of his form. he laughed at the master, and could not even get himself to lower his head and look sad when his mother waved a bad report in his face in her nervous excitement: "so that's all one gets in return for all one's worry?" how ambitious women are! paul schlieben smiled; he took it more calmly. well, he had not had the hard work that käte had had. as the boy had missed so many lessons owing to his illness, she had sat with him every day, and written and read and done sums and learnt words and rules and repeated them with him indefatigably, and set him exercises herself besides the schoolwork, and in this manner he had succeeded in getting his remove into the fourth form with the others at easter, in spite of the weeks and weeks he had been away from school. she had drawn a deep breath of relief: ah, a mountain had been climbed. but still the road was not straight by any means. when the first blackbirds began to sing in the garden he became no. in his form--that is to say, an average pupil--when the first nightingale trilled he was not even among the average, and when summer came he was among the last in his form. it was too tempting to sow, plant, and water the garden, to lie on the grass in the warm sunshine and have a sun bath. and still better to rove about out of doors along the edges of the wood or bathe in the lake and swim far out, so far that the other boys would call out to him: "come back, schlieben, you'll be drowned." "be thankful that there is so much life in him," said paul to his wife. "who would have thought only six months ago that he would ever be like this? it is fortunate that he isn't fond of sitting indoors. 'plenty of fresh air,' hofmann said, 'plenty of movement. such a severe illness always does some harm to the constitution.' so let us choose the lesser of two evils. but still the rascal must remember that he has duties to perform as well." it was difficult to combine the two. käte felt she was becoming powerless. when the boy's eyes, which were as bright as sloes, implored her to let him go out, she dared not keep him back. she knew he had not finished his school-work, had perhaps not even commenced it; but had not paul said: "one must choose the lesser of two evils," and the doctor: "such a severe illness always leaves some weakness behind, therefore a good deal of liberty"? she suddenly trembled for his life; the horror of his illness was still fresh in her mind. oh, those nights! those last terrible hours in which the fever had risen higher and higher after the hot bath, the pulse and the poor heart had rushed along at a mad pace, until the ice from the lake had at last, at last brought coolness, and he had fallen into a sound sleep, which, when the sky commenced to glow in the east and a new day had looked in through the window, had turned into a beneficial, miraculous perspiration. so she had to let the boy run about. but that he hung on cilia's arm when she had to go an errand in the evening, that he hurried after her when she only took a letter to the box, or that he brought her a chair when she wanted to sit with her mending-basket under the elderberry bush near the kitchen door was not to be tolerated. when käte heard that cilia had not gone further than the nearest pines on the edge of the wood when it was her sunday out, and had sat there for hours with the boy on the grass, there was a scene. cilia wept bitter tears. what had she done? she had only told wölfchen about her home. "what's your home to him? he is to mind his own business and you yours." käte was about to say still more, to cry out: "leave off telling him your private concerns, i won't have it," but she controlled herself, although with difficulty. she could have boxed this round-cheeked girl's ears, as she looked at her so boldly with her bright eyes. even frida lämke was preferable to her. but frida did not show herself very often now. she already wore a dress that reached to her ankles, attended a sewing class out of school-hours, and after her confirmation, which was to be a year next easter she was to go "to business," as she said very importantly. "i shall give her notice," said käte one evening, when cilia had cleared the table and she was sitting quite alone with her husband. "oh!" he had not really been listening. "why?" "because of her behaviour." the woman's voice vibrated with suppressed indignation more than that, with passionate excitement. her eyes, which were generally golden brown and gentle, became dark and sombre. "why, you're actually trembling! what is the matter now?" he laid the paper he was about to read aside, quite depressed. there was some trouble with the boy again; nothing else excited her in that manner. "i can't have it any longer." her voice was hard, had lost its charm. "and i won't stand it. just think, when i came home to-day i was away an hour towards evening, hardly an hour good gracious, you cannot always be spying, you demean yourself in your own eyes." her hands closed over each other, gripped each other so tightly that the knuckles showed quite white. "i had left him at his desk, he had so much to do, and when i returned not a stroke had been done. but i heard--heard them downstairs, at the back of the house near the kitchen door." "heard whom?" "wolfgang and her, of course--cilia. i had only been away quite a short time." "well--and then?" she had stopped and sighed, full of a deep distress which drove away the anger from her eyes. "he put his arms round her neck from behind. and he kissed her. 'dear cillchen,' he said. and she drew him towards her, took him almost on her lap--he is much too big for that, much too big--and spoke softly to him the whole time." "did you understand what she said?" "no. but they laughed. and then she gave him a slap behind--you should only have seen it--and then he gave her one. they took turns to slap each other. do you consider that proper?" "that goes too far, you are right. but it's nothing bad. she is a good girl, quite unspoilt as yet, and he a stupid boy. surely you don't intend to send the girl away for that? for goodness' sake, käte, think it well over. did they see you?" "no." "well, then, don't do it. it's much wiser. i'll speak to the boy some time when i find an opportunity." "and you think i couldn't--i can't--i mustn't send her away?" käte had grown quite dejected in the presence of his calmness. "there's no reason whatever for it." he was fully convinced of what he said, and wanted to take up his paper again. then he caught her eyes, and stretched out his hand to her across the table. "dear child, don't take everything so much to heart. you're making your life miserable--your own, the boy's--and--yes, mine too. take things easier. there! and now i'll read my paper at last." käte got up quietly--he was all right, he was reading. she had not given him her hand. his calmness hurt her. it was more than calmness, it was indifference, slackness. but she would not be slack, no, she would not get tired of doing her duty. and she went after her boy. wolfgang was already upstairs in his room. but he had first crept softly up to cilia, who was drying the plates and dishes in the kitchen, from behind, had given her a pinch and then thrown both arms round her and begged for a story: "tell me something"--but she would not. "i don't know anything." "oh, do tell me something. about the procession. or even if it's only about your sow. how many little ones did she have last time?" "thirteen." cilia could not resist _that_ question, but still she remained taciturn. "is your cow going to calve this year too? how many cows has the biggest farmer near you? you know, the one down near the warthe, hauländer. do tell me." he knew all about everything, knew all the people at her home and all the cattle. he could never get tired of hearing about them and about the country where the bells tinkle for matins and vespers or call with a deep, solemn sound for high mass on sundays. he was so very fond of hearing about the country, about the large fields in which the blue flax and golden rye grow, about the bluish line of forest on the horizon, about the wide, wide stretches of heath, where the bees buzz busily over the blooming heather and the fen-fowls screech near the quiet waters in the evening, when the sky and the sun are reflected red in them. "tell me about it," he begged and urged her. but she was reluctant and shook her head. "no, go away; no, i won't. the mistress has been looking at me like that again this evening--oh, like--no, i can't explain. i believe she's going to give me notice." he had crept up to his room in a sulk and undressed himself. he had grown so accustomed to it that he could not sleep now when cilia did not tell him something first. then he fell into such a quiet sleep, and dreamt so beautifully of wide stretches of heather covered with red blossoms, and of quiet waters near which the fen-fowls screeched, which he went out to shoot. oh, that cilia, what was the matter with her to-day? how stupid! "the mistress is going to give me notice." nonsense, as if he would stand that. and he clenched his hand. then the door creaked. he craned his neck forward: was it she? was she coming, after all? it was his mother. he slipped hastily into bed and drew the covering up to his forehead. let her think he was already asleep. but she did not think so and said: "so you're still awake?" and she sat down on the chair near his bed on which his things were. cilia always sat there too. he compared the two faces in silence. oh, cilia was much prettier, so white and red, and she had dimples in her fat cheeks when she laughed, and she was so jolly. but his mother was not ugly either. he looked at her attentively; and then suddenly a hitherto quite unknown feeling came over him: oh, what narrow cheeks she had. and the soft hair near her temples--was--was---- "you're getting quite grey," he said all at once, quite dismayed, and stretched out his finger. "there, quite grey." she nodded. a look of displeasure lengthened her delicate face, and made it appear still narrower. "you should laugh more," he advised. "then people would never see you had wrinkles." wrinkles--oh yes, wrinkles. she passed her hand over her forehead nervously. what uncharitable eyes children had. youth and beauty had no doubt disappeared for ever--but it was this boy who had deprived her of the last remnant of them. and it sounded like a reproach as she said: "sorrow has done that. your serious illness and--and----" she hesitated: should she begin now about what troubled her so?"--and many other things," she concluded with a sigh. "i can understand that," he said naïvely. "you're so old, too." well, he was honest, she had to confess that; but he said it without a trace of tender feeling. she could not suppress a slight irritation; it was not pleasant to be reminded of your age by your child. "i'm not so old as all that," she said. "oh, i don't mean either that you're _very_ old. but still much older than cilia, for example." she winced--he always brought in that person. "cilia is a pretty girl, don't you think so, mother?" she got so angry that she lost control of herself. "do you think so?" she said curtly, rising. "she's leaving on the first of october." "she's leaving? oh no!" he stared at her incredulously. "yes, yes." she felt she was cruel, but could she be otherwise? his disbelieving tone expressed such terror. "she's leaving. i'm going to give her notice." "oh no, you won't." he laughed. "you won't do that." "yes, i will." she emphasised each word; it sounded irrevocable. he still shook his head incredulously: it could not be. but then he suddenly remembered cilia's depression and her words that evening: "i suppose she's going to give me notice." "no, you shan't do so." he started up in bed. "i shall not ask you." "no, you shan't, you shan't," he cried. all at once cilia moved across his mental vision, her ingenuous eyes looked at him so sadly--he liked her so much--and she was to go? he was seized with fury. "she shan't go, she shan't go," he howled, and shouted it louder and louder: "she shan't go." he was in a mad, indescribable frame of mind. he threw himself back, stretched himself out and struck the bedstead with his feet, so that it creaked in all the joints. käte was terrified; she had never seen him so violent before. but how right she was. his behaviour showed her that plainly. no, she must not call herself cruel even if his tears flowed; it was necessary that cilia went. but she was sorry for him. "wölfchen," she said persuasively, "why, wölfchen. she tried to soothe him, and drew up his cover that had fallen down with gentle hand. but as soon as she touched him he pushed her away. "wölfchen--wölfchen--you with your wölfchen! as if i were a baby still. my name is wolfgang. and you are unjust--envious--you only want her to go away because i like her better, much better than you." he shouted in her face, and she became deathly white. she felt as though she must scream with pain. she who had suffered so much for his sake was of less account than cilia in his opinion? all at once she remembered all the burning and ineffaceable tears she had already shed for his sake. and of all the hard hours during his illness none had been so hard as this one. she forgot that he was still a child, a naughty boy. had he not said himself: "i'm not a child any longer"? his behaviour seemed unpardonable. she left the room without a word. he followed her with eyes full of dismay: had he hurt her? all at once he was conscious that he had done so--oh no, he did not want to do that. he had already got half out of bed to run after her on his bare feet, to hold her fast by her dress and say: "are you angry?"--when he suddenly remembered cilia again. no, it was too bad of her to tell her to go. he wept as he crept under the bed-clothes and folded his hands. cilia had told him he was to pray to the holy virgin, to that smiling woman in the blue mantle covered with stars, who sits on a throne over the altar with the crown on her head. she healed everything. and when she asked god in heaven for anything, he did it. he would pray to her now. cilia had once taken him to her church, when his mother was at the baths and his father in the tyrol. he had had to promise her not to tell anybody about it, and the charm of the secrecy had increased the charm of the church. an unconscious longing drew him to those altars, where the saints looked so beautiful and where you could see god incarnate, to whom he had been told to pray as to a father. he had never liked the church so much which his mother sometimes went to, and in which he had also been. that longing, which had clung to him ever since like a fairy tale, now came over him forcibly and vividly. yes, it was beautiful to be able to kneel like that before the holy virgin, who was lovelier than all women on earth, and hardly had you laid your request before her when its fulfilment was insured. splendid! "hail mary!" cilia's prayer began like that. he did not know any more, but he repeated the words many times. and now he smelt the incense again, which had filled the whole church with perfume, heard again the little bell announcing the transubstantiation, saw the lord's anointed with the splendid stole over his chasuble bow first to the left of the altar, then to the right. oh, how he envied the boys in their white surplices, who were allowed to kneel near him. blessed harmonies floated under the high, arched dome: "procedenti ab utroque compar sit laudatio----" they had sung something like that. and then the priest had raised the gleaming monstrance on high, and all the people had bowed deeply: _qui vivis et regnas in sæcula sæculorum._ yes, he had remembered _that_ latin well. he would never forget it all his life. cilia had had to nudge him and whisper: "come, we're going now," otherwise he would have remained kneeling much longer in the magnificent and still cosy church, in which nothing was cold and strange. if only he could go there again. cilia had certainly promised to take him if she found an opportunity--but now she was to go away, and the opportunity would never come. what a pity. he was filled with a great regret and defiance at the same time; no, he would not go to the church his mother went to, and where the boys from his school went. and he whispered again, "hail, mary!" and the hot and angry tears that had been running down his cheeks ceased as he whispered it. he had climbed out of his bed, and was kneeling by the side of it on the carpet, his clasped hands raised in prayer, as he had seen the angels do in the altar-piece. his eyes sparkled and were wide open, his defiance melted into fervour. when he at last got into bed again, and his excessive fatigue had calmed his agitation and he had fallen asleep, he dreamt of the beautiful virgin mary, whose features were well known to him, and he felt his heart burn for her. * * * * * * * * * * * * * it was a fortnight later, the first of october, that cilla left her situation. käte had given her a good character; it was still not clear to the girl why she had been dismissed, even when she stood in the street. the lady wanted an older, more experienced maid--that was what she had said--but cilia did not quite believe that, she felt vaguely that there was another reason: she simply did not like her. she would go home for a short time before taking another situation, she felt homesick, and it had been difficult for her to leave the place--on account of the boy. how he had cried, even yesterday evening. he had hung on her neck and kissed her many times like a little child, that big boy. and there was so much he still wanted to say to her. they had been standing together upstairs in the dark passage, and then the mistress's step as she came up the stairs had driven them away; he was just able to escape to his room. and she had not even been able to say good-bye to him to-day, the good boy. for he had hardly gone to school when her mistress said: "there, now you can go." she was quite taken aback, for she had not reckoned on getting away before the afternoon. but the new housemaid, an elderly person with a pointed face, had already come, so what was there for her to do? so all she had done was to wrap up all the pictures of the saints she kept in her prayer-book quickly in paper, and stick them into the drawer in the table that stood at the boy's bedside--he would be sure to find them there--after she had written "love from cilia" on them. then she had gone away. cilia had sent her basket on by goods train, and she had nothing to carry now but a little leather bag and a cardboard box tied with string. so she could get on quickly. but on her way to the station she stopped all at once: the school would be over at one o'clock, it was almost eleven now, it really did not matter if she left somewhat later. how pleased he would be if she said good-bye to him once more and begged him not to forget her. she turned round. she would be sure to find a bench near the school, and there she would wait for him. the passers-by looked curiously at the young girl who had posted herself near the school like a soldier, stiff and silent. cilia had not found a bench; she dared not go far from the entrance for fear of missing him. so she placed the cardboard box on the ground, and stood with her little bag on her arm. now and then she asked somebody what time it was. the time passed slowly. at last it was almost one. then she felt her heart beat: the good boy! in her thoughts she could already see his dark eyes flash with joy, hear his amazed: "cillchen! you?" cilia pushed her hat straight on her beautiful fair hair, and stared fixedly at the school-door with a more vivid red on her red cheeks: the bell would soon ring--then he would come rushing out--then--. all at once she saw the boy's mother. she? frau schlieben was approaching the door with quick steps. oh dear! a few quick bounds brought her behind a bush: did she intend fetching her wolfgang herself to-day? oh, then she would have to go. and she stole away to the station, full of grief. the joy that had made her heart beat had all disappeared; but she still had one consolation: wolfgang would not forget her. no, never! wolfgang was much surprised to see his mother. surely he need not be fetched? she had never done that herself before. he was disagreeably impressed. was he a baby? the others would make fun of him. he felt very indignant, but his mother's kindness disarmed him. she was specially tender that day, and very talkative. she inquired about everything they had been doing at school, she did not even scold when he confessed he had had ten faults in his latin composition; on the contrary, she promised he should make an excursion to schildhorn that afternoon. it was such a beautiful, sunny autumn day, almost like summer. the boy sauntered along beside her, quite content, dangling his books at the end of the long strap. he had quite forgotten for the moment that cilia was to leave that day. but when they came home and the strange maid answered the door, he opened his eyes wide, and when they sat down at table and the new girl with the pointed face, who did not look at all like a servant, brought in the dishes, he could not contain himself any longer. "where's cilia?" he asked. "she has gone away--you know it," said his mother in a casual tone of voice. "away?" he turned pale and then crimson. so she had gone without saying good-bye to him! all at once he had no appetite, although he had been so hungry before. every mouthful choked him; he looked stiffly at his plate--he dared not look up for fear of crying. his parents spoke of this and that--all trivial matters--and a voice within him cried: "why has she gone without saying good-bye to me?" it hurt him very much. he could not understand it--she was so fond of him. how could she have found it in her heart to go away without letting him know where he could find her? his cillchen to leave him like that! oh, she could not have done so--not of her own free will, oh no, no. and just when he was at school. he was seized with a sudden suspicion: he had not thought of such a thing before, but now it was clear to him--oh, he was not so stupid as all that--she had had to go just because he was at school. his mother had never liked cilia, and she had not wanted her to say good-bye to him. the boy cast angry glances at his mother from under his lowered lashes: that was horrid of her. he rose from the table full of suppressed wrath, and dragged his feet up the stairs to his room. he found the pictures of the saints that had been stuck into his drawer at once--"with love from cilia"--and then he gave way to his fury and his grief. he stamped with his feet and kissed the gaudy pictures, and his tears made lots of dark spots on them. then he rushed downstairs into the dining-room, where his father was still sitting at the table and his mother packing cakes and fruit into her small bag. oh, she had wanted to go for a walk with him. that would be the very last thing he would do. "where has cilia gone? why haven't you let her say good-bye to me?" his mother gazed at him, petrified; how did the boy guess her innermost thoughts? she could not utter a word. but he did not let her speak either, his boy's voice, which was still high, cracked and then became deep and hoarse: "yes, you--oh, i know it quite well--you did not want her to say good-bye to me. you've sent her away so that i should not see her any more--yes, you! that's horrid of you! that's--that's vile!" he went towards her. she shrank back slowly--he raised his hands--was he going to strike her? "you rascal!" his father's hand seized him by the scruff of his neck. "how dare you? raise your hand against your mother?" the angry man shook the boy until his teeth chattered, and did so again and again. "you--you rascal, you good-for-nothing!" "she didn't let her say good-bye to me," the boy screamed as an answer. "she's sent her away because--because----" "you still dare to speak to----" "yes! why didn't she let cilia say good-bye to me? she never did anything to her. i loved her and it was for that, only for that----" "silence!" he gave the boy a violent blow on the mouth. the man no longer recognised himself; his calmness had abandoned him, the boy's obstinacy made him lose his temper. how he struggled against the hand that was holding him, how he stared at him with his bold eyes. how dared he shout at him like that? "you"--he shook him--"so you are so insolent? so ungrateful? what would have become of you? you would have died in misery--yes--it's she who has made something out of you--who picked you up out of----" "paul!" his wife's scream interrupted the man. käte seized hold of his arm as though she were out of her mind: "no, no, leave him. you are not to--no!" she held her hand in front of his mouth. and when he pushed her away angrily and seized hold of the boy more firmly, she tore him away from him and pressed his head against her dress as if to protect him. she held her hand before his ears. her face was deathly white, and, turning her dilated eyes to her husband, she implored him full of terror: "not a word! i beseech you, i beseech you!" the man's anger had not yet cooled. käte must really have lost her senses. why did she take the boy away from the punishment he so richly deserved? he approached the boy once more with a hard: "well, really, käte i'm not going to condone this." then she fled with him to the door and pushed him outside, bolted it and then placed herself in front of it, as though to bar her husband's egress. now wolfgang had gone. they were both alone now, she and her husband, and with a cry full of reproach: "you had almost betrayed it to him," she tottered to the sofa. she fell rather than sat down on it, and broke out in hopeless weeping. paul schlieben strode up and down the room. he had indeed almost allowed himself to be carried away by his indignation. but would it have been a misfortune if he had told the boy about it? let him know where he came from, and that he had nothing, really nothing whatever to do there. that he received everything as a favour. it was absolutely unnecessary--in fact, more prejudicial than desirable--to keep it a secret from him. but if she would not allow it on any account! he interrupted his walk to and fro, remained standing before his wife, who was weeping in the corner of the sofa, and looked down at her. he felt so extremely sorry for her. that was the reward for all her kindness, her unselfishness, for all her devotion! he laid his hand softly on her drooping head without saying a word. then she started up suddenly and caught hold of his hand: "and don't do anything to him, please. don't hit him. it's my fault--he guessed it. i did not like her, i gave her notice, and then i sent her away secretly--only because he loved her, only for that reason. i feared her. paul, paul"--she wrung her hands repentantly--"oh, paul, i stand abashed before the child, i stand abashed before myself." wolfgang was sitting huddled up in his room, holding the pictures of the saints in his hand. those were now his most costly, his only possessions; a precious memory. where could she be now? still in the grunewald? already in berlin? or much further? oh, how he longed for her. he missed the friendly face that was always smiling secretly at him, and his longing for her increased until he could not bear it any longer. there was no one there who loved him as she did whom he loved as he had loved her. now that cilia was gone he forgot that he had often laughed at her and played tricks on her, and had also quarrelled with her in a boyish manner. his longing for her grew and grew, and her figure grew as well. it became so large and so strong, so powerful that it took his eyes away from everything else that still surrounded him. he threw himself on the carpet and dug his fingers into it; he had to hold himself in that manner, otherwise he would have broken everything to bits, everything, big and small. that was his father's step on the stairs. he shook the door-handle. let him shake it. wolfgang had locked himself in. "open at once!" ah, now he was to have a whipping. wolfgang wiped his tears away hastily, gnashed his teeth and closed his lips tightly. "well, are you soon going to do it?" the handle was shaken louder and louder. then he went and opened it. his father stepped in. not with the stick the boy expected to see in his hand, but with anger and grief written on his brow. "come down at once. you have hurt your poor, good--much too good--mother very much. come to her and ask her pardon. show her that you are sorry; do you hear? come." the boy did not move. he stared past his father into space with an unutterably unhappy, but at the same time obstinate expression on his face. "you are to come--don't you hear? your mother is waiting." "i'm not coming," wolfgang muttered; he hardly opened his lips at all. "what?" the man stared at the boy without speaking, quite dismayed at so much audacity. the boy returned his look, straight and bold. his young face was so pale that his dark eyes appeared still darker, a dense black. "bad eyes," said the man to himself. and suddenly a suspicion took possession of him, a suspicion that was old and long forgotten, but still had slumbered in the recesses of his heart in spite of everything and had now all at once been roused again, and he seized hold of the boy, gripped hold of his chest so tightly that he made no further resistance. "boy! rascal! have you no heart? she who has done so much for you, she, she is waiting for you and you, you won't come? on your knees, i say. go on in front--ask her pardon. at once." and he seized the boy, who showed no emotion whatever, by the scruff of his neck instead of by his chest, and shoved him along in front of him down the stairs and into the room where käte was sitting buried in her grief, her eyes red with weeping. "here's somebody who wants to beg your pardon," said the man, pushing the boy down in front of her. wolfgang would have liked to cry out: "no, i won't beg her pardon, and especially not now"--and then all at once he felt so sorry for her. oh, she was just as unhappy as he--they did not suit each other, that was it. this knowledge came to him all at once, and it deepened his glance and sharpened the features of his young face so much that he looked old beyond his years. he jerked out with a sob: "beg your pardon." he did not hear himself how much agony was expressed in his voice, he hardly felt either that her arms lifted him up, that he lay on her breast for some moments and she stroked his hair away from his burning brow. it was as if he were half unconscious; he only felt a great emptiness and a vague misery. as in a dream he heard his father say: "there, that's right. now go and work. and be a better boy." and his mother's soft voice: "yes, he's sure to be that." he went upstairs as though he were walking in his sleep. he was to work now--why? what was the object? everything was so immaterial to him. it was immaterial whether these people praised or blamed him--what did it matter to him what they did? on the whole he did not like being there any longer, he did not want to stay there any more--no, no! he shook himself as though with loathing. then he stood a long time on one spot, staring into space. and gradually a large, an immeasurable expanse appeared before his staring eyes--cornfields and heather in bloom, heather in which the sun sets, quiet waters near which a lonely bird is calling, and over all the solemn, beautiful sound of bells. he must go there. he stretched out his arms longingly, the eyes that were swollen with weeping flashed. if they were to keep him with them, keep hold of him! no, they could not hold him. he must go there. he crept nearer to the window as though drawn there. it was high up, too high for a jump, but he would get down nevertheless. he could not go down the stairs of course, they would hear him--but like this, ah, like this. kneeling on the window-sill he groped about with his feet to find the water-pipe that ran down the whole side of the house close to the window. ah, he felt it. then he slid down from the sill, only hanging on to it by the tips of his fingers, dangled in the air for a few moments, then got the water-pipe between his knees, let go of the window-sill altogether, grasped hold of the pipe and slid down it quickly and noiselessly. he looked round timidly: nobody had seen him. there was nobody in the street, and there were only a few people walking in the distance. he bent his head and crept past the windows on the ground-floor--now he was in the garden behind the bushes--now over the hedge his trousers slit, that did not matter--now he looked back at the house with a feeling of wild triumph. he stood in the waste field, in which no houses had been built as yet, stood there hidden behind an elderberry-bush, of which he had planted the first shoot years before as a child. he did not feel the slightest regret. he rushed away into the sheltering wood like a wild animal that hears shots. he ran and ran, ran even when it was not necessary to run any more. he did not stop until complete exhaustion forced him to do so. he had run straight across the wood without following any path; now he no longer knew where he was. but he was far away, so much was certain. he had not got so far into the wood on his robber expeditions with his play-fellows, and, in his walks, had never gone into the parts where there were no paths whatever and where it was quite lonely. he could rest a little now in peace. he threw himself on the ground, where the sand showed nothing but fine grass and some bracken in small hollows. trees in which there was not the slightest motion towered above him all around, like slender pillars that seemed to support the heavens. he lay there for some time on his back, and let his blood, which was coursing through his veins like mad, cool down. he thought he could hear his heart throb quite distinctly, although he could not account for it--oh, it was pounding and stabbing so unpleasantly in his breast; he had never felt it do like that before. but he had never run like that before, at any rate since his illness. he had to fight for air, he thought he was going to choke. but at last he was able to breathe again more comfortably; now he had not to distend his nostrils and pant for breath any more. he could enjoy the feeling of ease and comfort that gradually came over him now. it was not yet dusk when he set out again, but still the light began to show that it was october. there was a sweet softness, something extremely gentle and glorified about the sunshine that fell through the red branches of the pines, which also softened the wild runaway. he went in a dream--whither? he did not know, he did not think of it either, he only walked on and on, in pursuit of a longing that drew him on irresistibly, that fluttered in front of him and cooed and called like a dove seeking her nest. and the dove's wings were stronger than the wings of an eagle. there were no people where the longing flew. it was so peaceful and quiet there. not even his foot made any noise as it sank into the moss and short grass. the pines stood in the glow of the setting sun like slender lighted candles. no autumn leaves lay on the ground in which the wind might have rustled; the air swept noiselessly over the smooth pine-needles and the colourless cones that had dropped down from the tree-tops. wolfgang had never known it was so beautiful there. he looked round with amazed delight. it had never seemed so beautiful before. but it was not like this, of course, where the villas were and the roads. his eyes glanced curiously now to the right, now to the left and then in front of him into the twilight of the wood. there, where the last gold of the setting sun did not cling to the cleft bark like red blood and the light did not penetrate, there was a soft mysterious dusk, in which the mossy dark-green stems gleamed nevertheless. and there was a perfume there, so moist and cool, so pungent and fresh, that the boy drew a deep breath as though a weight had been lifted from his chest and a new strength ran through his veins. the memory of all he had gone through during the day came back to wolfgang now in the deep calm. he pressed his hands to his hot forehead--ah, now he noticed he had not even a cap on. but what did that matter? he was free, free! he hurried on, shouting with glee, and then he got terrified at the sound of his own loud voice: hush, be quiet! let him only not be shut up again, let him be free, free! he did not feel any more longing now. he was filled with a great repose, with a boundless happiness. his eyes sparkled--he opened them wide--he could not stare enough at the world, it was as though he saw it for the first time to-day. he ran up to the trunks that seemed to be supporting the heavens, and threw both arms round them; he pressed his face against the resinous bark. was it not soft? did it not cling to his glowing cheek like a caressing hand? he threw himself down on the moss and stretched his limbs and tossed from side to side in high glee, and then jumped up again--he did not like being there, after all--he must look about, enjoy his liberty. a single red stripe over the wood that was turning blue still showed where the sun had been, when he became conscious of his actual whereabouts for the first time. here the former high-road from spandau to potsdam had been; ruddy brown and yellow chestnuts formed an avenue through the desolate country. the sand lay a foot deep in the ruts that were seldom used now. ah, from here you came to potsdam or spandau, according to the road you took--alas, could you not already hear cocks crowing and a noise as of wheels turning slowly? deciding quickly, the boy turned off from the old high-road to the left, crept through a bent barbed wire fence, that was to protect a clearing which had lately been replanted, bounded like a stag over the small plants that were hardly a hand's-breadth high, and looked out for a cover. he did not require any, nobody came there. he walked more slowly between the small trees; he took care not to tread on them, stooped down and examined them, measured them out by steps as a farmer does his furrows. and all at once it was evening. a mist had crept over the earth, light and hardly visible at first, then it had risen and increased in size, had slipped across the piece of clearing on the night wind that was coming up, and had hung on to each gnarl like the beckoning veils of spectres. but wolfgang was not afraid; he did not feel any terror. what could happen to him there, where the distant whistle of a train was only heard at intervals, and where the wind carried the smoke it had torn away from the locomotive like a light cloud that rapidly vanishes? just as if you were on the prairie, on the steppes, the boy thought to himself, where there are no longer any huts and only the camp fires send their little bit of smoke up as a token. a certain love of adventure was mingled with the bliss of being free. he had always wished to camp out. of course he would not be able to light a fire and cook by it; he had nothing to do it with. but he did not feel hungry. there was only one thing he needed now, to sleep long and soundly. he lay down without hesitating. the ground was already cool, but his clothes were thick and prevented the cold from penetrating. he made a sort of pillow for his head, and lay with his face turned towards the evening sky. pale stars gradually appeared on it, and smiled down at him. he had thought he would fall asleep at once, he felt tired out, but he lay a long time with open eyes. an inexplicable sensation kept him awake: this was too beautiful, too beautiful, it was like a splendid dream. golden eyes protected him, a velvety mantle enveloped him, a mother rocked him gently. longing, defiance, pain, fury, everything that hurt had disappeared. only happiness remained in this infinite peace. chapter xii frida lãmke had now been confirmed. she wore a dress that almost touched the ground, and when she saw wolfgang schlieben for the first time after a long interval, her greeting was no longer the familiar nod of childhood. but she stopped when she came up to her former play-fellow. "hallo, wolfgang," she said, laughing, and at the same time a little condescendingly--she felt so infinitely superior to him--"well, how are you getting along?" "all right." he put on a bold air which did not exactly suit the look in his eyes. she examined him; what a fine fellow wolfgang had grown. but he held himself so badly, he bent forward so. "hold yourself up, for goodness' sake," she exhorted, and she straightened her own rush-like figure. "why do you make such a round back? and you blink your eyes as if you were short-sighted. hm, you should be with my employer--oh my, she would make you sit up." she chuckled to herself, her whole slender figure shook with a secret inclination to laugh. "you're so happy," he said slowly. "well, why shouldn't i be? do you think such an old dragon can spoil my good humour? come, that would be stupid. when she scolds i lower my head, i don't say a word, but i laugh to myself. ha ha!" her clear voice sounded very gay. how pretty she was. the boy's dark eyes were fixed on frida lämke as though he had never seen her before. the sun was shining on her fair hair, which she no longer wore in a long plait, but in a thick knot at the back of her head. her face was so round, so blooming. "you never come to see me now," he said. "how can i?" she shrugged her shoulders and assumed an air of importance. "what do you think i have to do? into town with the car before eight in the morning, and then only two hours for my dinner always in and out and in the evening i'm hardly ever at home before ten, often still later. then i'm so tired, i sleep as sound as a top. but on sundays mother lets me sleep as long as i like, and in the afternoon i go out with artur and flebbe. we----" "where do you go?" he asked hastily. "i could go with you some time." "oh, you!" she laughed at him. "you mayn't, you know." "no." he bowed his head. "come, don't look so glum," she said encouragingly, stroking his chin with her fore-finger, and disclosing a hole in her shabby kid glove. "you go to college, you see. artur is to be apprenticed too, next autumn. mother thinks to a hairdresser. and flebbe is already learning to be a grocer--his father can afford to do that--who knows? perhaps he may have a shop of his own in time." "yes," said wolfgang in a monotonous voice, breaking into her chatter. he stood in the street as though lost in thought, his books pressed under his arm. oh, how far, far this girl, all three of them, had gone from him all at once. those three, with whom he had once played every day, whose captain he had always been, were already so big, and he, he was still a silly school-boy. "oh, hang it all!" he hurled his pile of books away from him with a violent gesture, so that the strap that held them together came undone. all the books and exercise-books flew apart, and lay spread out in the dust of the street. "oh dear, wölfchen!" frida stooped down, quite terrified, and gathered them all up. he did not help her to collect them. he stared in front of him with an angry look. "there--now you've got them again," said the girl, who had grown quite red with stooping so busily. she blew off the dust and pressed them under his arm again. "i don't want them." he let them fall again. "hm, you're a nice fellow. what can you be thinking of?--those expensive books." she felt really quite angry with him. "don't you know that they cost money?" "pooh!" he made a gesture as if to say, what did that matter? "then some new ones will be bought." "even if your father has sufficient money," she said, firing up, "it's still not right of you to treat these good books like that." he did not say a word to that, but took them up and fastened the strap round them again. they stood together, both feeling embarrassed. she glanced sideways at him: how he had changed. and he felt vexed that he had got into a passion: what would she think of him now? "i shall have to go now," she said all at once, "or i shan't even get my dinner eaten ugh, how hungry i am!" she put her hand on her stomach. "how good it'll taste! mother has potatoes in their jackets and herrings to-day." "i shall go too." suiting his step to hers he trotted beside her as she tripped hastily along. she got quite red: what would her mother say if she brought wolfgang with her? no, that would really not do, this was just the day when their room had not been tidied. and she had told a fib too: there were no herrings, only onion sauce with the potatoes in their jackets. she felt ashamed that wolfgang should find it out. "no, you go home," she said, intrenching herself behind a pout. "as you've not been to see us for so long, you needn't come to-day either. i'm angry with you." "angry with me--me? what have i done? i wasn't allowed to come to you, i mightn't--that's not my fault, surely. frida!" she commenced to run, her face quite scarlet; he ran beside her. "frida! frida, surely you can't be angry with _me_? oh, frida, don't be angry. frida, let me go with you. at last i've met you, and then you behave like this?" there was sorrow in his voice. she felt it, but she was angry all the same: why should he cling to her like that? flebbe would not like it at all. and so she said in a pert voice: "we don't suit each other and never shall. you go with your young ladies. you belong to them." "say that once more--dare to do it!" he shouted in a rough voice, and raised his hand as though he would strike her. "affected creatures, what are they to me?" he was right--she had to confess it in her heart--he had never taken any notice of the young girls who lived in the villas around him. she knew very well that he preferred them to them all, and her vanity felt flattered; she said soothingly, but at the same time evasively: "no, wölfchen, you can't go with me any more, it's not proper any more." and she held out her hand: "good-bye, wolfgang." they were among the bushes in a small public garden in which there were benches, the villas lying at a good distance from it, quite hidden behind their front gardens. there was nobody in sight in the quiet radiance of the noonday sun. but even if somebody had come, it would not have made any difference; he seized hold of her with both hands in a kind of rage. "i am going with you--i shall not let you go." she resisted forcibly: what was the stupid boy thinking of? "let me go," she said, spitting at him like a little cat, "will you let me go at once? you hurt me. just you wait, i'll tell flebbe about it, he'll be after you. leave me in peace." he did not let her go. he held her clasped in his arms without saying a word, his books were again lying in the dust. did he want to kiss or strike her? she did not know; but she was afraid of him and defended herself as best she could. "you runaway!" she hissed, "hm, you're a nice one. runs away from home, hides himself in the wood. but they got you all the same--and it served you right." all at once he let her go; she stood in front of him mocking him. she could easily have run away now, but she preferred to stand there and scold him: "you runaway!" he got very red and hung his head. "how could you think of doing such a thing?" she continued with a certain cruelty. "so silly. everybody laughed at you. we positively could not believe it at first. well i never, said i, the boy runs away without money, without a cap, without a piece of bread in his pocket. you wanted to go to america like that, i suppose, eh?" she eyed him from top to toe and then threw her head back and laughed loudly: "to think of doing such a thing." he did not raise his head, only murmured half to himself: "you shouldn't laugh at it, no, you shouldn't." "come, what next? cry, perhaps? what does it matter to me? your mother cried enough about it, and your father ran about as if he were crazy. all the rangers in the district were on their legs. tell me, didn't you get a good thrashing when they dragged you home by the collar?" "no." he suddenly raised his head and looked straight into the eyes that were sparkling a little maliciously. there was something in his glance--a mute reproach--that compelled her to lower her lids. "they didn't beat me--i wouldn't have stood it either--no, they didn't beat me." "shut you up?" she asked curiously. he did not answer; what was he to say? no, they had not shut him up, he might go about as he liked in the house and garden, in the street, to school--and still, still he was not free. tears suddenly started to his eyes. "you--you shouldn't--shouldn't taunt me--frida," he cried, stammering and faltering. "i'm so--so----" he wanted to say "unhappy"; but the word seemed to mean too little and in another way too much. and he felt ashamed of saying it aloud. so he stood silent, colouring up to the eyes. and only his tears, which he could not restrain any longer, rolled down his cheeks and fell into the dust of the street. they were tears of sorrow and of rage. it was already more than six months ago--oh, even longer--but it still enraged him as though it had happened the day before. he had never forgotten for a moment that they had caught him so easily. they had found him so soon, at daybreak, ere the sun had risen on a new day. and they had carried him home in triumph. what he had looked upon as a great deed, an heroic deed, was a stupid boy's trick to them. his mother had certainly cried a good deal, but his father had only pulled his ear: "once, but not more, my son. remember that." wolfgang was crying quietly but bitterly. frida stood in front of him, watching him cry, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears as well--she had always been his good friend. now she cried with him. "don't cry, wölfchen," she sobbed. "it isn't so bad. people don't remember anything more about it--such things are forgotten. you certainly need not feel ashamed of it--why should you? there's no harm in your having frightened your people a little for once in a way. simply say to them: 'then i'll run away again,' if they won't let you come to us. come next sunday afternoon. then i won't go with artur and flebbe--no, i'll wait for you." she wiped her own tears away with the one hand and his with the other. they stood thus in the bright sunshine amidst the flowering bushes. the lilac spread its fragrance around; a red may and a laburnum strewed their beautifully coloured petals over them, shaken by the soft wind of may. the dark and the light head were close to each other. "frida," he said, seizing hold of her hand firmly, as though clinging to it, "frida, are _you_ still fond of me, at any rate?" "of course." she nodded, and her clear merry laugh was heard once more, although there were still traces of tears on her face. "that would be a nice sort of friendship, if it disappeared so quickly. there!" she pursed up her mouth and gave him a kiss. he looked very embarrassed; she had never given him a kiss before. "there!" she gave him another one. "and now be happy again, my boy. it's such beautiful weather." * * * * * * * * * * * * * "you're late to-day," said his mother, when wolfgang came home from school at two instead of at one o'clock. "you've not been kept, i hope?" a feeling of indignation rose in him: how she supervised him. the good temper in which his friend frida had put him had disappeared; the chains galled him again. but he still thought a good deal of frida. when he was doing his lessons in the afternoon, her head with its thick knot of hair would constantly appear behind his desk, and bend over his book and interrupt him; but it was a pleasant interruption. what a pity that frida had so little time now. how nice it had been when they were children. he had always been most fond of her; he had been able to play better with her than with the two boys, she had always understood him and stuck to him--alas! he felt as though he must envy, from the bottom of his heart, the boy who had been the captain when they played at robbers in those days and roasted potatoes in the ashes, nay, even the boy who had once been so ill that they had to wheel him in a bath-chair the first time he went out into the open air. the boy who sat at the desk now, staring absently into space over the top of his exercise-book, was no longer the same. he was no longer a child. all at once it seemed to wolfgang as though a golden time had gone for ever and lay far behind him, as though there were no pleasures in store for him. had not the clergyman who was preparing him for confirmation also said: "you are no longer children"? and had he not gone on to say: "you will soon have your share of life's gravity"? alas, he already had it. wolfgang sat with knit brows, the chewed end of his penholder between his teeth, disinclined to work. he was brooding. all manner of thoughts occurred to him that he had never had before; all at once words came into his mind that he had never thought of seriously before. why did the boys in his form constantly ask him such strange questions? they asked about his parents--well, was there anything peculiar about them?--and then they exchanged glances among themselves and looked at him so curiously. what was so funny about him? lehmann was the most curious--and so cheeky. quite lately he had blinked at him sideways so slyly, and puffed up his cheeks as though they must burst with laughter when he made the specially witty remark: "i'll be hanged if i can see any likeness between you and your governor!" was he really not like his father or his mother? not like either of them? when wolfgang undressed that evening, he stood a long time in front of the looking-glass that hung over his washstand, with a light in his hand, holding it first to the right, then to the left, then higher, then lower. a bright light fell on his face. the glass was good, and reflected every feature faithfully on its clear surface--but there was no resemblance whatever between his big nose and his mother's fine one. his father's nose was also quite different. and neither of his parents had such a broad forehead with hair growing far down on it, and such brows that almost met. his father had certainly dark eyes, but they did not resemble those he saw in the glass, that were so black that even the light from the candle, which he held quite close, could not make them any lighter. at last the boy turned away with a look full of doubt. and still there was something that resembled a slight feeling of relief in the sigh he now uttered. if he were so little like them externally, need he wonder then that his thoughts and feelings were often so quite, quite different from theirs? it was strange how the boys at school were an exact copy of their parents; and how the big boys were still tied to their mothers' apron-strings. there was kullrich, for example; he had been away for a fortnight because his mother had died, and when he came to school again for the first time--with a black band round his coat-sleeve--the whole form went almost crazy. they treated him as though he were a raw egg, and spoke quite low, and nobody made a joke. and when the passage, _when my father and my mother forsake me, then the lord will take me up_, happened to occur in the bible-lessons, in which kullrich also took part, they all looked at him as though at the word of command, and kullrich laid his head down on his bible, and did not raise it again during the whole lesson. afterwards the master went up to him and spoke a long time to him, and laid his hand on his head. that was already a long time ago, but kullrich was still not happy. when they all walked in the playground during the interval, eating their bread and butter, he stood at some distance and did not eat. was it really so hard to lose one's mother? there was a wonderful moon shining over the silent pines that night; the boy lay half out of the window for a long, long time. his eyes were burning: his thoughts buzzed in his head like a swarm of gnats that whirl round and round and up and down in the air like a cloud. where did they come from all at once? he exposed his hot forehead, his chest, from which his nightshirt had slipped, to the cool night air in may--ah, that did him good. that was the best, the only thing that soothed, that gave peace. oh, how delightful the air was, so pure, so fresh. where could cilia be now? he wondered. he had never heard anything more about her, she was where he would like to have been--oh, how he would have liked it. something that resembled the sound of bells came floating along, and he stretched out his arms and bent further and further out of the window. wolfgang had such a vivid dream about cilia that night that when he awoke he thought she was standing at his bedside, that she had not left him yet. but after he had rubbed his eyes, he saw that the spot on which she had just been standing smiling so pleasantly was empty. after school was over he had to go to the bible-lesson; he was to be confirmed the following easter. true, he was still young, but paul schlieben had said to his wife: "he is so developed physically. we can't have him confirmed when he is outwardly, at any rate, a grown-up man. besides, his age is just right. it is much better for him if he does not begin to reflect first." did he not reflect already? it often seemed to käte as if the boy evaded her questions, when she asked him about the bible-lesson. did his teacher not understand how to make an impression on him? dr. baumann was looked upon as an excellent theologian, everybody rushed to hear his sermons; to be allowed to join his confirmation classes, that were always so crowded, was a special favour; all his pupils raved about him, people who had been confirmed by him ten, fifteen years before, still spoke of it as an event in their lives. käte made a point of going to hear this popular clergyman's sermons very often. formerly she had only gone to church at christmas and on good friday, now she went almost every sunday to please her boy, for he had to go now. they left the house together every sunday, drove to church together, sat next to each other; but whilst she thought: "how clever, how thought-out, what fervour, surely he must carry a youthful mind away with him"? wolfgang thought: "if only it were over!" he felt bored. and his soul had never soared there as when the little bell rang when the monstrance had been raised, when he had smelt the odour of incense before dim altars. there was something in him that drove him to the church he had once visited with cilia. when he went to the bible-class he had to pass close by it; but even if the road had been longer, he would still have made it possible to go there. only to stand a few minutes, a few seconds in a corner, only to draw his breath once or twice in that sweet, mysterious, soothing air laden with incense. he always found the church door open; and then when he stepped out again into the noise of berlin, he went through the streets with their hurry and their rush like one come from another world. after that he did not take any notice of what he was told about the doctrines and the history of the church--what were martin luther, calvin and other reformers to him? his soul had been caught, his thoughts submerged in a feeling of gloomy faith. thus the summer and winter passed. when the days grew longer, and the mild warmth of the sun promised to dry up all the moisture winter had left behind ere long, paul schlieben had his villa cleaned and painted. it was to put on a festive garment for their son's great day, too. the white house looked extremely pretty with its red roofs and green shutters, as it peeped out from behind the pines; there would almost have been something rustic about it, had it not been for the large plate-glass windows and the conservatory, with its palms and flowering azaleas, that had lately been built on. friedrich was sowing fresh grass in the garden, and an assistant was tidying up the flower-beds; they were digging and hoeing everywhere. the sparrows were chirping noisily, bold and happy; but strips of paper tied to long pieces of string and stretched across the lawns that had just been sown fluttered in the purifying wind and frightened the impudent birds away from the welcome food. all the gardens were waking up. the stems of the roses had not yet been released from their coverings, in which they looked like a chrysalis made of straw, but the young shoots had appeared on the fruit-trees, and the spurge-laurel made a fine show with its peach-coloured blossoms. perambulators painted white and sky-blue were being driven up and down the street, the baby inside was already peeping out from behind the curtains, and little feet tripped along by the side. nurses and children came out of all the doors, the boys with hoops, the girls with their balls in a knitted net. giggling young girls went off to tennis, and big boys from the third form made love to them. brightness and gaiety everywhere. there was a glad excited rustling in the tops of the pines, and the sap rose and fell in the willows along the shores of the lake. a flight of starlings passed over the grunewald colony, and each bird looked down and chose in which box on the tall pine stems it would prefer to nest. the new suit of clothes--black trousers and coat--wolfgang was to wear at his confirmation lay spread out on his bed upstairs. now he was to try it on. käte was filled with a strange emotion, and her pulse quickened as she helped him to put on his new suit. so far he had always been dressed like a boy, in knickers and a sailor blouse, now he was to be dressed like a man all at once. the festive black suit of fine cloth did not suit him; for the first time one noticed that he was thick-set. he stood there stiffly, he felt cramped in the trousers, the coat was uncomfortable, too: he looked miserable. "look at yourself, just look at yourself," said käte, pushing him in front of the glass. he looked into it. but he did not see the clothes, he only saw his mother's face as she looked into the glass at the same time as he, and he saw they had not a single feature in common. "we're not a bit alike," he murmured. "hm? what did you say?" she had not understood him. he did not answer. "don't you like the suit?" "it's awful!" and then he stared at himself absently. what had they been saying again that morning? they had been jeering at him, lehmann and von kesselborn, who were to be confirmed with him. was it because their fathers were not so rich as his? kesselborn's father was a retired officer, who now filled the post of registrar, but kesselborn was terribly proud of his "von"; and lehmann was his bosom friend. however, he had told them that he had already had a silver watch since he was eight years old, and that he was to have a real gold one for his confirmation, which he would then wear every day--that had vexed them awfully. it was before the lesson had commenced--they were all three waiting--and kesselborn had suddenly said: "schlieben gives himself airs," and had then turned to him and said: "you needn't be so stuck-up." and then lehmann had added, also quite loudly so that everybody must have heard it: "don't put on so much side, we know all about it." "what do you know?" he had wanted to jump on lehmann like a tiger, but the clergyman had just then come in and they began prayers. and when the lesson, of which he had hardly heard anything--he heard the other words all the time--was over, he had wanted to tackle kesselborn and lehmann, but they had been sitting near the door, and had already gone before he could get out of his bench. he did not see them again. but he noticed glances in which there was a certain curiosity and spitefulness--or did he only imagine it? he was not quite sure about it, and he had not thought any more about it either. but now when he saw his mother's face so close to his in the glass, he suddenly remembered it all again. and it all came back to him, plumped like a stone into his thoughts. "i'm not at all like you," he said once more. and then he watched her face: "not like father either." "oh yes," she said hastily, "you are very much like your father." "not the slightest bit." her face had flamed, and then he noticed that she suddenly turned pale. then she laughed, but there was something forced in her laugh. "there are many children who hardly resemble their parents at all--that has nothing to do with the matter." "no, but----" all at once he stopped and frowned, as he always did when he exerted himself to think. and he shot such sharp, such suspicious, such scrutinising glances at the glass under his knit brows that käte involuntarily moved aside, so that her head could not be seen near his in the glass any more. she was seized with a sudden fear: what did he mean? had he spoken like that intentionally, or had he said it quite unconsciously? what had they said to him? what did he know? her hands that had found something to do to his clothes--she was on her knees pulling down his trousers--were full of nervous haste, and were pulling here, pulling there, and trembling. he was not looking into the glass now, he was gazing at the kneeling woman with an indefinable look. as a rule, his face had not much expression and was neither handsome nor ugly, neither fine nor insignificant--it was still a smooth, immature boy's face without a line on it--but now there was something in it, something doubting, restless, which made it appear older, which drew furrows on his forehead and lines round his mouth. thoughts seemed to be whirling round behind that lowered brow; the broad nostrils quivered slightly, the trembling lips were pressed tightly together. a deep silence reigned in the room. the mother did not utter a word, nor did the son. the birds were twittering outside, even the faintest chirp could be heard as well as the soft rustling of the spring wind in the tops of the pines. käte rose slowly from her knees. she found difficulty in getting up, all her limbs felt as if they were paralysed. she stretched out her hand gropingly, caught hold of the nearest piece of furniture and helped herself up. "you can take it off again now," she said in a low voice. he was already doing so, visibly glad at being able to throw off the clothes he was so unused to. she would have liked so much to say something to him, something quite unimportant--only to speak, speak--but she felt so strangely timid. it was as though he might say to her: "what have i to do with you, woman?" and her fear kept her silent. he had taken off his new suit now, and was standing before her showing his broad chest, which the unbuttoned shirt had left exposed, his strong legs, from which the stockings had slipped down, and all his big-boned, only half-clothed robustness. she averted her glance--what a big fellow he was already!--but then she looked at him again almost immediately: why should a mother feel shy at looking at her child? a mother? her eyes flickered. as she walked to the door she said, without turning her head to him again: "i'm going down now. you'll be able to finish without me, no doubt." he mumbled something she could not understand. and then he stood a long time, half dressed as he was, and stared into the glass, as though the pupils of his eyes could not move. the day of his confirmation drew near; it was to take place on palm sunday. dr. baumann had laid the importance of the step they were about to take very clearly before the boys' eyes. now a certain feeling of solemnity took the place of wolfgang's former indifference. he was more attentive during the last lessons; the empty bare room with the few pictures on the plain walls did not seem so bare to him any longer. was it only because he had grown accustomed to it? a softer light fell through the dreary windows and glided over the monotonous rows of benches, beautifying them. even lehmann and kesselborn were not quite so unsympathetic lately. all his thoughts grew gentler, more forgiving. the boy's hard heart became soft. when the clergyman spoke of the commandments and specially emphasised the one, "honour thy father and thy mother," it seemed to wolfgang there was much for which he must ask forgiveness; especially his mother's forgiveness. but then when he came home and wanted to say something loving to her--something quite unprepared, quite spontaneous--he could not do it, for she had not perceived his intention. käte often went to the station to meet him--oh, how tired the poor boy must be when he came home. it was really too great a rush for him to have to go to town for his bible-lessons so often, and there was always twice as much work at school before the end of the term. she would have liked to have caressed him, to have fondled him as she formerly did little wölfchen. but when she saw him come sauntering along, never looking out for her, never imagining that she was there waiting for him, she would turn quickly down the first street or remain standing quietly behind a tree and let him pass by. he did not notice her at all. the popular clergyman had to prepare a great many boys for confirmation, too many; he could not interest himself in each individual one of them; nevertheless he thought he could assure wolfgang's mother, who came to see him full of a certain anxiety in order to ask him how her son was getting on, that he was satisfied with him. "i know, i know, frau schlieben. your husband considered it his duty to explain it to me--i have also seen the boy's catholic certificate of baptism. but i think i can assure you with a clear conscience that the lad is a sincere, evangelical christian. what, you still have some doubts about it?" her doubtful mien, the questioning anxiety in her eyes astonished him. she nodded: yes, she had a doubt. odd that she should have got it quite lately. but a stranger, anybody else would not understand it, not even this man with the clever eyes and the gentle smile. and she could hardly have expressed her doubt in words. and she would have had to tell her tale quite from the beginning, from the time when she took the child away from its mother, took it into her own hands, the whole child, body and soul. so she only said: "so you believe--you really believe--oh, how happy i am, dr. baumann, that you believe we have done right." she looked at him expectantly--oh, how she yearned for him to confirm it and he bowed his head: "so far as our knowledge and understanding go--yes." wolfgang did not sleep the night before palm sunday. he had been told at the last lesson that day that he was to prepare his thoughts. and he felt, too, that the next day was an important day, a fresh chapter in his life. he did his best to think of everything a boy preparing for his confirmation ought to think of. he was very tired and could not help yawning, but he forced his eyes open every time. however, he could not help his thoughts wandering again and again; his head was no longer clear. what text would he get next day in remembrance of his confirmation? he wondered. they had often talked about it at school, each one had his favourite text which he hoped to get. and would he get the gold watch early in the morning before going to church? of course. oh, how angry kesselborn and lehmann would be then--those wretches! he would hold it up before their eyes: there, look! they should be green with envy--why should they always be whispering about him, meddling with things that did not concern them at all? pooh, they could not make him trouble about it all the same, not even make him angry. and still all at once he saw his own face so plainly before his mind's eye and his mother's near it, as he had seen them in the glass. there was not a single feature alike--no, not one. it was really odd that mother and son resembled each other so little. now he was wide awake, and commenced to ponder, his brows knit, his hands clenched. what did they really mean by their offensive remarks? if only he knew it. he would be quite satisfied then, quite easy. but he could not think of anything else as things were now, with everything so obscure. all his thoughts turned round and round the same point. it was a horrible feeling that tormented him now, a great uncertainty in which he groped about in the dark. light, light, he must have light. ah, he would see that he got some. he tossed about restlessly, quite tortured by his thoughts, and considered and pondered how he was to find it out, where he was to find it out. who would tell him for certain whether he was his parents' child or not? why should he not be their child? yes, he was their child--no, he was not. but why not? if he was not their real child, would he be very sorry? no, no!--but still, it terrified him. the perspiration stood out on the excited boy's body, and still he felt icy-cold. he drew the cover up and shook as though with fever. his heart behaved strangely too, it fluttered in his breast as though with restless wings. oh, if only he could sleep and forget everything. then there would be no thought of it next day, and everything would be as it had always been. he pressed his eyes together tightly, but the sleep he had driven away did not come again. he heard the clocks strike, the old clock resounded hi the dining-room downstairs, and the bronze one called from his mother's room with its silvery voice. the silence of the night exaggerated every sound; he had never heard the clocks strike so loudly before. was the morning never coming? was it not light yet? he longed for the day to come, and still he dreaded it. all at once he was seized with an inexplicable terror--why, what was it he feared so much? if only he were already at church--no, if only it were all over. he was filled with reluctance, a sudden disinclination. the same thought continued to rush madly through his brain, and his heart rushed with it; it was impossible to collect his thoughts. he sighed as he tossed and turned on his bed; he felt so extremely lonely, terrified, nay, persecuted. _if i ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if i make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. if i take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea_--alas, he could not escape from that thought, it was everywhere and always, always there. as the morning sun stole through the shutters that were still closed on palm sunday, forcing its way into the room in delicate, golden rays, käte came into her son's room. she was pale, for she had been struggling with herself the whole night: should she tell him something, now that he was to enter upon this new chapter of his life or should she tell him nothing? something within her whispered: "the day has come, tell him it, you owe it to him"--but when the morning sun appeared she bade the voice of the night be silent. why tell him it? what did it matter to him? what he did not know could not grieve him; but if he knew it, then--perhaps he would then--oh, god, she must keep silent, she could not lose him! but she longed to let him feel her love. when she came in with soft steps she was amazed, for he was standing already quite dressed in the new black coat and trousers at the window, gazing fixedly at the field in which they were beginning to build a villa now. the ground floor was already finished, there was a high scaffolding round it; it was going to be an enormous building. "good morning, my dear son," she said. he did not hear her. "wolfgang!" then he turned round quickly and looked at her, terrified and as though he did not know her. "oh, you're already dressed." her voice seemed to express disappointment; she would have been so pleased to have helped him just on that day. there was a strange feeling in her heart; she had never thought the day would have affected her so. was it not a day like other days, a festival, of course, but one of many? and now it seemed as though the day were unique, and as though there would never be another like it again. she went up to wolfgang, laid her arms round his neck and looked deep into his eyes: "my child!" and then she smiled at him. "i wish you joy." "why?" he looked past her with such a strange expression that all the heartfelt things she had wanted to say to him remained unsaid. he was still quite a child although he was almost taller than she, much too much of a child, he did not understand the importance of the day as yet. so all she did was to improve on his appearance a little, to take away a thread from his clothes here, to blow away some dust there and pull his tie straight. and then he had to bend his head; she made a parting again in his stiff obstinate hair, that never would remain straight. and then she could not restrain herself, but took his round face between both her hands and pressed a quick kiss on his forehead. "why not on my mouth?" he thought to himself. "a mother would have kissed her child on his mouth." they went down to breakfast. there were flowers on the table; his father, who was wearing a frock coat, was already seated, and the gold watch lay on wolfgang's plate. a splendid watch. he examined it critically; yes, he liked it. "in remembrance of april , ," was engraved inside the gold case. neither kesselborn nor lehmann would get such a watch, none of the boys who were to be confirmed would get anything like such a beauty. it was awfully heavy--he really ought to have a gold chain now. wolfgang's parents watched him as he stood there with the watch in his hand, looking at it yes, he was pleased. and that pleased them, especially käte. she had wanted to have a text engraved inside it as well, but paul did not wish it: don't let them get sentimental about it. but it was all right as it was, the boy was pleased with the gift, and so they had gained their object. "it strikes as well," she said to him eagerly. "you can know what time it is in the dark. look. if you press here--do you see?" "yes. give it to me--you've to press here." he knew all about it. they had lost count of the time; they had to be going. wolfgang walked to the station between his parents. when they passed the house where lämke was hall-porter, frida was standing at the door. she must have got up earlier than usual this sunday; she was already in her finery, looked very nice and smiled and nodded. then frau lämke stuck her head out of the low cellar-window, and followed the boy with her eyes. "there he goes," she philosophised. "who knows what life has in store for him?" she felt quite moved. it was splendid weather, a real spring day. the tasteful villas looked so festive and bright; all the bushes were shooting, and the crocuses, tulips and primroses were in bloom. even berlin with its large grey houses and its noise and traffic showed a sunday face. it was so much quieter in the streets; true, the electric cars were rushing along and there were cabs and carriages, but there were no waggons about, no brewers' and butchers' carts. everything was so much quieter, as though subdued, softened. the streets seemed broader than usual because they were emptier, and the faces of the people who walked there looked different from what they generally did. the candidates for confirmation were streaming to the church; there was a large number of boys and girls. most of the girls drove, for they all belonged to good families. ah, all those boys and girls. käte could hardly suppress a slight feeling of longing, almost of envy: oh, to be as young as they were. but then every selfish thought was swallowed up in the one feeling: the boy, the boy was stepping out of childhood's land now. god be with him! feelings she had not known for a long time, childlike, devout, quite artless feelings crowded in upon her; everything the years and her worldly life had brought with them fell from her. to-day she was young again, as young as those kneeling at the altar, full of confidence, full of hope. dr. baumann spoke grave words full of advice to the boys and girls; many of the young children sobbed, and their mothers, too. a shudder passed through the crowded church, the young dark and fair heads bent low. käte's eyes sought wolfgang; his head was the darkest of all. but he did not keep it bent, his eyes wandered restlessly all over the church until they came to a certain window; there they remained fixed. what was he looking for there? of what was he thinking? she imagined she could see that his thoughts were far away, and that made her uneasy. moving nearer to her husband she whispered: "do you see him?" he nodded and whispered: "certainly. he's bigger than all the others." there was something of a father's pride in the man's whisper. yes, to-day it came home to him: even if they had had many a sorrow they would not have had under other circumstances, many a discomfort and unpleasantness, still they had had many a joy they would otherwise have missed. in spite of everything the boy might in time be all right. how he was growing. there was an expression about his mouth that was almost manly. it had never struck his father before--was it the black clothes that made the boy look so grave? wolfgang's thoughts went along paths of their own; not along those prescribed there. he had many sensations, but he could not keep hold of any; he was lost in thought. he saw a bit of the sky through a square in the window-pane, and the flitting figures of his father, mother, frida, his masters and school-fellows appeared to him in it. but they all glided past, no vision remained. all at once he felt quite alone among all that crowd of people. when his turn came he stepped mechanically up to the altar with kullrich beside him; lehmann and kesselborn were in front of him. how he hated those two again all at once. he would have liked to throw his watch, his gold watch at their feet: there, take it! but take back what you've said, take it back! ugh, what a terrible night that had been--horrible. he felt it still in all his limbs; his feet were heavy, and as he knelt down on the cushion on the step leading up to the altar his knees were stiff. kullrich was crying the whole time. ah, he was no doubt thinking of his mother, who was not with him any longer. poor fellow! and wolfgang felt suddenly that something moist and hot forced its way into his eyes. the organ above them was being played very softly, and the clergyman repeated the texts he had chosen for the candidates in a low voice to the accompaniment of its gentle tones: "revelation, st chapter, th verse. _and god shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away._" ah, that was for kullrich. he raised his face, that was wet with tears and so red and hot, to receive the comforting words. but now, now--wolfgang stopped breathing--now _his_ text was coming. what kind of a text would he get, what would he say to _him_? "hebrews, th chapter, th verse. _for here have we no continuing city, but we seek one to come._" that was to be for him--that? what was the meaning of it? a terrible disappointment came over wolfgang, for--had he not waited for the text as for a revelation? the text was to be a judgment of god. it was to tell him what was true--or what was not true. and now? _here have we no continuing city, we seek one to come._ that did not tell him anything. he got up from the steps mechanically, deceived in all his hopes. he did not see that his mother's eyes sent him a covert greeting, that his father was surreptitiously nodding to him with a friendly expression on his face; he felt quite disillusioned, quite bewildered by this disappointment. if only it had been over now. how tiring it was to sit quiet for so long. wolfgang was pale and yawned covertly; the long night during which he had not slept made itself felt, he could hardly keep himself from falling asleep. at last, at last the "amen" was said, at last, at last the final hymn pealed from the organ. the enormous crowd poured out of the church like a never-ending flood. each child joined its parents and passed through the church porch between its father and mother. wolfgang walked like that, too, as he had done before. he saw kullrich in front of him--with his father only; both of them still wore the broad mourning-band. then he left his father and mother and hurried after kullrich. he had never been on specially friendly terms with him, but he took hold of his hand now and pressed and shook it in silence, without a word, and then went back again quickly. her boy's impulsive sympathy touched käte greatly; altogether she was very much moved that day. when wolfgang walked beside her again, she looked at him sideways the whole time with deep emotion: oh, he was so good, so good. and her heart sent up burning hopes and desires to heaven. the sky was bright, so blue, there was not a cloud on it. they took a carriage so as to drive home, as both parents felt they could not be crowded together in the train with so many indifferent, chattering people; they wanted to be alone with their son. wolfgang was silent. he sat opposite his mother and allowed his hand to remain in hers, which she kept on her lap, but his fingers did not return her tender, warm pressure. he sat as quiet as though his thoughts were not there at all. they drove past the house again in which lämke was porter; frida sprang to the window on hearing the noise the carriage made on the hard, sun-baked road, and smiled and nodded once more. but there was nothing to be seen of frau lämke now, and wolfgang missed her. well, that afternoon as soon as he could get free he would go to the lämkes. some guests were already waiting for them at the villa. they did not wish to invite a lot of outsiders in honour of the confirmation, but still the good old doctor, his wife, and the two partners had to be asked--all elderly people. wolfgang sat between them without saying much more than "yes" and "no," when questions were put to him. but he ate and drank a good deal; the food was always good, but still you did not get caviar and plovers' eggs every day. his face grew redder and redder, and then his head began to swim. at last his health was drunk in champagne, and braumüller, the oldest partner, a very jovial man, had amused himself by filling the boy's glass again and again. "well, wolfgang, that will be grand when you come to the office. your health, my boy." it was almost five o'clock when they got up from table. the ladies sat down in the drawing-room to have a cup of coffee, the gentlemen went to the smoking-room. wolfgang stole away, he felt such a longing for the lämkes. first of all he wanted to show them the gold watch, and then he wanted to ask what text frida had got at her confirmation, and then, then--what would frau lämke say to him? _here have we no continuing city, we seek one to come_; that was really a stupid text. and still he could not get it out of his head. he thought of it the whole time whilst sauntering slowly along through the soft silvery air of spring, that is so full of presages. no, the text was not so stupid, after all. he knit his brows thoughtfully, looked up at the motionless tops of the pines and then around him--"here have we no continuing city"--could not that also mean, here is not your home? but where then--where? a strange gleam came into his dark eyes, a look as if seeking for something. and then his face, which the wine had flushed, grew pale. if it were true what the two had said? oh, and so many other things occurred to him all at once: there had been that lisbeth, that horrid woman who had been with them before cilia came--what was all that lisbeth had always been babbling about when she was in a bad humour? "you've no right here"--"you're here on sufferance"--and so on, only he could not remember it all now. what a pity! at that time he had been too young and too innocent, but now--now? "hang that woman!" he clenched his hand. but oh, if he only had her there now. he would not call her names, oh no, he would get it out of her quite gently and coaxingly, for he must, he must know it now. a violent longing, a burning curiosity had suddenly been roused in him, and would not be repressed any longer. there must be some truth in it, or how could they have taunted him like that? and he must know the truth; he had a right to know it now. his figure grew taller. self-will and defiance engraved deep, firm lines round his mouth. and even if it were ever so terrible, he must know it. but was it terrible? the lines round his lips became softer. "here have we no continuing city, but we seek one to come"--very well then, he would seek it. he gave up sauntering and began to stride along more quickly. what would frau lämke say? and if he should ask her now--she meant so well by him--if he should ask her in the way a man is asked when he has to swear to anything, if he asked her whether--yes, but what was it he really wanted to ask her? his heart throbbed. oh, that stupid heart. it often behaved as if it were a wild bird that has been shut up in a small cage. he had commenced to run again; now he had to slacken his pace. and still he was quite breathless when he came to the lämkes. the father and son had gone out, but the mother and daughter were sitting there as though waiting for him. frida jumped up, so that the edging she had been crocheting for the kitchen fell to the ground, seized hold of both his hands, and her blue eyes sparkled with admiration. "oh, how fine you are, wolfgang! like a gentleman--awfully grand." he smiled: that was nice of her to say it. but when frau lämke said in a voice full of feeling: "now i shall have to treat you as a grown-up, wolfgang--you're getting too big now--but i like you none the less for that, you may be sure, i could hardly be fonder of my own children"--he felt happier than he had done the whole day. his face grew tender and full of emotion, and he pressed the gnarled hand that gave his such a hearty shake firmly. then he sat down near them; they wanted to hear about everything. he showed them his gold watch and let it strike the hour; but he did not talk much, the atmosphere of the room filled him with a vague feeling of delight, and he sat quite still. there was the same smell of freshly-made coffee as once before, and the myrtle in the window and the pale monthly rose mingled their fainter perfume with it. he had quite forgotten that he had already been there some time; all at once it occurred to him with a sudden feeling of dread that he had something to ask. he cast a searching glance at the woman. she was just saying: "oh, how pleased your mother will be to have such a big son," when he jerked out: "am i her son?" and as she did not answer, but only looked at him uncertainly with her eyes full of dismay, he almost shouted it: "am i her son?" the mother and daughter exchanged a rapid glance; frau lämke had turned scarlet and looked very embarrassed. the boy had got hold of her arms with both hands and was bending over her. there was no getting out of it. "don't tell me any lies," he said hastily. "i shall find it out all the same. i must find it out. is she my mother? answer. and my father--he isn't my real father either?" "good gracious, wolfgang, what makes you think of such a thing?" frau lämke hid her embarrassment under a forced laugh. "that's all nonsense." "oh no." he remained quite serious. "i'm old enough now. i must know it. i must." the woman positively writhed: oh, how disagreeable it was for her; let the boy go somewhere else and ask. "i should get into nice trouble with them if i told tales," she said, trying to get out of it. "ask your parents themselves, they'll tell you all you want to know. i'll take care not to meddle with such things." frida opened her mouth as though she wanted to say something, but a warning glance made her remain silent. her mother flew at her angrily: "will you be quiet? to think of you mixing yourself up with it. what next. on the whole, what do chits like you know about such things? wolfgang's father knows very well what the boy is to him and where he got him from. and if the lady is satisfied with it, no one else has a word to say about it." wolfgang stared at the gossip. "the boys say--lisbeth said--and now you say--you too"--he jumped up--"i'll go and ask--them." he pointed with his finger as though pointing at something at a great distance of which he knew nothing. "now i must know it." "but wolfgang--no, for god's sake!" frau lämke pressed him down into the chair again, quite terrified. "lämke will beat me if he gets to know what i've done. he may possibly lose his situation as porter because of it--now, straightway, and the children don't earn anything as yet. i've not said anything, have i? how can i help that other people make you suspicious and uneasy? i don't know your mother at all and your father will, of course, have lost sight of her long ago. let the whole thing lie, my boy." she wanted to soothe him, but he was not listening. "my--my father?" he stammered. "so he is my real father?" frau lämke nodded. "but my--my real m--" he could not say the word "mother." he held his hands before his face and his whole body quivered. he was suddenly seized with a longing, that great passionate longing, for a mother who had borne him. he did not say a word, but he uttered sighs that sounded like groans. frau lämke was frightened to death; she wanted to clear herself but made it much worse. "tut, tut, my dear boy, such a thing often happens in life--very decent of him that he doesn't disown you; there are heaps who do. and you would have far to go to find anybody like the lady who has adopted you as her own child. splendid--simply splendid!" frau lämke had often been vexed with the fine lady, but now she felt she wanted to do her justice. "such a mother ought to be set in gold--there isn't such another to be found." she exhausted herself in praise. "and who knows if it's true after all?" and with that she concluded. oh, it was all true. wolfgang had grown quiet--at least his face no longer showed any special emotion when he let his hands fall. "i shall have to be going now," he said. frida stood there looking very distressed. she had known it all a long time--who did not know it?--but she was very sorry indeed that _he_ knew it now. her clear eyes grew dim, and she looked at her friend full of compassion. oh, how much more beautiful her own confirmation last easter had been. she had not had any gold watch, only quite a small brooch of imitation gold--it had cost one shilling and sixpence, for she had chosen it herself with her mother--but she had been so happy, so happy. "what text did you get?" she asked quickly, so as to take his thoughts away from it. "i don't know it by heart," he said evasively, and his cheeks that had grown pale flamed. "but it suited." and with that he went out of the door. he went straight home--why should he waste any more time? the matter was urgent. he did not notice the starlings flying in and out of their boxes on the tall pines, did not notice that there was already a bright crescent in the evening sky that was growing darker and darker, and a golden star near it, he only noticed with satisfaction as he entered the hall at the villa that the coats and hats had disappeared from the pegs. that was good, the visitors had left. he rushed to the drawing-room, he almost fell into the room. his father and mother were still sitting there--no, his father and she, the--the---- "come, tell us where you've been such along time," inquired his father, not without a touch of vexation in his voice. "to-day, just on this day," said his mother. "they all sent you their love, they waited for you. but it's almost eight o'clock now." wolfgang cast an involuntary glance at the clock on the mantel-piece--right, nearly eight o'clock. but all that was immaterial now. and, staring straight in front of him as though his eyes were fixed on some object, he placed himself in front of the two. "i have something to ask you," he said. and then--it came out quite suddenly, quite abruptly. "whose child am i?" now it was said. the young voice sounded hard. or did it only sound so cutting to käte's ears? she heard something terribly shrill, like the dissonant blast of a trumpet. o god, there it was, that awful question. a sudden wave of blood laid a thick veil covered with glittering spots before her eyes; she could not see her boy any more, she only heard his question. she stretched out her hand gropingly, helplessly--thank god, there was her husband! he was still there. and now she heard him speak. "what makes you ask that question?" said paul schlieben. "our son of course. whose child could you be otherwise?" "i don't know. that's just what i want to know from you," the boy went on in his hard voice. it was strange how calm the voice sounded, but it seemed doubly terrible to käte in its monotony. now it became a little louder: "give me an answer--i will--i must know it." käte shuddered. what inexorableness, what obstinacy lay in that "i will"--"i must!" he would never stop asking again. she sank down as though crushed, and shuddered. even the man's quiet voice betrayed a secret tremor. "dear boy, somebody--i will not ask who, there are always enough gossips and abettors--has again put something into your head. why do you treat us as if we were your enemies? haven't we always been like a father and mother to you?" oh, that was wrong--_like_ a father and mother? quite wrong. käte started up. she stretched out her arms: "my boy!" but he remained standing as though he did not see those outstretched arms; his brows were contracted, he only looked at the man. "i know very well that you are my father, but she"--he cast a quick sidelong glance at her--"she's not my mother." "who says that?" käte shrieked it. "everybody." "no, nobody. that's not true. it's a lie, a lie! you are my child, my son, our son i and the one who denies that lies, deceives, slanders!----" "käte!" her husband looked at her very gravely, and there was a reproach in his voice and a warning. "käte!" and then he turned to the boy, who stood there so sullenly, almost defiantly--drawn up to his full height, with one foot outstretched, his head thrown back--and said: "your mother is naturally very much agitated, you must take care of her--to-day especially. go now, and to-morrow we will----" "no, no!" käte did not let him finish speaking, she cried in the greatest excitement: "no, don't postpone it. let him speak--now--let him. and answer him--now--at once that he is our son, our son alone. wolfgang--wölfchen!" she used the old pet name from his childhood again for the first time for months. "wölfchen, don't you love us any more? wölfchen, come to me." she stretched out her arms to him once more, but he did not see those longing, loving, outstretched arms again. he was very pale and his eyes were fixed on the ground. "wölfchen, come." "i cannot." his face never moved, and his voice had still the same monotonous tone which sounded so terrible to her. she sobbed aloud, and her eyes clung to her husband--he must help her now. but he looked at her with a frown; she could plainly read the reproach in his face: "why did you not follow my advice? had we told him in time--" no, she would not find any help in him either. and now--what was it paul was saying now? her eyes dilated with a sudden fear, she grasped the arms of her chair with both hands, she wanted to sink back and still she started up to ward off what must come now was paul out of his mind? he was saying: "you are not our son." "not your son?" the boy stammered. he had made up his mind that nothing should disconcert him, but this answer disconcerted him all the same. it bewildered him; he turned red, then white, and his eyes wandered uncertainly from the man to the woman, from the woman to the man. so he, too--that man--was not his father either? but frau lämke had said so? oh, so he wanted to disown him now? he looked suspiciously at the man, and then something that resembled mortification arose within him. if he were not his father, then he had really no--no right whatever to be there? and, drawing a step nearer, he said hastily: "you must be my father. you only don't want to say it now. but she"--he gave a curt nod in the direction of the chair--"she's not my mother." his eyes gleamed; then he added, drawing a long breath as though it were a relief: "i've always known that." "you've been wrongly informed. if i had had my way, i would have told you the truth long ago. but as the right moment--unfortunately--has been neglected, i will tell you it to-day. i tell you it--on my word of honour, as one man speaking to another--i am not your father, just as little as she is your mother. you have nothing to do with us by birth, nothing whatever. but we have adopted you as our child because we wanted to have a child and had not one. we took you from----" "paul!" käte fell on her husband's breast with a loud cry, as she had done at the time when he wanted to disclose something to the boy, because he was indignant at his ingratitude. she clasped her arms round his neck, she whispered hastily, passionately in his ear with trembling breath: "don't tell him from where. for god's sake not from where. then he'll go away, then i shall lose him entirely. i can't bear it--have mercy, have pity on me--only don't tell him from where." he wanted to push her away, but she would not let go of him. she repeated her weeping, stammering entreaty, her trembling, terrified, desperate prayer: only not from where, only not from where. he felt a great compassion for her. his poor, poor wife--was this to happen to her? and then he was filled with anger against the boy, who stood there so bold--arrogant--yes, arrogant--who demanded where he had to ask, and looked at them unmoved with large, cold eyes. his voice, which had hitherto been grave but gentle whilst speaking to wolfgang, now became severe: "besides, i won't allow you to question me in this manner." "i have a right to question you." "yes, you have." the man was quite taken aback. yes, the lad had the right. it was quite clear who was wrong. and so he said, thinking better of it and in a more friendly voice again: "but even if you are not our son by birth, i think the training and the care you have received from our hands during all these years have made you our child in spirit. come, my son--and even if they all say you are not our son, i tell you you are our son in truth." "no," he said. and then he walked slowly backwards to the door, his dry eyes fixed on those he had called parents for so long. "boy, where are you going? stop!" the man called after him in a kind voice. the boy was certainly in a terrible position, they must have patience with him. and he called out once more "stop, wolfgang!" but wolfgang shook his head: "i cannot. you have deceived me. let me go." he shook off the man's hand that he had laid on his sleeve with a violent gesture. and then he screamed out like a wounded animal: "why do you still worry me? let me go, i want to think of my mother--where is she?" book iii chapter xiii the clocks in the house ticked terribly loudly. they could be heard through the silence of the night like warning voices. oh, how quickly the time flew. it had quite lately been evening--midnight--and now the clock on the mantel-piece already struck a short, clear, hard one. the lonely woman pressed her hands to her temples with a shudder. how they throbbed, and how her thoughts--torturing thoughts--hurried along, madly, restlessly, like the hasty tick of the clocks. everybody in the house was asleep--the manservant, the maids, her husband too--long ago. only she, she alone had not found any sleep as yet. and everything was asleep outside as well. the pines stood around the house motionless, and their dark outlines, as stiff as though cut out of cardboard, stood out clearly against the silvery sky of night. no shouts, no footsteps, no sound of wheels, no singing, no laughter, not even a dog's bark came from the sleeping colony in the grunewald. but something that sounded like a gentle sighing was heard around the white villa with the red roof and the green shutters. the mother, who was waiting for her son, listened: was anybody there? no, it was the breeze that was trying to move the branches of the old gnarled pines. käte schlieben was standing at the window now. she had torn it open impatiently some time before, and now she leant out of it. as far as her eye could reach there was nobody to be seen, nobody whatever. there was still no sign of him. the clock struck two. the woman gazed round at the mantel-piece with an almost desperate look: oh, that unbearable clock, how it tortured her. it must be wrong. it could not be so late. käte had sat up waiting for wolfgang many an evening, but he had never remained out so long as to-day. paul had no objection to the boy going his own way. "my child," he had said, "you can't alter it. lie down and go to sleep, that is much more sensible. the boy has the key, he will come home all right. you can't keep a young fellow of his age in leading-strings any longer. leave him, or you'll make him dislike our house--do leave him in peace." what strange thoughts paul had. he was certainly quite right, she must not keep the boy in leading-strings any longer. she was not able to do so either--had never been able to do so. but how could she go to bed quietly? she would not be able to sleep. where could he be? käte had grown grey. in the three years that had elapsed since her son's confirmation she had changed considerably outwardly. whilst wolfgang had grown taller and stronger and broader like a young tree, her figure had drooped like a flower that is heavy with rain or is about to wither. her fine features had remained the same, but her skin, which had retained almost the delicate smoothness of a young girl's for so long, had become looser; her eyes looked as if she had wept a great deal. her acquaintances found frau schlieben had grown much older. when käte saw herself in the glass now, she did not blush with pleasure at the sight of her own well-preserved looks; she did not like looking at herself any more. something had given her a shock both inwardly and outwardly. what that had been nobody guessed. her husband knew it certainly, but he did not speak of it to his wife. why agitate her again? why tear open old wounds? he took good care never again to mention the day on which the boy had been confirmed. it was also best not to do so. he had certainly taken him very severely to task on account of his ungrateful behaviour at the time, and had demanded of him that he should treat them more considerately and his mother also more affectionately. and the lad, who had no doubt repented of his conduct long ago, had stood there like a poor sinner; he had said nothing and had not raised his eyes. and when his father had finally led him to his mother, he had allowed himself to be led and to be embraced by his mother, who had thrown both her arms round his neck. she had wept over him and then kissed him. and then nothing more had ever been said about it. the white house with its bright green and red, which was always being embellished and improved, both inside and out, struck everybody who passed by as extremely cosy. the trippers on sundays used to stand outside the wrought iron railing and admire the abundance of flowers, the ivy-leaved geraniums on the balconies and the splendid show of fine rose-trees in summer, the azaleas and camellias behind the thick glass of the conservatory and the rows of coloured primulas and early hyacinths and tulips between the double windows in winter. the lady in her dress of soft cloth and with the wavy grey hair and the gentle face, with its rather sad smile, suited the house and the flowers and her peaceful surroundings well. "delightful," the people used to say. when wolfgang heard such things in former years when he was a boy, he used to make faces at the people: the house and garden were no concern of theirs, there was nothing to admire about them. now it flattered him when they remained standing, when they even envied him. oh yes, the place was quite nice. he felt very important. paul schlieben and his wife had never placed any special value on money, they had always had enough, a competency was simply a matter of course to them; and they never guessed that their son placed any value on wealth. when wolfgang used to think now of how little he had once cared for it all in his boyish impetuosity, and that he had run away without money, without bread, he had to smile. how childish. and when he remembered that he once, when he was already older and able to reflect upon his actions, had asked impetuously for something that would have been equivalent to giving up all that made his life so comfortable, he shook his head now. too silly. to compare himself with others afforded him a certain satisfaction. kesselborn was still sweating in the top form--his people made a point of his studying theology, possibly in order to become court chaplain on account of his noble birth--lehmann had to help his father in his forwarding business in spite of the very good examination he had passed on leaving school, and look after the furniture-vans. and kullrich--ah, poor kullrich, he had consumption, like his mother. the corners of wolfgang's mouth drooped with a half-contemptuous, half-compassionate smile when he thought of his school-fellows. was that living? oh, and to live, to live was so beautiful! wolfgang was conscious of his strength: he could tear up trees by the roots, blow down walls that stood in his way with his breath as though they were cards. school was no longer the place for him, his limbs and his inclinations had outgrown the benches. besides, he was already growing a moustache. there had long been a black shadow on the upper lip that made one guess it was coming, and now it had come, it had come! surely such a grown-up person could not remain in the second form any longer? and why should he? he was not to be a scholar. wolfgang left school after passing the examination that admitted him to the top form. paul schlieben had given up, for the present, his intention of sending him abroad as soon as he had finished school; he wished to keep him a little longer under his own eye first. not that he wanted to guard him as carefully as käte did, but the old doctor, their good friend whom he esteemed so highly, had warned him in confidence once when they were sitting quite alone over a glass of wine: "listen, schlieben," he had said, "you had better take care of the boy. i wouldn't let him go so far away as yet--he is so young. and he is a rampageous fellow and--after what he went through as a child, you know--hm, one can never tell if his heart will hold out." "why not?" schlieben had asked in surprise. "so you look upon him as ill?" "no, certainly not." the doctor had grown quite angry: at once this exaggeration! "who says anything about 'ill'? all the same, the lad must not do everything in a rush. well, and boys will be boys. we know that from our time." and both men had nodded to each other, had brightened up and laughed. wolfgang had a horse to ride on, rode first at the riding-school and then a couple of hours each day out of doors. his father made a point of his not sitting too much at the office. he would easily learn what was necessary for him to know as a merchant, and arithmetic he knew already. the two partners, old bachelors, were delighted with the lively lad, who came to the office with his whip in his hand and sat on his stool as if it were a horse. paul schlieben did not hear any complaints of his son; the whole staff, men who had been ten, twenty years with the firm, all well-oiled machines that worked irreproachably, hung round the young fellow: he was their future chief. everything worked smoothly. both father and mother were complimented on their son. "a splendid fellow. what life there is in him." "he's only in the making," the man would answer, but still you could see that he was pleased to hear it in his heart. he did not feel the torturing anxiety his wife felt. käte only raised her eyebrows a little and gave a slight, somewhat sad smile of consent. she could not rejoice in the big lad any longer, as she had once rejoiced in the little fellow on her lap. it seemed to her as though she had altogether lost the capacity for rejoicing, slowly, it is true, quite gradually, but still steadily, until the last remnant of the capacity had been torn out by the roots on one particular day, in one particular hour, at the disastrous moment when he had said: "i will go, i want to think of my mother--where is she?" ever since then. she still wished him to have the best the earth could give, but she had become more indifferent, tired. he had trodden too heavily on her heart, more heavily than when in days gone by his small vigorous feet had stamped on her lap. she bent further out of the window with a deep sigh, as she waited all alone for him. was it not unheard of, unpardonable of him to come home so late? did he not know that she was waiting for him? she clenched her hand, which rested on the windowsill, in such a paroxysm of anger as she had rarely felt. it was foolish of her to wait for him. was he not old enough--eighteen? did he still want waiting for like a boy coming home alone from a children's party for the first time? he had made an appointment with some other young fellows in berlin--who knew in what café they were spending their night? she stamped her foot. her hot breath rose like smoke in the cold clear night in spring, she shivered with exhaustion and discomfort. and then she thought of the hours, all the hours during which she had watched for him already, and her heart was filled with a great bitterness. even her tongue had a bitter taste--that was gall. no, she did not feel the love of former years for him any longer. in those days, yes, in those days she had felt a rapture--even when she suffered on his account; but now she only felt a dull animosity. why had he forced himself into her life? oh, how smooth, how free from sorrow, how--yes, how much happier it had been formerly. how he had broken her spirit--would she ever be able to rise again? no. a hard curt no. and then she thought of her husband. he had also robbed her of him. had not he and she been one formerly, one in everything? now this third one had forced his way between them, pushed her husband and her further and further apart--until he went on this side and she on that. a sudden pain seized the woman as she stood there pondering, a great compassion for herself drove the tears into her eyes; they felt hot as they dripped down on her hands that she had clenched on the window-sill. if he--if he had only never come into their lives---- at that moment a hand touched her shoulder and made her start. she turned round like lightning: "are you there at last?" "it's i," said her husband. he had woke up, and when he did not hear her breathing beside him he had got vexed: really, now she was sitting downstairs again, waiting for the lad. such want of sense. and after lying a little time longer waiting for her and vexed with her, he had cast on a few necessary garments, stuck on his slippers and groped his way through the dark house. he shivered with cold and was in a bad humour. that he had been disturbed in his best sleep and that she would have a sick headache next day was not all; no, what was worse was that wolfgang must find it downright intolerable to be watched in that manner. it was natural that he scolded her. "what wrong is there if he remains away a little longer for once in a way, i should like to know, käte? it's really absurd of you. i used also to loaf about as a young fellow, but thank goodness, my mother was sensible enough not to mind. come, käte, come to bed now." she drew back. "yes--you!" she said slowly, and he did not know what she meant by it. she turned her back on him and leant out of the window again. he stood a few moments longer waiting, but as she did not come, did not even turn round to him, he shook his head. he would have to leave her, she really was getting quite peculiar. he was half asleep as he went upstairs again alone; he almost stumbled with fatigue, and his limbs were heavy. but in spite of that his thoughts were clearer, more inexorable than in the daytime, when there is so much around one to distract one's attention. at that hour his heart was filled with longing for a wife who would lead him quietly and gently along a soft track in his old age, and whose smiles were not only outward as the smiles on käte's face. a wife whose heart laughed--and, alas, his käte was not one of those. the man lay down again with a sigh of disappointment and shivered as he drew up the covering. but it was a long time before he could fall asleep. if only the lad would come. it really was rather late to-day. such loafing about realty went too far. the morning was dawning as a cab drove slowly down the street. it stopped outside the white villa, and two gentlemen helped a third out of it. the two, who were holding the third under his arms, were laughing, and the driver on his seat, who was looking down at them full of interest, also laughed slyly: "shall i help you, gentlemen? well, can you do it?" they leant him up against the railing that enclosed the front garden, rang the bell gently, then jumped hastily into the cab again and banged the door. "home now, cabby." the bell had only vibrated softly--a sound like a terrified breath--but käte had heard it, although she had fallen asleep in her chair; not firmly, only dozing a little. she jumped up in terror, it sounded shrill in her ears. she rushed to the window. somebody was leaning against the railing outside. wolfgang? yes, yes, it was. but why did he not open the gate and come in? what had happened to him? all at once she felt as though she must call for help--friedrich! paul! paul!--must ring for the maids. something had happened to him, something must have happened to him--why did he not come in? he leant so heavily against the railing, so strangely. his head hung down on his chest, his hat was at the back of his head. was he ill? or had some vagrants attacked him? the strangest ideas shot suddenly through her head. was he wounded? o god, what had happened to him? fears, at which she would have laughed at any other time, filled her mind in this hour, in which it was not night any longer and not day either. her feet were cold and stiff as though frozen, she could hardly get to the door; she could not find the key at first, and when her trembling hands stuck it into the lock, she could not turn it. she was so awkward in her haste, so beside herself in her fear. something terrible must have happened. an accident. she felt it. at last, at last! at last she was able to turn the key. and now she rushed through the front garden to the gate; a chilling icy wind like the breath of winter met her. she opened the gate: "wolfgang!" he did not answer. she could not quite see his face; he stood there without moving. she took hold of his hand: "good gracious, what's the matter with you?" he did not move. "wolfgang! wolfgang!" she shook him in the greatest terror. then he fell against her so heavily that he almost knocked her down, and faltered, lisped like an idiot whose heavy tongue has been taught to say a few words: "beg--par--don." she had to lead him. his breath, which smelt strongly of spirits, blew across her face. a great disgust, more terrible than the fear she had had before, took possession of her. this was the awful thing she had been expecting no, this was still more awful, more intolerable. he was drunk, drunk! this was what a drunken man must look like. a drunken man had never been near her before; now she had one close to her. the horror she felt shook her so that her teeth chattered. oh for shame, for shame, how disgusting, how vulgar! how degraded he seemed to her, and she felt degraded, too, through him. this was not her wolfgang any more, the child whom she had adopted as her son. this was quite an ordinary, quite a common man from the street, with whom she had nothing, nothing whatever to do any more. she wanted to push him away from her quickly, to hurry into the house and close the door behind her--let him find out for himself what to do. but he held her fast. he had laid his arm heavily round her neck, he almost weighed her down; thus he forced her to lead him. and she led him reluctantly, revolting desperately in her heart, but still conquered. she could not leave him, exposed to the servants' scorn, the laughter of the street. if anybody should see him in that condition? it would not be long before the first people came past, the milk-boys, the girls with the bread, the men working in the street, those who drank carlsbad water early in the morning. oh, how terrible if anybody should guess how deeply he had sunk. "lean on me, lean heavily," she said in a trembling voice. "pull yourself together--that's right." she almost broke down under his weight but she kept him on his feet. he was so drunk that he did not know what he was doing, he actually wanted to lie down in front of the door, at full length on the stone steps. but she snatched him up. "you must--you must," she said, and he followed her like a child. like a dog, she thought. now she had got him into the hall--the front door was again locked--but now came the fear that the servants would see him. they were not up yet, but it would not be long before friedrich would walk over from the gardener's lodge in his leather slippers, and the girls come down from their attics, and then the sweeping and tidying up would commence, the opening of the windows, the drawing up of the blinds, so that the bright light--the cruel light--might force its way into every crevice. she must get him up the stairs, into his room without anybody guessing anything, without asking anyone for help. she had thought of her husband for one moment--but no, not him either, nobody must see him like that. she helped him upstairs with a strength for which she had never given herself credit; she positively carried him. and all the time she kept on entreating him to go quietly, whispering the words softly but persistently. she had to coax him, or he would not go on: "quietly, wölfchen. go on, go on, wölfchen--that's splendid, wölfchen." she suffered the torments of hell. he stumbled and was noisy; she gave a start every time he knocked his foot against the stairs, every time the banisters creaked when he fell against them helplessly, and a terrible fear almost paralysed her. if anybody should hear it, oh, if anybody should hear it. but let them get on, on. "quietly, wölfchen, quite quietly." it sounded like an entreaty, and still it was a command. as he had conquered her before by means of his heavy arm, so she conquered him now by means of her will. everybody in the house must be deaf, that they did not hear the noise. to the woman every step sounded like a clap of thunder that continues to roll and roll through the wide space and resounds in the furthermost corner. paul must be deaf as well. they passed his door. the intoxicated lad remained standing just outside his parents' bedroom, he would not on any account go further--in there--not a step further. she had to entice him, as she had enticed the child in bygone days, the sweet little child with the eyes like sloes that was to run from the chair to the next halting-place. "come, wölfchen, come." and she brought him past in safety. at last they were in his room. "thank god, thank god!" she stammered, when she had got him on the bed. she was as pale as the lad, whose face with its silly expression grew more and more livid as the day dawned. ah, that was the same room in which she had once, many years ago--it was exceedingly long ago!--fought for the child's precious life with fear and trembling, where she had crawled before god's omnipotence like a worm: only let him live, o god, only let him live! alas, it would have been better had he died then. as an arrow shot from a too tight bow whizzes along as quick as lightning, so that thought whizzed through her mind. she was horrified at the thought, she could not forgive herself for having had it, but she could not get rid of it again. she stood with shaking knees, terrified at her own heartlessness, and still the thought came: if only he had died at the time, it would have been better. this--this was also the room in which she had tried on the suit the boy, who was growing so fast, was to wear at his confirmation. now she drew off the grown-up man's clothes, tore off his dinner jacket, his fine trousers--as well as she could in his present state of complete unconsciousness--and unlaced his glacé shoes. where had he been? a smell of cigarettes and scent and the dregs of wine streamed from him; it almost took her breath away. there hung the same looking-glass in which she had seen the brown boy's face near her fair woman's face, fresh and round-cheeked, a little coarse, a little defiant, but still so nice-looking in its vigorous strength, so dear in its innocence. and now--? her eyes glanced at the livid face with the open mouth, from which the breath reeking with spirits came with a snore and a rattle, in the glass, and then at her own terrified, exhausted face, on which all the softness had been changed into hard lines that grief had worn. a shudder passed through her; she smoothed the untidy grey strands of hair away from her forehead with her cold hand; her eyes blinked as though she wanted to weep. but she forced her tears back; she must not cry any more now; that time was over. she stood some time longer in the centre of the room, motionless, with bated breath, letting her tired arms hang down loosely; then she crept on her toes to the door. he was sleeping quite firmly. she locked the door from the outside and stuck the key in her pocket--nobody must go in. should she go to bed now? she could not sleep--oh, she was too restless--but she would have to lie down, oh yes, she must do so, or what would the maids think, and paul? then she would have to get up again as she did every day, wash herself, dress, sit at the breakfast-table, eat, talk, smile as she did every day, as though nothing, nothing whatever had happened. and still so much had happened! she felt so hopelessly isolated as she lay in bed beside her husband. there was nobody to whom she could complain. paul had not understood her before, he would understand her even less now; he had changed so much in the course of time. besides, was he not quite infatuated with the boy now? strange, formerly when she had loved wolfgang so, her love had always been too much of a good thing--how often he had reproached her for it!--and now, now!--no, they simply did not understand each other any longer. she would have to fight her battles alone, quite alone. when käte heard the first sounds in the house, she would have liked to get up, but she forced herself to remain in bed: it would attract their attention if they saw her so early. but a great fear tortured her. if that person--that, that intoxicated person over there should awake, make a noise, bang on the locked door? what should she say then to make excuses for him? what should she do? she lay in bed quite feverish with uneasiness. at last it was her usual time to get up. "i suppose the boy came home terribly late--or rather early, eh?" said paul at breakfast. "oh no. just after you went upstairs." "really? but i lay awake quite a long time after that." he had said it lightly, unsuspiciously, but she got a fright nevertheless. "we--we--he talked to me for quite a long time," she said hesitatingly. "foolish," he said, nothing more, and shook his head. oh, how difficult it was to tell lies. in what a position wolfgang placed her. when schlieben had driven to town and the cook was busy in the kitchen and friedrich in the garden, käte kept an eye on the housemaid. what a long time she was in the bedroom to-day. "you must finish the rooms upstairs more quickly, you are excessively slow," she said in a sharp voice. the maid looked at her mistress, quite astonished at the unusual way in which she spoke to her, and said later on to the cook downstairs: "ugh, what a bad temper the mistress is in to-day. she has been after me." käte had stood beside the girl until the bedroom was finished, she had positively rushed her. now she was alone, quite alone with him up there, now she could see what was the matter with him. would he still be drunk? as she stood outside his door she held her breath; putting her ear to the door she listened. there was nothing to be heard inside, not even his breathing. after casting a glance around her she opened the door like a thief, crept inside and locked it again behind her. she approached the bed cautiously and softly; but she started back so hastily that the high-backed chair she knocked against fell over with a loud noise. what was that--there? what was it? a disgusting smell, which filled the closed room, made her feel sick. staggering to the window she tore it open, thrust back the shutters--then she saw. there he lay like an animal--he, who had always been accustomed to so much attention, he who as a child had stretched out his little hands if only a crumb had stuck to them: "make them clean!" and had cried. there he lay now as if he did not feel anything, as if he did not care anything whatever about what was going on around him, as if the bed on which he lay were fresh and clean; his eyes, with their jet-black lashes that fell like shadows on his pale cheeks, were firmly closed, and he slept the heavy sleep of exhaustion. she did not know what she was doing. she raised her hand to strike him in the face, to throw a word at him--a violent word expressive of disgust and loathing; she felt how the saliva collected in her mouth, how she longed to spit. it was too horrible, too filthy, too terrible! a stream of light forced its way in through the open window, of light and sun; a blackbird was singing, full and clear. outside was the sun, outside was beauty, but here, here? she would have liked to cover up her face and whimper, to run away and conceal herself. but who should do what was necessary? who should make everything tidy and clean? the chair she had knocked down, the clothes she had drawn off him so hastily, the disgusting smell--alas, all reminded her only too distinctly of a wild night. it must not remain like that. and even if she did not love him any longer--no, no, there was no voice in her heart now that spoke of love--her pride bade her not to humble herself before the servants. let her get it away quickly, quickly, let nobody else find out anything about it. she set her teeth hard, pressing back the disgust that rose again and again as though to choke her, and commenced to wash, scrub, clean. she fetched water for herself again and again, the pitcher full, a whole pailful. she had to do it furtively, to creep across the passage on tiptoe. oh dear, how the water splashed, how noisily it poured into the pail when she turned the tap on. if only nobody, nobody found out anything about it. she had found a cloth to scour with, and what she had never done before in her life she did now, for she lay on her knees like a servant and rubbed the floor, and crept about in front of the bed and under the bed, and stretched out her arms so as to be sure to get into every corner. nothing must be forgotten, everything must be flooded with fresh, clean, purifying water. everything in the room seemed to her to be soiled--as though it were damaged and degraded--the floor, the furniture, the walls. she would have preferred to have washed the wall-paper too, that beautiful deep-coloured wallpaper, or to have torn it off entirely. she had never worked like that in her life before. her pretty morning-gown with the silk insertions and lace clung to her body with the perspiration of exertion and fear. the dress had dark spots on the knees from slipping about in the wet, the hem of the train had got into the water; her hair was dishevelled; it had come undone and was hanging round her hot face. nobody would have recognised frau schlieben as she was now. at last, thank goodness! käte looked round with a sigh of relief; the air in the room was quite different now. the fresh wind that blew in through the open window had cleared everything. only he, he did not suit amid all that cleanliness. his forehead was covered with clammy sweat, his cheeks were livid, his lips swollen, cracked, his hair bristly, standing straight up in tufts. then she washed him, too, cooled his forehead and dried it, rubbed his cheeks with soap and a sponge, fetched a brush and comb, combed and smoothed his hair, ran quickly across to her room, brought the florida water that stood on her dressing-table and sprinkled it over him. now she had only to put on another bed-spread. she could not do any more, it was too difficult for her to lift him. for he did not awake. he lay there like a tree that had been hewn down--dead, stiff, immovable--and noticed nothing of the trembling hands that glided over him, that pulled and smoothed now here, now there. she did not know how long she had been engaged with him; a knock at the door brought her thoughts back to the present. "who is there?" "i, friedrich." "what do you want?" "the master wishes to know if you will come down to dinner, ma'am." "to dinner--the master?" she pressed her hands to her head. was it possible? paul back already--dinner-time? it could not be. "what time is it?" she cried in a shrill voice. she never thought of looking herself at the watch that lay on the table beside the bed; and it would not have been any use--the expensive gold watch, the gift he had received at his confirmation, had stopped. it had not been wound up. "it's half past two, ma'am," said friedrich outside. and then the man, who had been there for years, ventured to inquire respectfully: "is the young master not well, as he has not got up? could i perhaps be of some use, ma'am?" she hesitated for a moment. should she let him into the secret? it would be easier for her then. but the shame of it made her call out: "there's nothing to be done, you had better go. the young master has a headache, he will remain in bed for another hour. i'll come directly." she rushed across to her room. there was no time to change her dress, but she would at any rate have to fasten up her hair that had fallen down, smooth it and put a little cap on trimmed with dainty ribbons. "still in your morning-gown?" said her husband in a tone of surprise, as she came into the dining-room. there was also a little reproach in his voice as he asked the question; he did not like people not to dress for dinner. "you came exceptionally early to-day," she said in excuse. she did not dare to look up frankly, she felt so exceedingly humiliated. she could not eat, an intolerable memory rendered every drink, every mouthful loathsome. "where is wolfgang?" there was the question for which she really ought to have been prepared and which crushed her nevertheless. she had no means of warding it off. what was she to answer? should she say he was ill? then his father would go up and see him. should she say he was drunk and sleeping? oh no, no, and still it could not remain a secret. she turned red and white, her lips quivered and not a word crossed them. "ha ha!" all at once her husband gave a loud laugh--a laugh partly good-natured and partly mocking--and then he stretched his hand to her across the table and eyed her calmly: "you must not agitate yourself like that if the boy feels a little seedy for once in a way. such things do happen, every mother has to go through that." "but not to that degree--not to that awful degree!" she screamed out aloud, overwhelmed with pain and anger. and then she seized her husband's hand and squeezed it between both hers that were cold and damp, and whispered, half stifled: "he was drunk--quite drunk--dead drunk!" "really?" the man frowned, but the smile did not quite disappear from his lips. "well, i'll have a word with the boy when he has finished sleeping. dead drunk, you say?" she nodded. "it won't have been quite as bad as that, i suppose. still, to be drunk--that must not happen again. to take a little too much"--he shrugged his shoulders and a smile passed over his face as at some pleasant memory--"by jove, who has been young and not taken a little too much for once in a way? oh, i can still remember the first time i had done so. the headache after it was appalling, but the drop too much itself was fine, splendid! i would not like to have missed that." "you--you've been drunk too?" she stared at him, with eyes distended. "drunk--you mustn't call that drunk exactly. a little too much," he corrected. "you mustn't exaggerate like that, käte." and then he went on with his dinner as if nothing had happened, as if the conversation had not succeeded in depriving him of his appetite. she was in a fever. when would wolfgang wake? and what would happen then? towards evening she heard his step upstairs, heard him close his window and then open it again, heard his low whistle that always sounded like a bird chirping. paul was walking up and down in the garden, smoking his cigar. she was sitting in the veranda for the first time that spring, looking down at her husband in the garden. the weather was mild and warm. then she heard wolfgang approaching; she made up her mind she would not turn her head, she felt so ashamed, but she turned it nevertheless. he was standing in the doorway leading from the dining-room to the veranda; behind him was twilight, in front of him the brightness of the evening sun. he blinked and pressed his eyes together, the sun shone on his face and made it flame--or was it red because he felt so ashamed? what would he say now? how would he begin? her heart throbbed; she could not have spoken a single word, her throat felt as though she were choking. "good evening," he said in a loud and cheery voice. and then he cleared his throat as though swallowing a slight embarrassment and said in a low voice, approaching his mother a little more: "i beg your pardon, mater, i've overslept myself. i had no idea it was so late--i was dead tired." still she did not say anything. he did not know how he stood with her. she was so quiet, that confused him a little. "the fact is, i came home very late last night." "oh! did you?" she turned her head away from him and looked out into the garden again with eyes full of interest, where her husband was just speaking to friedrich and pointing with his finger to an ornamental cherry-tree that was already in bloom. "i think so, at least," he said. what was he to say? was she angry? he must indeed have come home very late, he could not remember at what time, altogether he could not remember anything clearly, everything seemed rather blurred to him. he had also had a bad dream and had felt wretched, but now he was all right again, quite all right. well, if she had any fault to find with him, she would have to come out with it. pointing his lips again so as to whistle like a bird and with his hands in the pockets of his smart, well-cut trousers, he was about to go down into the garden from the veranda when she called him back. "do you want anything, mater?" "you were drunk," she said softly, vehemently. "i--? oh!" he was overcome with a sudden confusion. had he really been drunk? he had no idea of it. but she might be right all the same, for he had no idea how he had come home. "i suppose you've again been sitting up waiting for me?" he gave her a suspicious sidelong glance, and frowned so heavily that his dark eyebrows met. "you mustn't always wait up for me," he said with secret impatience, but outwardly his tone was anxious. "it makes me lose all liking to do anything with the others if i think you are sacrificing your night's rest. please don't do so again, mater." "i won't do so again," she said, with her eyes fixed on her lap. she could not have looked at him, she despised him so. how broad and big and bold he had looked as he stood there saying good evening quite happily. he had behaved as if he knew nothing of all that had happened, that he had wanted to creep on all fours, stretch himself on the doorstep as if that were his bed or he a dog. he was as unembarrassed as though he had not been lying in his room at dinner-time in such--such a filthy condition; as though she had not seen him in his deep humiliation. no, she would never, never be able to kiss him again or caress him, to lay her arms round his neck as she had been so fond of doing when he was a boy. all at once he had become quite a stranger to her. she did not say another word, did not reproach him. she heard what her husband said to him, when he joined him in the garden, as if it did not concern her. although paul schlieben had seemed very mild when speaking to his wife at dinner-time, he was not so now when face to face with his son. "i hear you came home drunk--what do you mean by that?" he said to him severely. "aren't you ashamed of yourself?" "who has said so?" "that's nothing to do with you, i know it, and that is sufficient." "_she_, of course," said the boy bitterly. "the mater always exaggerates everything. i was certainly not drunk, i only had a little too much--we all had--good gracious, pater, you must do what the others do! what else is one to do on such a long evening? but it was certainly nothing bad. see how fresh i am." and he took hold of the ornamental cherry-tree, under which they were standing, with both hands, as if he were going to root it up, and a whole shower of white blossoms fell down on him and on the path. "let my tree alone," said his father, smiling. käte saw it. could paul laugh? so he did not take it very seriously, after all. but that did not provoke her as it would have done some time ago, she felt as if everything in her were cold and dead. she heard the two speak as though they were far, far away, their voices sounded quite low, and still they were speaking loudly and also animatedly. all the same the conversation was not altogether friendly. even if the man was not seriously angry with the lad, he still considered it his duty to expostulate with him. he concluded by saying: "such immoderate drinking is disgusting!"--but he thought to himself: "it cannot have been so bad as käte makes out, or i should have seen some signs of it." his brown cheeks were smooth and firm, so shiny and so lately washed, his eyes, which were not large but noticeable on account of their dark depths, were even more sparkling than usual. the man laid his hand on his son's shoulder: "so we must have no more of that, wolfgang, if we're to remain friends." the boy shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "i really don't know what crime i've committed, pater. the whole thing is something of a mystery to me. but it shan't happen again, i promise you." and they shook hands. now something really did stir in käte. she would have liked to have jumped up, to have cried: "don't believe him, paul, don't believe him. he's sure to get drunk again. i don't trust him. i cannot trust him. if you had seen him as i saw him--oh, he was so vulgar!" and as in a vision a village tavern suddenly appeared before her eyes, a tavern she had never seen. rough men sat round the wooden table, leaning on their elbows, smoking evil-smelling tobacco, drinking heavily, bawling wildly ... ah, had not his father sat among them? his grandfather too? all those from whom he was descended? she was seized with a terrible fear. it could never, never end well. "you are so pale, käte," her husband said at the evening meal. "you sat still too long; it is still too cold outside." "aren't you well, mater?" inquired wolfgang, politely anxious. käte did not answer her son, she only looked at her husband and shook her head: "i am quite well." that satisfied them. wolfgang ate with a good appetite, with a specially big one even; he was quite ravenous. there were also lots of good things of which he was fond: hot fricassee of chicken with sweetbread, force-meat balls and crawfish tails, and then some very good cold meat, butter and cheese and young radishes. "boy, don't drink so much," said paul schlieben, as wolfgang seized the decanter again. "i'm thirsty," said his son with a certain defiance, filling his glass to the brim and drinking it in one gulp. "that comes of revelling." his father shook his finger at him, but smiled at the same time. "it comes of swilling," thought käte, and she shuddered with disgust again. she had never used such an expression before even in her thoughts, but now none seemed strong, blunt, contemptuous enough. there was no pleasant conversation in spite of the room being so cosy, the appointments of the table so beautiful, the flowers so prettily arranged in a cut-glass bowl on the white table-cloth, and above it all a soft subdued light under a green silk shade. käte was so monosyllabic that paul soon seized the newspaper, and the boy, after trying to stifle his yawns, at last got up. it was really too awfully slow to have to sit there. should he drive into berlin again or go to bed? he did not quite know himself what to do. "you are going to bed now?" said his mother. it was intended for a question, but käte heard herself that it did not sound like one. "of course he's going to bed now," said his father, looking up from his paper for a moment. "he's tired. good night, my lad." "i'm not tired." wolfgang grew red and hot. what did they mean by wanting to persuade him that he was tired? he was no longer a child to be sent to bed. his mother's tone irritated him especially--"you are going to bed now"--that was an order. the sparkle in his dark eyes became a blaze; the expression of defiance and refractoriness on his face was not pleasant to see. they could no doubt see in what a passion he was, but his father said "good night," and held out his hand to him without looking up from the newspaper. his mother also said "good night." and the son grasped first one hand and then the other--he imprinted the usual kiss on his mother's hand--and said "good night." chapter xiv paul schlieben was sitting in his private office, in the red armchair he had had placed there for his comfort. but he was not leaning back in it, he was sitting very uncomfortably, straight up, and he looked like a man who has made a disagreeable discovery. how could the boy have contracted debts--with such ample pocket-money? and then that he had not the courage to come and say: "father, i've spent too much, help me," was simply incomprehensible. was he such a severe father that his son had reason to fear him? did the fear drive out love? he reviewed his own conduct; he really could not reproach himself for having been too strict. if he had not always been so yielding as käte--she was too yielding--he had always thought he had repeatedly shown the boy that he was fond of him. and had he not also--just lately--thought the boy was fond of him too? more fond of him than before? wolfgang had just grown sensible, had seen that they had his welfare at heart, that he was his parents' dear son, their ever-increasing delight, their hope--nay, now that they had grown old, their whole future. how was it that he preferred to go to others, to people with whom he had nothing to do, and borrow from them instead of asking his father? the man took up a letter from his writing-desk with a grieved look, read it through once more, although he had already read it three or four times, and then laid it back again with a gesture of vexation. in it braumüller, who had lately retired from the firm and was at present in switzerland for his health and recreation, wrote that the boy had already borrowed money from him several times. not that he would not gladly give him it, that did not matter to him in the slightest, but still he considered it his duty--&c., &c. "the fact is, dear schlieben, the boy has got into a fast set. i'm awfully sorry to have to tell tales about him, but i cannot put it off any longer, as he goes to others just as well as he comes to me. and it would be extremely painful, of course, if the son of messrs. schlieben & co., to whom i still count myself as belonging with the old devotion, should become common talk. don't take it amiss, old friend. i make the boy a present of all he owes me; i am fond of him and have also been young. but i am quite pleased to have no children, it is a deucedly difficult job to train one. good-bye, remember me very kindly to your wife, it is splendid here ..." the man stared over the top of the paper with a frown; this letter, which had been written with such good intentions and was so kind, hurt him. it hurt him that wolfgang had so little confidence in him with respect to this matter. was he not straightforward? he remembered very distinctly that he had always been truthful as a child, had been so outspoken as to offend--he had been rude, but never given to lying. could he have changed so now? how was that, and why? the man resolved not to mention anything about the letter, but to ask wolfgang when he found an opportunity--but it must be as soon as possible--in what condition his money matters were. then he would hear. he quite longed to ask the question, and still he did not say a word when wolfgang entered the private room soon afterwards without knocking, as all the others did, and with all the careless assurance of a son. he sat down astride on his father's writing-desk, quite unmindful of the fact that his light trousers came into unpleasant contact with the ink-stand. the air out of doors was clear and the sun shone brightly; he brought a large quantity of both with him into the room that was always kept dark, cool and secluded. "had something to vex you, pater?" what fancies could the old gentleman have got hold of now? certainly nothing of importance. on the whole, who could feel vexed in such delightful, pleasant summer weather? wolfgang loved the sun. as he had gazed admiringly at the small copy of it when a child, the round yellow sunflower in his garden, so he still delighted in it. if the perspiration stood in drops on his brown skin, he would push his white panama hat a little further back from his forehead, but he never drew his breath more freely, easily, and felt less oppressed. "it was splendid, pater," he said, and his eyes gleamed. "first of all i swam the whole width of the lake three times, there and back and there and back and there and back again without stopping. what do you say to that?" "much too tiring, very thoughtless," remarked paul schlieben, not without some anxiety. indeed hofmann was not at all anxious that the boy should swim. "thoughtless? fatiguing? ha ha!" wolfgang thought it great fun. "that's a mere trifle to me. i've really missed my vocation, you know. you ought not to have put me into an office. i ought to have been a swimmer, a rider or--well, a cowboy in the wild west." he had said it in joke without meaning anything, but it seemed to the man, who suddenly looked at him with eyes that had grown suspicious, that something serious, an accusation, was concealed behind the joke. what did he want then? did he want to gallop through life like an unrestrained boy? "well, your sporting capacities will be of use to you when you are a soldier," he said coolly. "at present what you have to do here is of more importance. have you drawn up the contract for delivery for white brothers? show it to me." "directly." wolfgang disappeared; but it was some time before he returned. had he only done the work now, which he had been told was urgent and was to be done carefully? the ink was still quite fresh, the writing was very careless, even if legible; it was no business hand. schlieben frowned; he was strangely irritable to-day. at any other time he would have been struck by the celerity with which the boy had finished the work he had neglected; but to-day the careless writing, the inkspots in the margin, the slipshod manner in which it had all been done, which seemed to him to point to a want of interest, vexed him. "hm!" he examined it once more critically. "when did you do this?" "when you gave me it to do." the tone in which wolfgang said this was so unabashed that it was impossible to doubt it. the man felt quite ashamed of himself. how a seed of suspicion grows! he had really wronged his son this time. but that question of the money still remained, the boy had not been open and honest in that. it seemed to the father that he could not quite rely on his son any more now. it was hardly noon when wolfgang left the office again. he had arranged to meet a couple of acquaintances in the imperial café not far from the linden; he would have to have something to eat, and whether he had his lunch there or somewhere else was of no consequence; a sandwich, which was all his father took with him from home, was not sufficient for him after swimming and riding. then he showed himself again at the office for an hour in the afternoon, but in his tennis clothes this time, in white shoes, a racket in his hand. when wolfgang left the west end tennis-ground that afternoon, hot and red--the games had been long and obstinate--and went across to the zoological gardens' station, he hesitated as he stood at the entrance to it. he did not feel as if he wanted to go home at all. should he not drive into town again instead? as a matter of fact he did not feel tempted to go into the streets either, which the drifting crowds made still closer; it was better in the suburbs, where there was at least a breath of fresh air blowing over the villa--but then he would have to sit with his parents. and if his father were in just as bad a humour as he had been at the office that morning, it would be awful. then it would be better to find some friend or other in berlin. if only he had not had his tennis suit on. that hindered him. he was still standing undecided when he suddenly saw in the crowd that now, when work was over and free-time come, was winding its way through the entrance to the station like a long worm and dividing itself into arms to go up the steps to the right and left, a mass of fair hair gleaming under a white sailor-hat trimmed with a blue velvet band and pressed down on a forehead, which seemed well-known to him. it was beautiful fair silky hair, smooth and shining; carelessly arranged in an enormous knot to all appearances, but in reality with much care. and now he recognised the blue eyes and the pert little nose under the straw hat. frida lämke! oh, what a long time since he had seen her. he suddenly remembered the hundreds of times he had neglected them. how little he had troubled himself about those good people. that was very wrong of him. and all at once it seemed to him that he had missed them always, the whole time. he reached her side with one bound like an impetuous boy, not noticing that he trod on a dress here and that he gave somebody a shove in the side there. "frida!" she gave a little start. who had accosted her so boldly? "how do, frida. how are you?" she did not recognise him at first, but then she blushed and pouted. what a gentleman wolfgang had grown. and she answered a little pertly, a little affectedly: "very well, thanks, mr. wolfgang. are you quite well too?" and she threw her fair head back and laughed. he would not hear of her calling him "mr. wolfgang." "nonsense, what are you thinking of?" and he was so cordial, so quite the wolfgang of former years, that she was soon on the old terms with him again. she dropped her affectation entirely. they walked beside each other as intimately as if almost a year had not passed since last they had talked together. "young lovers," thought many a one who came across them strolling along near the coppices in the tiergarten. they had let their train go--he had no wish to hurry home, at any rate--and so they walked further and further in among the green trees, where it was already dark and where even his light tennis suit and her light blouse could not be distinguished any longer. the nightingales had grown silent long ago; all that was heard was a girl's soft laugh now and then, which sounded like the cooing of a dove, and the low whispers of invisible couples. whispers came from the benches that stood in the dark, summer dresses rustled, burning cigars gleamed like glow-worms; all the seats one came across were occupied. it was extremely close in the park. wolfgang and frida spoke of frau lämke. "she's always ill, she has had to go to the doctor so often," said the girl, and her voice trembled with sincere grief. wolfgang was very sorry. when frida came home that evening extremely late--the house had been closed long before; frau lämke had already begun to get nervous, and did not know how she should keep the roast potatoes warm--she threw her arms round her mother's neck: "mother, mummy, don't scold." and then it came out with a rush, that she had met wolfgang: "wolfgang schlieben, you know. he was so nice, mother, you can't think how nice he was. not the slightest bit stuck-up. and he asked at once how you were, and when i told him you had something the matter with your stomach and your nerves, he was so sorry. and he said: 'you must get your mother out in this beautiful weather,' and he gave me this bank-note--here, do you see it, a green one. i did not want to take it on any account, what would people think of it?--but he was so strong, he stuffed it into my hand. i could have screamed, he pulled my fingers apart so--are you angry, mother, that i took it? i didn't want to, i really didn't want to. but he said, 'it's for your mother.' and 'do be sensible, frida.'" frida almost cried, she felt so touched and so grateful. frau lämke took it more calmly. "perhaps i can go to eberswald to my brother, or even to my sister in the riesengebirge. and i'll give up the places where i clean for a few weeks, that will do me an enormous amount of good. the good boy, that was nice of him, that he thought of his old friend. hm, he can do it too. what are fifty marks to people like him?" when wolfgang had taken frida to her door he had strolled on slowly, his racket under his arm, his hands in the pockets of his wide trousers. a sky, richly spangled with stars, extended over his head, innumerable golden eyes watching him with a kind twinkle. there were no more wheels to be heard, no crowds of pedestrians whirled up the dust of the street any longer. what the dust-carts, passing backwards and forwards during the day, had not been able to do, the night-dew had done. the loose sand had been settled, a cool freshness rose up out of the earth, one could smell the trees and bushes; a fragrance of flowers ascended from the beds in the gardens that the darkness had swallowed up. wolfgang drew a deep breath of delight and whistled softly; his heart was full of peace and joy; now it was a good thing he was not wandering about in berlin. it had been so nice with frida. what a lot they had had to talk about--and then--he was really awfully pleased to be able to help frau lämke a little. he came home thoroughly happy. "the master and mistress have had their supper long ago," friedrich took the liberty of remarking with a certain reproach--the young gentleman was really too unpunctual. "well, can't be helped," said wolfgang. "tell the cook she's to prepare me something quickly, a cutlet or some beefsteak, or--what else was there for supper this evening? i'm ravenous." friedrich looked at him quite taken aback. now! at half past ten? the master or the mistress had never thought of asking for such a thing--a warm supper at half past ten? he stood hesitating. "well, am i soon going to get something?" the young gentleman called to him over his shoulder, and went into the dining-room. his parents were still sitting at the table--both were reading--but the table was empty. "good evening," said the boy, "is the table cleared already?" you could plainly hear the surprise in his voice. "so there you are!" his father nodded to him but did not look up; he seemed to be quite taken up with his reading. and his mother said: "are you going to sit with us a little?" all at once the lad shivered. it had been so nice and warm outside, here it was cool. and then everything was quiet for a while, until friedrich came in with a tray on which there was only a little cold meat, bread, butter and cheese beside the knife and fork. it struck wolfgang how loudly he rattled the things; the housemaid generally waited. "where's marie?" "in bed," said his mother curtly. "already?" wolfgang wondered why to himself. hark, the clock in his mother's room was just striking--eleven? was it actually already eleven o'clock? they would really have to be quick and get him something to eat, he was dying for want of food. he fixed his eyes on the door through which friedrich had disappeared. was something soon coming? he waited. "eat something." his mother pushed the dish with cold meat nearer to him. "why don't you eat?" asked his father suddenly. "oh, i am still waiting." "there's nothing more," said his mother, and her face, which looked so extremely weary like the face of one who has waited long in vain, flushed slightly. "nothing else?--nothing more?--why?" the boy looked exceedingly disappointed. he glanced from his mother to the table, then to the sideboard and then round the room as though searching for something. "haven't you had anything else to eat?" "yes, we have had something else--but if you don't come--" his father knit his brows, and then he looked straight at his son for the first time that evening, surveying him with a grave glance. "you can't possibly expect to find a warm supper, when you come home so unpunctually." "but you--you are not obliged to"--the young man swallowed the rest--he would have much preferred it had his parents not sat there waiting for him; the servants would have done what was expected of them. "perhaps you think the servants don't require their night's rest?" said his father, as though he had guessed his thought. "the maids, who have been in the kitchen the whole day, want to have done in the evening as well as other people. so you must come earlier if you want to have supper with us. moreover, i don't suppose it will harm a young fellow to get nothing but a piece of bread and butter for his supper for once in a way. besides, you who--" he was going to say "you who get such a good dinner"--but the young man's face, which expressed such immeasurable astonishment, irritated him, and he said in a loud and, contrary to his custom, angry voice, angrier than he had intended: "you--are you entitled to make such claims? how can you think of doing so, you especially?" a movement made by his wife, the rustling of her dress, reminded him of her presence, and he continued more temperately, but with a certain angry scorn: "perhaps you do too much? two hours at the office in the morning--hardly that--an hour in the afternoon--yes, that's an astonishing, an enormous amount of work, which must tax your powers greatly. indeed, it requires quite special food. well, what, what?" wolfgang had been going to say something, but his father did not allow him to speak: "let me see a more modest look on your face first, and then you may speak. lad, i tell you, if you apply to braumüller for money any more----!" there, there, it was out. in his wrath he had forgotten the diplomatic questions he had intended asking, and all he had meant to find out by listening to his replies. the man felt quite a relief now he could say: "it's an unheard-of thing! it's a disgrace for you--and for me!" the excited voice had calmed down, the last words were almost choked by a sigh. the man rested his arm on the table and his head in his hand; one could see that he took it much to heart. käte sat silent and pale. her eyes were distended with horror--so he had done that, that, borrowed money? that too? not only that he got drunk, dead drunk but that, that too? it could not be possible--no! her eyes sought wolfgang's face imploringly. he must deny it. "why, really, pater," said wolfgang, trying to smile, "i don't know what's the matter with you. i asked your partner to do me a little favour--besides, he offered to do it himself, he has always been most friendly to me. i was just going to send it back to him"--he glanced sideways at his father: did he know how much it was?--"i'll send it to him to-morrow." "oh, to-morrow." there was suspicion in the man's tone, but a certain relief nevertheless; he was so anxious to think the best of his son. "what other debts have you?" he asked. and then he was suddenly seized with the fear that the lad was deceiving him, and, terrified at the great responsibility he had taken on himself, he said in a voice that was harder than he really intended, much harder than was compatible with his feelings: "i would punish you as a good-for-nothing fellow if i heard you had! i would cast you off--then you could see how you got on. disgraceful debts! to be in debt!" käte gazed at her husband the whole time. she had never seen him like that before. she wanted to call out, to interrupt him: "you are too strict, much too strict. you'll prevent him confessing anything if you speak like that"--but she could not say a word. she was mute under the burden of the fears that overwhelmed her. her eyes, full of a terrible anxiety, hung on the young face that had grown pale. wolfgang's lips quivered; his thoughts were active. he wanted to speak, had already opened his mouth to do so, to confess that he had spent more than he had had. if only his father were not always so extremely proper. good gracious, you cannot help pulling handfuls of money out of your pockets if you have got it to spend! but he did not say anything to these--these two about it. they were good people on the whole, but they could not put themselves into his place. good people? no, they were not. and now came his indignation. what possessed his father to treat him in that manner, to scold him in that tone of voice? like a criminal. and she, why did she stare at him in that way with eyes in which he thought he read something that looked like contempt? well, then, he would horrify them still more, hurl into their faces: "of course i have debts, what does that matter?" but in the midst of his anger came the cool calculation: what had his father said: "i would cast you off"? all at once wolfgang got a great fright. he had need of these people, he could not do without them. and so he pulled himself together quickly: he must not confess anything, by any means, he must be sure not to betray himself. and he said, in a quick transition from defiant passion to smooth calmness: "i don't know why you excite yourself so, pater. i have none." "really none?" his father looked at him gravely and inquiringly, but a glad hope shone already through the gravity. and when his son answered "no," he stretched out his hand to him across the table: "i'm pleased to hear it." they were very nice to him that evening. wolfgang felt it with much satisfaction. well, they owed him an apology, too. he allowed them to make much of him. the father felt glad, quite relieved that nothing else, nothing worse had come to light, and the mother had the feeling for the first time for many weeks that it was possible to love the lad again. her voice had something of the old sound once more when she spoke to him. and she spoke a good deal to him, she felt the need to do so. she had not spoken so much to him during all those weeks. she felt as if a spring within her had been bricked up and had to discharge itself now. he had contracted no debts. thank god, he was not quite so bad then! now she was sorry she had sent the maids to bed, because she had been annoyed with him for coming home so late--for his loafing about, as she had called it in her thoughts--and had no proper supper for him. if she had not been afraid of her husband, she would have gone down into the kitchen and tried to prepare something better for him herself. "have you really had enough?" she said to him in a low voice. "oh, it'll do." he felt his superiority. paul schlieben put his paper aside that evening. when his son asked him politely if he would not read, he shook his head: "no, i've read the whole evening." he, too, felt the need of, nay, felt it his duty to have, a friendly talk to his son, even if he found that käte was going too far, as usual. she really need not make such a fuss of the boy, he had done wrong hi any case; the braumüller matter must not be forgotten, he ought to have come openly--but really, after all, it was only a stupidity, a thing that might happen ninety times out of every hundred. the man resolved to raise his monthly allowance by marks, when he paid him on the first of the month. then he would certainly have ample, and there could be no more talk of not being able to make both ends meet and of secrecy. it was already far past midnight when the parents and son at last parted. käte stretched herself in her bed with a feeling of happiness she had not known for a long time: she would soon fall asleep; she would not have to lie so long waiting for sleep to come to her, she felt so relieved, so reassured, so soothed. things were working better now, everything would still be right at last. and she whispered softly to her husband: "paul!" he did not hear her, he was already half asleep. then she whispered more urgently: "paul, paul!" and when he moved she said softly: "paul, are you angry with me?" "angry? why should i be?" "oh, i only thought you might be." she did not want to give any explanation, besides it was hardly necessary, for she had the impression that he, too, felt that they themselves would be on better, pleasanter, more cordial and more united terms with each other in the future. oh yes, if they were on better terms with him--the boy--then he and she would also be on better terms with each other. the elderly woman was seized with a great longing for the days when they loved each other. she felt ashamed of herself, but she could not help it, she stretched out her hand to the bed that stood next to hers: "give me your hand, paul." and as she groped about in the dark, she found his hand that was searching for hers. they clasped hands. "good night, dear husband." "good night, dear wife." they fell asleep thus. wolfgang stood at the window of his room, looking out into the obscurity that hid all the stars and listening to the roar of the distant wind. was the night so sultry, or was it only he who was so unbearably hot? a thunder-storm seemed to be coming on. or was it only an inward restlessness that weighed him down? what was it that tortured him? he thought he had hardly ever felt so uncomfortable before. he was vexed with his father, vexed with his mother--if they had been different from what they were, if everything had been different from what it was, he would not have been obliged to tell lies, to dissemble. he was vexed with himself. oh, then he would have felt easier now, much freer. he knit his brows angrily; a sudden longing for something he could not name made him tremble. what did he want, what was he longing for? if he only knew! he gave a loud sigh, and stretched his arms with the strong hands out into the night. everything was so narrow, so narrow. if he only were the boy again who had once climbed out of this window, yes, this window--he leant out and measured the height--who had run away, hurrah! without asking himself where he was going, simply on and on. that had been magnificent! a splendid run! and he leant further and further out of the window. the night wind was whispering, it was like an alluring melody. he trembled with eagerness. he could not tear himself away, he had to remain there listening. the wind was rising, there was a rustling in the trees, it rose and rose, grew and grew. the rustling turned into a blustering. he forgot he was in a room in a house, and that he had parents there who wanted to sleep. he gave a shout, a loud cry, half of triumph. how beautiful it was out there, ah! a storm. the snorting wind, that had risen so suddenly, blew his hair about and ruffled it at the temples. ah, how beautifully that cooled. it was unbearable in the house, so gloomy, so close. he felt so scared, so terrified. how his heart thumped. and he felt so out of temper: how unpleasant it had been that evening again. his father had said he ought to have confessed it to him--of course, it would have been better--but if he threatened him in that way after the thing was over in a manner, what would he have said before? this everlasting keeping him in leading strings was not to be borne. was he still a child? was he a grown-up man or was he not? was he the son of rich parents or was he not? no, he was not. that was just what he was not. the thunder rumbled afar in the dark night. suddenly there was a brilliant flash--that was just what he was not, not the son, not the son of this house. otherwise everything would have been different. he did not know in what way--but different, oh, quite different. wolfgang had not thought of these things for a long time--the days were so full of distractions but now in this dark stormy night, in which he would not be able to sleep, he had to think. what he had always driven back because it was not pleasant, what he thought he had quite forgotten--perhaps because he wished to forget it--he would have to consider now. what had been repressed for so long broke out forcibly now, like the stormy wind that suddenly came rushing along, bending the tops of the pines so that they cowered with terror. wolfgang would have liked to have made his voice heard above the roar of the storm. he was furious, quite absurdly furious, quite thoughtlessly furious. oh, how it lightened, crashed, rumbled, roared and snorted. what a conflict--but it was beautiful nevertheless. he raised himself up on his toes and exposed his hammering breast to the strong wind. he had hardly ever felt such delight as when those gusts of wind struck his chest like blows from a fist. he flung himself against them, he regularly caught them on his broad chest. and still there was torture mingled with the delight. face to face with this great storm, that became an event in his life as it were, everything else seemed so pitifully small to him, and he too. there he stood now in coat and trousers, his hands in his pockets, rattling his loose money; he was annoyed because he had let them lecture him, and still he had not the courage to throw everything aside and do exactly as he liked. the lad followed the yellow and blue flashes of lightning that clove the dark stormy sky in zigzag, and poured a dazzling magic light over the world, with sparkling eyes. oh, to be able to rush along like that flash of lightning. it rushed out of the clouds down to the earth, tore her lap open and buried itself in it. his young blood, whose unused vitality quivered in his clenched fists, his energy, which had not been spent on any work, groaned aloud. all at once wolfgang cursed his life. oh, he ought to be somewhere quite different, live at quite a different place, quite different. and even if he were not so comfortable there, let him only get away from this place, away. it bored him so terribly to be here. he loathed it. he drew a deep breath, oh, if only he had some work he would like to do! that would tire him out, so that he had no other desire but to eat and then sleep. better to be a day labourer than one who sits perched on a stool in an office and sees figures, nothing but figures and accounts and ledgers and cash-books--oh, only not let him be a merchant, no, that was the very worst of all. hitherto wolfgang had never been conscious of the fact that he would never be any good as a merchant; now he knew it. no, he did not like it, he could not go on being a merchant. everyone must surely become what nature has meant him to be. he would say it in the morning--no, he would not go to the office any more, he would not do it any longer. he would be free. he leant out of the window once more, and scented the damp, pleasant smell that rose up out of the soaked earth with distended nostrils, panting greedily like a thirsty stag. the rain had come after the thunder and lightning, and had saturated the thirsty earth and penetrated into it, filling all its pores with fertility. it rained and rained uninterruptedly, came down in torrents as if it would never end. something gave way in wolfgang's soul; it became soft. "mother," he whispered dreamily, stretching out his hot hands so that the cool rain bathed them. then he stretched his head far out too, closed his eyes and raised his head, so that the falling drops refreshed his burning lids and the wide-open, thirsty lips drank the tears of heaven as though they were costly wine. * * * * * * * * * * * * * but in the morning, when the sand in the grunewald had swallowed up all the rain, and nothing was left of the storm that had cleared the air during the night but the somewhat fresher green of the lawns, a stronger smell of the pines and many fallen acorns and chestnuts on the promenade, wolfgang thought differently again. the day was beautiful; he could swim, ride, go to the office for a short time, eat, drink, play tennis, make an appointment for the evening--there were so many places where you could amuse yourself--and why should he spoil this splendid day for himself and, after all, his father too? he thrust every graver thought aside as burdensome. but his soul was not at peace all the same. he tried to deaden thought. käte did not fall asleep so quickly as on the previous night; even if she had promised herself not to sit up and wait for him any more, she could not sleep if he were not at home. she heard the clocks strike terribly loudly, as she had done on a former occasion; every noise, even the slightest, penetrated to her ear through the stillness of the house, sounding much louder. she would hear him, she must hear him as soon as he stuck the key into the front door. but she heard nothing, although she lay long awake listening. the hours crept on, the day dawned, a pale streak of light no broader than her thumb stole through the closed shutters; she saw it on the wall opposite to her bed. the light became gradually less and less wan, more decided in colour, a warm, sunny, ruddy gold. no cock proclaimed the new day with triumphant crow, the house was so quiet, the garden so silent, but the light betrayed that it was morning. she must have slept, however, without knowing it. what, was it already morning? she was sure now that he must have been at home a long time, she had simply not heard him come in. that calmed her. but she dressed hurriedly, without paying as much attention to her dress as usual, and she could not resist standing outside his door to listen before going down to breakfast. he was not up yet--of course not, he had come home so late--he was still asleep. she would be able to look at him without his knowing. she went in, but he was not asleep. the woman looked at the bed with bewildered eyes--there it was, open, invitingly white and comfortable, but he was not in it. the bed had not been touched. the room was empty. then her heart grew cold with dread. so she had not slept, his return had not escaped her. on that former occasion he had come home--true, he was drunk, but still he had come home--but not this time! chapter xv "wolfgang not here again?" said paul schlieben as he joined his wife in her room. "he comes so little to the office too. they always assure me that he has just been--but why doesn't he keep the same office-hours as i? where is he?" he looked inquiringly and impatiently at his wife. she shrugged her shoulders, and the evening sun, which was casting a last gleam through the tall window as it set, touched her cheek with red for a moment. "i don't know," she said in a low voice. and then she looked so lost as she gazed out into the autumn evening, that her husband felt that her thoughts were far away, looking for something outside. "i've just come from town, käte," he said somewhat annoyed, and the vexation he felt at his son's absence gave his voice a certain sharpness, "and i'm hungry and tired. it's already eight o'clock--we'll have our supper. and you've not even a friendly face to show me?" she got up quickly to ring for supper, and tried to smile. but it was no real smile. he saw it, and that put him still more out of humour. "never mind, don't try. don't force yourself to smile." he sat down at the table with a weary movement. but his hunger did not seem to be so great, after all, as he only helped himself in a spiritless manner when the steaming dishes were brought in and placed in front of him, and ate in the same manner without knowing what he was eating. the dining-room was much too large for the two lonely people; the handsome room looked uncomfortably empty on that cool evening in autumn. the woman shivered with cold. "we shall have to start heating the house," said the man. that was all that was said during the meal. after it was over he got up to go across to his study. he wanted to smoke there, the room was smaller and cosier; he did not notice that his wife's eyes had never left him. if paul would only tell her what he thought of wolfgang staying away! where could wolfgang be now? she became entirely absorbed in her wandering thoughts, and hardly noticed that she was alone in the cold empty room. she had a book in front of her, a book the whole world found interesting--an acquaintance had said to her: "i could not stop reading it; i had so much to think about, but i forgot everything owing to the book"--but it did not make her forget anything. she felt as though she were in great trouble, and that that was making her dull. even duller, more indifferent to outward things than at the time of her father's and mother's deaths. she had read so much in those years of mourning, and with special interest, as though the old poems had been given to her anew and the new ones were a cheering revelation. she could not read anything now, could not follow another's thoughts. she clung to her own thoughts. true, her eyes flew over the page, but when she got to the bottom she did not know what she had read. it was an intolerable condition. oh, owh much she would have liked to have taken an interest in something. what would she not have given only to be able to laugh heartily for once; she had never experienced a similar longing for cheerfulness, gaiety and humour before. oh, what a relief it would have been for her if she could have laughed and cried. now she could not laugh, but--alas!--not cry either, and that was the worst: her eyes remained dry. but the tears of sorrow she had not wept burnt her heart and wore out her life with their unshed salty moisture. no, death was not the most terrible that could happen. there were more terrible things than that. it was terrible when one had to say to oneself: "you have brought all your suffering on yourself. why were you not satisfied? why must you take by force what nature had refused?" it was more terrible when one felt how one's domestic happiness, one's married happiness, love, faith, unity, how all that intimately unites two people was beginning to totter--for did she not feel every day how her husband was getting colder and colder, and that she also treated him with more indifference? oh, the son, that third person, it was he who parted them. how miserably all her theories about training, influence, about being born in the spirit had been overthrown. wolfgang was not the child in which she and her husband were united in body and soul--he was and would remain of alien blood. and he had an alien soul. poor son! all at once a discerning compassion shot up in the heart of the woman, who for days, weeks, months, even years, had felt nothing but bitterness and mortification, ay, many a time even something like revolt against the one who thus disturbed her days. how could she be so very angry with him, who was not bound to his parents' house by a hundred ties? it was not _his_ parents' house, that was just the point. maybe he unconsciously felt that the soil there was not his native soil--and now he was seeking, wandering. käte pondered, her head resting heavily in her hand: what was she to do first? should she confess to him where he came from? tell him everything? perhaps things would be better then. but oh, it was so difficult. but it must be done. she must not remain silent any longer. she felt her trembling heart grow stronger, as she made the firm resolve to speak to him when he returned home. what she had kept as the greatest secret, what she had guarded with trembling, what nothing could have torn from her, as she thought, she was now prepared to reveal of her own free will. she must do so. otherwise how could things ever be better? how could they ever end happily, or ever end at all? her eyes wandered about seeking something fervently; there was a terrified expression in them. but there was no other way out. käte schlieben prepared herself for the confession with a resoluteness that she would not have been capable of a year ago. for one moment the wish came to her to call paul to help her. but she rejected the thought quickly--had he ever loved wolfgang as she had done? perhaps it would be a matter of no moment to him--no, perhaps it would be a triumph to him, he had always been of a different opinion to her. and then another thing. he might perhaps forestall her, tell wolfgang himself, and he must not do that. she, she alone must do that, with all the love of which she was still capable, so that it might be told him in a forbearing, merciful and tender manner. she ran hastily across to her sitting-room. she kept the certificate of his baptism and the deed of surrender they had got from his native village in her writing-desk there; she had not even trusted the papers to her husband. now she brought them out and put them ready. she would have to show him that everything was as she said. the papers rustled in her trembling hands, but she repressed her agitation. she must be calm, quite calm and sensible; she must throw down the castle in the air she had built for herself and that had not turned out as in her dreams, knowing fully what she was doing. but even if this castle in the air collapsed, could not something be saved from the ruins? something good rise from them? he would be grateful to her, he must be grateful to her. and that was the good that would rise. she folded her hands over the common paper on which the evidence was written, and quivering sighs escaped from her breast that were like prayers. o god, help me! o god, help me! but if he did not understand her property, if she did not find the words that must be found? if she should lose him thereby? she was overcome with terror, she turned pale, and stretched out her hands gropingly like one who requires a support. but she remained erect. then rather lose him than that he should be lost. for--and tears such as she had not been able to weep for a long, long time, dropped from her eyes and relieved her--she still loved him, after all, loved him more than she had considered possible. so she waited for him. and even if she had to wait until dawn and if he came home drunk again--more drunk than the first time--she would still wait for him. she must tell him that day. she was burning to tell him. paul schlieben had gone to bed long ago. he was vexed with his wife, had only stuck his head into the room and given a little nod: "good night," and gone upstairs. but she walked up and down the room downstairs with slow steps. that tired her physically, but gave her mind rest and thereby strength. when she went to meet wolfgang in the hall on hearing him close the door, her delicate figure looked as though it had grown, it was so straight and erect. the house slept with all in it, only he and she were still awake. they were never so alone, so undisturbed nowadays. the time had come. and she held out her hand to him, which she would not have done on any other occasion had he come so late--thank god, he was not drunk!--and approached her face to his and kissed him on the cheek: "good evening, my son." he was no doubt somewhat taken aback at this reception, but his sunken eyes with the black lines under them looked past her indifferently. he was terribly tired--one could see--or was he ill? but all that would soon be better now. käte seized hold of his hand once more full of the joyful hope that had been awakened in her, and drew him after her into her room. he allowed himself to be drawn without resisting, he only asked with a yawn: "what's the matter?" "i must tell you something." and then quickly, as though he might escape her or she might lose courage, she added: "something important--that concerns you your that concerns your--your birth." what would he say--she had stopped involuntarily--what would he say now? the secret of his birth for which he had fought full of longing, fought strenuously--oh, what scenes those had been!--would now be revealed to him. she leant towards him involuntarily, ready to support him. then he yawned again: "must it really be now, mater? there's plenty of time to-morrow. the fact is, i am dead beat. good night." and he wheeled round, leaving her where she was, and went out of the room and up the stairs to his bedroom. she stood there quite rigid. then she put her hand up to her head: what, what was it? she must not have understood him properly, she must be deaf, blind or beside herself. or he must be deaf, blind or beside himself. she had gone up to him with her heart in her mouth, she had held out her hand, she had wanted to speak to him about his birth--and he? he had yawned--had gone away, it evidently did not interest him in the slightest. and here, here, in this very room--it was not yet four years ago--he had stood almost on the same spot in the black clothes he had worn at his confirmation--almost as tall as he was now, only with a rounder, more childish face--and had screamed aloud: "mother, mother, where is my mother?" and now he no longer wanted to know anything? it was impossible, she could not have understood him aright or he not her. she must follow him, at once, without delay. it seemed to her that she must not neglect a moment. she hurried noiselessly up the stairs in her grey dress. she saw her shadow gliding along in the dull light the electric bulb cast on the staircase-wall, but she smiled: no, she was not sorrow personified gliding along like a ghost any longer. her heart was filled with nothing but joy, hope and confidence, for she was bringing him something good, nothing but good. she went into his room without knocking, in great haste and without reflecting on what she was doing. he was already in bed, he was just going to put out the light. she sat down on the edge of his bed. "wolfgang," she said gently. and as he gazed at her in surprise with a look that was almost unfriendly, her voice sounded still softer: "my son." "yes--what's the matter now?" he was really annoyed, she noticed it in the impatient tone of his voice, and then she suddenly lost courage. oh, if he looked at her like that, so coldly, and if his voice sounded so repellent, how difficult it was to find the right word. but it must be done, he looked so pale and was so thin, his round face had positively become long. what had struck her before struck her with double force now, and she got a great fright. "wolfgang," she said hastily, avoiding his glance almost with fear--oh, how he would accuse her, how reproachful he would be, and justifiably reproachful--"i must tell you at last--it's better--it won't surprise you much either. do you still remember that sunday it was the day of your confirmation--you--you asked us then----" oh, what along introduction it was. she called herself a coward; but it was so difficult, so unspeakably difficult. he did not interrupt her with a single sound, he asked no questions, he did not sigh, he did not even move. she did not venture to turn her eyes, which were fixed on one point straight in front of her, to look at him. his silence was terrible, more terrible than his passion. and she called out with the courage of despair: "you are not our son, not our own son." he still did not say anything; did not make a single sound, did not move. then she turned her eyes on him. and she saw how the lids fell over his tired, already glassy eyes, how he tore them open again with difficulty and how they closed once more, in short, how he fought with sleep. he could sleep whilst she told him this--this? a terrible feeling of disillusion came over her, but still she seized hold of his arm and shook him, whilst her own limbs trembled as though with fever: "don't you hear--don't you hear me? you are not our son--not our own son." "yes, i know," he said in a weary voice. "leave me, leave me." he made a gesture as if to thrust her away. "and it--" her complete want of comprehension made her stammer like a child--"it does not affect you? it--it leaves you so cold?" "cold? cold?" he shrugged his shoulders, and his tired, dull eyes began to gleam a little. "cold? who says it leaves me cold--has left me cold?" he amended hastily. "but you two have not asked about that. now _i_ won't hear anything more about it. i'm tired now. i want to sleep." he turned his back on her, turned his face to the wall and did not move any more. there she stood--he was already asleep, or at least seemed to be so. she waited anxiously a few minutes longer--would he, would he not have to turn once more to her and say: "tell me, i'm listening now." but he did not turn. then she crept out of the room like a condemned criminal. too late, too late. she had spoken too late, and now he did not want to hear anything more about it, nothing more whatever. in her dull wretchedness the words "too late" hurt her soul as if they had been branded on it. * * * * * * * * * * * * * käte had no longer the courage to revert again to what she had wanted to confess to wolfgang that night. besides, what was the good? she had the vivid feeling that there was no getting at him any more, that he could not be helped any more. but she felt weighed down as though she had committed a terrible crime. and the feeling of this great crime made her gentler towards him than she would otherwise have been; she felt called upon to make excuses for his actions both to herself and her husband. paul schlieben was very dissatisfied with wolfgang. "if only i knew where he's always wandering about. i suppose he's at home at night--eh?" an involuntary sound from his wife had interrupted him, now he looked at her inquiringly. but she did not change countenance in the slightest, she only gave an affirmative nod. so the husband relied upon his wife. and now the last days of autumn had come, which are often so warm and beautiful, more beautiful than summer. everybody streamed out into the grunewald, to bathe themselves once more in the sun and air ere winter set in. the people came in crowds to hundekehle and paulsborn, to uncle tom and the old fisherman's hut as though it were sunday every day. there was laughter everywhere, often music too, and young girls in light dresses, in last summer's dresses that were not yet quite worn out. children made less noise in the woods now than in summer; it grew dark too early now, but there were all the more couples wandering about, whom the early but still warm dusk gave an excellent opportunity to exchange caresses, and old people, who wanted to enjoy the sun once more ere the night perhaps came that is followed by no morning. formerly paul schlieben had always detested leaving his house and garden on such days, when the grunewald was overrun with people. he had always disliked swallowing the dust the crowd raised. but now he was broader-minded. why should the people, who were shut up in cramped rooms on all the other days, not be out there too for once in a way, and inhale the smell of the pines for some hours, at any rate, which they, the privileged ones, enjoyed every day. it did one good to see how happy people could be. he ordered a carriage, a comfortable landau, both to give himself a pleasure and also to distract his wife, who seemed to him to be graver and more lost in thought than ever, and went for a drive with her. they drove along the well-known roads through the grunewald, and also got out now and then when the carriage forced its way more slowly through the sand, and walked beside it for a bit along the foot-path, which the fallen pine-needles had made smooth and firm. they came to schildhorn. the red glow of evening lay across the water; the sun could no longer be seen in all its splendour, a dusky, melancholy peace lay over the havel and the pines. käte had never thought the wood was so large. all at once she shivered: ah, the cemetery where they buried the suicides lay over there. she did not like to look in that direction, she pressed her eyes together nervously. all at once a young lad moved across her mental vision--young and fresh and yet ruined already--many a mother's son. she shuddered and wanted to hurry past, and still something drew her feet irresistibly to the spot in the loose sand that had been enclosed. she could not help it, she had to stop. her eyes rested thoughtfully on the ugly, uncared-for graves: had those who rested there found peace? a couple of branches covered with leaves and a few flowers that she had plucked on the way fell out of her hand. the evening wind blew them on to the nearest grave; she let them lie there. her heart felt extremely sad. "käte, do come," paul called. "the carriage has been waiting for us quite a long time." she felt very depressed. fears and suspicions, that she could not speak of to anybody, crowded upon her. wolfgang was unsteady--but was he bad? no, not bad--not yet. o god, no, she would not think that! not bad! but what would happen? how would it end? things could never be right again--how could they? a miracle would have to happen then, and miracles do not happen nowadays. a gay laugh made her start. all the tables were occupied in the restaurant garden; there were so many young people there and so much light-heartedness, and so many lovers. they had got into their carriage again and were now driving slowly past the garden, so they saw all the light-coloured blouses and the gaily trimmed hats, all the finery of the lower middle-class. hark, there was that gay laugh again. a girl's loud laugh, a real hearty one, and now: "aha, catch her, catch her!" on hearing which käte held her breath as though frozen. she felt quite weak, all the blood left her heart. that was wolfgang! her wolfgang! then he bounded after a girl who, with a cry of delight, flew across the road in front of him and into the wood on the other side among the tree-trunks. he rushed after her. for a moment the girl's light dress and wolfgang's flying shadow were seen whisking round the pines, and then nothing more. but he must have reached her, for her shrill scream and his laugh were heard; both drove the blood into käte's cheeks. it sounded so offensive to her, so vulgar. so he had got so far? he wandered about there with such, such--persons? ah, a couple of others were following them, they belonged to the party, too. a hulking fellow with a very hot and red face and chubby cheeks followed the couple that had disappeared noisily shouting hallo, and the slender rascal who came last laughed so knowingly and slyly. "paul, paul!" käte wanted to call out, "paul, just look, look!" but then she did not call, and did not move. there was nothing more to be done. she leant back in her corner of the carriage quite silent: she had wanted the boy, she must not complain. oh, if only she had left him where he was. now she must be silent, close both her eyes firmly and pretend she had not seen anything. but everything was spoilt for her. and when her husband pointed out the moon swimming in the light grey ether in an opening between the tops of two pines, and the bright, quietly gleaming star to the right of it, she had only an indifferent "oh yes," in answer to his delighted: "isn't that beautiful?" that depressed him. she had taken such pleasure in nature formerly, the greatest, purest pleasure--now she no longer did so. was that over too? everything was over. he sighed. and both remained silent, each leaning in a corner of the carriage. they gazed into the twilight that was growing deeper and deeper with sad eyes. evening was coming on, the day--their day too--was over. * * * * * * * * * * * * * wolfgang had gone on an excursion into the country, with frida lämke, her brother, and hans flebbe, which had been planned a long time. frida was not going back to business that afternoon; she had succeeded in getting away as an exception, and because she pleaded an extremely urgent reason for her absence. and now she was almost beside herself with glee: oh, how splendid it was, oh, what a fine time they would have. wolfgang had gone to the expense of taking a cab; he and frida sat on the front seat, the two others opposite them on the back seat, and they had driven round the green, green wood, had paid a visit to this and that place of amusement, had gone on a roundabout and in a boat and into the booth where they were playing with dice. wolfgang was very polite, frida always got leave to throw them again and again; a butter dish of blue glass, a glazed paper-bag full of gingerbread nuts, but above all a little dicky-bird in a tiny wooden cage made her extremely happy. hans was allowed to carry it all, whilst she and wolfgang rushed along on the walk home from schildhorn, chaffing each other. her sweetheart did not disturb them. hans had foregone the pleasure of having his frida on his arm from the commencement; everybody might easily have thought the well-dressed young gentleman was her lover. but when she lost her breath entirely and was red and dishevelled, and the dusk, which came on somewhat earlier in the wood among the trees that stood so close together, made her shudder a little and filled her with a delicious fear, she hung on her hans's arm as a matter of course. they remained a little behind the others. then wolfgang was alone, for he did not count artur, although he walked beside him stumbling over the roots and whistling shrilly. and wolfgang envied fat hans at whom they had all laughed so much, the girl he was engaged to more than anyone else. he also wanted to have a girl hanging on his arm. it need not even be such a nice-looking girl as frida--as long as it was a girl. the dusk of the wood, which was so nice and quiet, seemed positively to hold out inviting arms to him. and a smell of satiation, an abundant fulfilment, rose out of the earth that evening, although it was so poor--nothing but sand. wolfgang felt a wish to live and love, an eager desire for pleasure and enjoyment. if he had had frida near him now, he would have seized hold of her, have clasped her in his arms, have quickly closed her mouth with kisses and not let her go again. he could not contain himself any longer, he had to seize hold of artur, at any rate, and waltz with him along the sandy path through the wood, so that the lanky youth, who had already run to so many customers to shave them that day, could neither see nor hear. all the other people stopped; such sights were nothing new to them on excursions, not to speak of worse. it amused them, and, when wolfgang lifted his partner high up into the air with a loud shout of triumph and swung him several times round his head, they clapped their hands. wolfgang was very much out of breath by this time. when they got out of the wood they had to proceed more slowly; they might have trodden some of the people to death in the more inhabited parts, for the fine villas were already commencing. what a crowd! people were pushing and squeezing each other at the place where the electric cars started. wolfgang and artur posted themselves there too: what a joke it was to see how the people who wanted to go by them elbowed each other. it was still pretty light and as warm as summer, but it would soon be quite dark, and the later it was the larger the crowd would be. the two stood there laughing, looking quietly on at the throng. what did it matter to them if they did not get a seat? they could run that short bit to their homes. wolfgang felt how his heart thumped against his side--it had been great fun to dance with frida. he had swung her round several times in the booth adjoining a restaurant, in which a man sat strumming on a piano, and had done the same to a couple of other girls, who had looked longingly at the boisterous dancer. what a pleasure it had been. he still felt the effects of it, his chest rose and fell tumultuously--oh, what a pleasure it was to swing a girl round in his arm like that. wonderful! everything was wonderful. wolfgang trembled inwardly with untamed animal spirits, and clenched his teeth so as not to draw people's attention to him by means of a loud, triumphant shout. oh, how splendid it would be, oh, how he would love to do something foolish now. he thought it over: what on earth could he do? at that moment a cough disturbed him. how hollow it sounded--as if everything inside were loose. the young fellow who was standing behind his broad back might have been coughing like that for some time--only he had not noticed it; now he felt disgusted at his spitting. he stepped aside involuntarily: faugh, how the man coughed! "oh, how wretched it is that there isn't a cab to be had!" wolfgang now heard the older man say, on whose arm the young fellow who was coughing was leaning. "are you quite knocked up? can you still stand it?" there was such an anxiety expressed in that: "can you still stand it?" "oh, pretty well," the young fellow answered in a hoarse voice. wolfgang pricked up his ears: he surely knew that voice? and now he also recognised the face. wasn't that kullrich? good gracious, how he had changed. he raised his hat involuntarily: "good evening, kullrich." and now the latter also recognised him. "schlieben!" kullrich smiled, so that all his teeth, which were long and white, could be seen behind his bloodless lips. and then he held out his hand to his former schoolfellow: "you aren't at school either? i've left as well. it's a long time since we've seen each other." the hand wolfgang held had a disagreeable, moist, cold feeling, and a shudder passed through him. he had forgotten long ago that he had once heard that kullrich had consumption; all at once he remembered it again. but that was quite impossible, surely you could not die so young? everything in him strove against the conviction. "have you been ill?" he asked quickly. "but now you're all right again, aren't you?" it was quite difficult for him to remember that he was speaking to his old schoolfellow; this kullrich was quite a stranger to him. "oh yes, pretty fair," said kullrich, smiling once more. quite a peculiar smile, which even struck the careless youth. kullrich had never been nice-looking, he had a lump at the end of his nose; but now wolfgang could not take his eyes off him. how much more refined his face had grown and so--he could not contain himself any longer, all at once he blurted it out: "how different you look now. i hardly recognised you." "my son is soon going away," his father said quickly, drawing his son's arm more closely through his own as he spoke. "then i hope he will come back quite well. but he has tried to do too much to-day. the weather was so fine--plenty of fresh air and the smell of the pines, the doctor said--but we have remained out too long. it won't do you any harm, i trust?" there was again such a terrible anxiety expressed in his voice. "are you cold? would you not like to sit down until we can start?" the father put a camp-stool, which he had carried under his arm, on the ground, and opened it: "sit down a little, fritz." poor fellow! the father's voice, which trembled with such loving anxiety, touched wolfgang strangely. poor fellow, he really must be very ill. how terrible! he was overcome with dread, and stepped back involuntarily for fear the sick boy's breath should reach him. he was full of the egotism of youth and health; how unfortunate he should meet him there to-day, just to-day. "may i get you a carriage?" he inquired hastily--only let kullrich get away, it was too awful to have to listen to that cough--"i'm acquainted with this neighbourhood; i shall be able to get one." "oh yes, oh yes, a cab, a closed one if possible," said kullrich's father, drawing a deep breath as though relieved of a great anxiety. "we shall not possibly be able to go by train. and it's getting so late. are you really not cold, fritz?" a cool wind had suddenly risen, and the old man took off his overcoat and hung it round his son's shoulders. how awful it must be for him to see his son like that, thought wolfgang. to die, to die at all, how terrible. and how the man loved his son. you could hear that in his voice, see it in his looks. wolfgang was pleased to be able to run about for a cab. it was difficult to get one now, and he ran about until he was quite out of breath. at last he got one. when he reached the place where the electric cars started, herr kullrich was in great despair. he had given up all hope and his son had coughed a good deal. he did not know what to say, he was so grateful. the unpretentious man--he was a subordinate official in one of the government offices and probably could not afford it--promised the driver a good tip if he would only drive them quickly to their home in berlin. he enveloped his son in the rug that lay on the back seat; the driver also gave them a horse-cloth, and wolfgang wrapped it round his schoolfellow's legs. "thanks, thanks," said fritz kullrich faintly; he was quite knocked up now. "come and see us some time, herr schlieben," said the father, pressing his hand. "fritz would be pleased. and i am so grateful to you for helping us." "but come soon," said the son, smiling again in that peculiar manner. "good-bye." "good-bye." wolfgang stood staring after the carriage as it disappeared quickly; there drove kullrich--after his mother. wolfgang's good spirits had flown. when his companions with whom he had spent the afternoon sought him with loud hallos--hans must have given his frida many hearty kisses, her hat was awry, her eyes gleamed amorously--he got rid of them without delay. he said good-bye to them quickly and went on alone. death had touched his elbow. and one of the old songs he had sung with cilia, the girl from his childhood, suddenly darted through his mind. now he understood its deeper meaning for the first time: art thou now with fair cheeks prancing, cheeks milk-white, through rose-light glancing? roses wither soon, alas! he went home at once, he had no wish to loaf about out of doors any longer. and as he sauntered along with unsteady gait down out-of-the-way roads, something rose up before him in the dusk of the autumn evening and placed itself in his path--it was a question: "and you? where are you going?" he entered his parents' house in a mood that was strangely soft and conciliatory. but when he stepped into the room, his parents were sitting there as though to pass sentence on him. käte had not been able to keep it to herself after all, it had weighed on her mind, she had to tell somebody what she had seen. and it had irritated her husband more than his wife had expected. so the boy had got into such company! "where have you been wandering about?" he said to his son angrily. the boy stopped short: why that voice? it was not so late. he raised his head with the feeling that they were treating him unjustly. "don't look at me so impudently." his father lost control of himself. "where is that woman you were wandering about with?" wandering about--woman? the hot blood surged to the boy's head. frida lämke a woman--how mad. "she isn't a woman," he flared up. and then: "i haven't been wandering about." "come, come, i've----" the man broke off quickly; he could not say: "i've seen you"--so he said: "we've seen you." wolfgang got very red. oh!--they had spied on him--no doubt to-day--had crept after him? he was not even safe from their prying looks so far away. he was furious. "how can you say 'that woman.' she isn't a woman." "well--what is she then, may i ask?" "my friend." "your friend?" his father gave a short angry laugh. "friend--very well, but it's rather early for you to have such a friend. i forbid you to have friends of such doubtful, such more than doubtful character." "she isn't doubtful." wolfgang's eyes sparkled. how right frau lämke was when she said the other day to him when he went to see them again: "although i'm very pleased to see you, don't come too often, wolfgang. frida is only a poor girl, and such a one gets talked about at once." no, there was nothing doubtful about her. the son looked his father full in the face, pale with fury. "she's as respectable a girl as any. how can you speak of her like that? how d----" he faltered, he was in such a fury that his voice failed. "dare--only say it straight out, dare." the man had more control over himself now, he had become quieter, for what he saw in his boy's face seemed to him to be honest indignation. no, he was not quite ruined yet, he had only been led astray, such women prefer to hang on to quite young people. and he said persuasively, meaning well: "get away from the whole thing as quickly as possible. you'll save yourself much unpleasantness. i'll help you with it." "thanks." the young fellow stuck his hands into his trouser pockets and stood there with an arrogant expression on his face. his soft mood had disappeared long ago, it had flown as soon as he took the first step into the room; now he was in the mood not to stand anything whatever. they had insulted frida. "where does she live?" his father asked. "you would like to know that, i daresay." his son laughed scornfully; it gave him a certain satisfaction to withhold her address, they were so curious. they should never find it out. it was not at all necessary to tell them. he threw his head back insolently, and did not answer. o god, what had happened to the boy! käte stared at him quite terrified. he had changed completely, had become quite a different being. but then came the memory--she had loved him so much once--and the pain of knowing that she had lost him entirely and for ever. "wolfgang, don't be like that, i beseech you. you know we have your welfare at heart, wolfgang." he measured her with an inexplicable look. and then he looked past her into space. "it would be better if i were out of it all!" he jerked out suddenly, spontaneously. it was meant to sound defiant, but the defiance was swallowed up in the sudden recognition of a painful truth. chapter xvi they had agreed that wolfgang should not live at the villa with them any longer. true, he was still very young, but the time for independence had come, his parents realised. two prettily furnished rooms were taken in the neighbourhood of the office--wolfgang was to take a much more active part in the business now--otherwise he would be left to himself. this coming home so late at night, this responsible control--no, it would not do for käte to worry herself to death. paul schlieben had taken this step resignedly. and it seemed as though the days at the schliebens' villa were really to be quieter, more peaceful. it was winter, and the snow was such a soft protecting cover for many a buried hope. wolfgang used to come and visit them, but not too often; besides, he saw his father every day at the office. it never seemed to enter his head that his mother would have liked to see him more frequently. she did not let him perceive it. was she perhaps to beg him to come more frequently? no, she had already begged much too much--for many years, almost eighteen years--and she told herself bitterly that it had been lost labour. when he came to them, they were on quite friendly terms with each other; his mother still continued to see that his clothes were the best that could be bought, his shirts as well got up as they could be, and that he had fine cambric night shirts and high collars. that he frequently did not look as he ought to have done was not her fault; nor was it perhaps the fault of his clothes, but rather on account of his tired expression, his weary eyes and the indifferent way in which he carried himself. he let himself go, he looked dissipated. but the husband and wife did not speak about it to each other. if he could only serve his time as a soldier, thought paul schlieben to himself. he hoped the restraint and the severe regulations in force in the army would regulate his whole life; what they, his parents, had not been able to effect with all their care, the drill would be able to do. wolfgang was to appear before the commissioners in april. at present, during the winter, he certainly kept to the office hours more regularly and more conscientiously, but oh, how wretched he often looked in the morning. terribly pale, positively ashen. "dissipation." the father settled that with a shake of his head, but he said nothing to his son about it; why should he? an unpleasant scene would be the only result, which would not lead to anything, and would probably do more harm. for they no longer met on common ground. and thus things went on without any special disturbance, but all three suffered nevertheless; the son too. frida thought she noticed that wolfgang was often depressed. sometimes he went to the theatre with her, she was so fond of "something to laugh at." but he did not join in her laughter, did not even laugh when the tears rolled down her cheeks with laughing. she could really get very vexed that lie had so little sense of what was amusing. "aren't you enjoying yourself?" "hm, moderately." "are you ill?" she asked, quite frightened. "no." "well, what's the matter with you then?" then he shrugged his shoulders and looked so forbidding that she did not question him any more, but only pressed his hand and assured him she was amusing herself splendidly. gradually these invitations to the theatre, which had mostly ended so pleasantly in a little intimate talk in some café or other, ceased. frida saw her friend very rarely at all now; he no longer fetched her from business, and did not turn up at her home. "who knows?" said frau lämke, "perhaps he'll soon get engaged. he has probably somebody in his mind's eye." frida pouted. she was put out that wolfgang never came. what could be the matter with him? she commenced to spy on him; but not only out of curiosity. and somebody else made inquiries about his doings too--that was his mother. at least, she tried to find out what he was doing. but she only discovered that he had once been seen in a small theatre with a pretty person, a blonde, whose hair was done in a very conspicuous manner. oh, that was the one at schildhorn. she still saw that fair hair gleam in the dusk--that was the one who was doing all the mischief. the mother made inquiries about her son's doings with a sagacity that would have done credit to a policeman. had her husband had any idea of how often--at any time of the day or evening--his wife wandered round the house where wolfgang had his rooms, he would have opposed it most strenuously. her burning desire to hear from wolfgang, to know something about him, made käte forget her own dignity. when she knew he was absent she had gone up to his rooms more than once, nominally to bring him this or that; but when she found herself alone there--she knew how to get rid of his garrulous landlady--she would rush about in both his rooms inspecting everything, would examine the things on his writing-table, even turn over every bit of paper. she was never conscious of what she was doing as long as she was there, but on going down the stairs again she felt how she had humiliated herself; she turned scarlet and felt demeaned in her own eyes, and promised herself faithfully never, never to do it again. and still she did it again. it was torture to her, and yet she could not leave it off. it was a cold day in winter--already evening, not late according to berlin notions, but still time for closing the shops, and the theatres and concerts had commenced long ago--and käte was still sitting in her son's rooms. he had not been to the villa to see her for a week--why not? a great anxiety had suddenly taken possession of her that day, she had felt obliged to go to him. her husband imagined she had gone to see one of hauptmann's pieces played for the first time--and she could also go there later on, for surely wolfgang must soon come home now. in answer to her letter of inquiry he had written that he had a cold, and stopped at home in the evenings. well, she certainly did not want him to come out to her and catch fresh cold, but it was surely natural that she should go to see him. she made excuses to herself. and so she waited and waited. the time passed very slowly. she had come towards seven o'clock, now it was already nine. she had carefully inspected both rooms a good many times, had stood at the window looking down absently at the throng in the streets, had sat down, got up and sat down again. now she walked up and down restlessly, anxiously. the landlady had already come in several times and found something to do; her inquisitive scrutinising glances would have annoyed käte at any other time, but now she took no notice of them. she could not make up her mind to go yet--if he were ill why did he not come home? her anxiety increased. something weighed on her mind like a premonition of coming evil. she would really have to ask the landlady now--it was already ten o'clock--if he always came home so late in spite of his cold. she rang for the woman. she came, inwardly much annoyed. why had frau schlieben not confided in her long ago? hm, she would have to wait now, the stuck-up person. "i suppose my son always comes home late?" käte inquired. her voice sounded quite calm, she must not let such a woman notice how anxious she really was. "hm," said the landlady, "sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn't." "i'm only surprised that he conies so late as he has a cold." "oh, has the young gentleman a cold?" what, the woman with whom wolfgang had lived almost three months knew so little about him? and she had promised to take such exceedingly good care of him. "you must give him a hot bottle at night. this room is cold." käte shivered and rubbed her hands. "and bring him a glass of hot milk with some ems salts in it before he gets up." the landlady heard the reproach in her voice at once, although nothing further was said, and became still more annoyed. "hm, if he doesn't come home at all, i can't give him a hot bottle at night or hot milk in the morning." "what--does not come home at all?" käte thought she could not have understood aright. she stared at the woman. "does not come home at all?" the woman nodded: "i can tell you, ma'am, it's no joke letting furnished rooms, you have to put up with a good deal. such a young gentleman--oh my!" she laughed half-angrily, half-amused. "i once had one who remained away eight days--it was about the first of the month. i was terrified about my rent--i had to go to the police." "where was he then? where was he then?" käte's voice quivered. the woman laughed. "well, then he turned up again." she saw the mother's terror, and her good-nature gained the victory over her malice. "he'll be sure to come again, ma'am," she said consolingly. "they all come again. don't fear. and herr schlieben has only been two days away as yet." two days away--two days? it was two days since he had written, in reply to her letter, that he had a cold and must remain at home. käte gazed around her as though she had lost her senses, her eyes looked quite dazed. where had he been the whole of those two days? not there and not at home--oh, he had not been to see her for a whole week. but he must have been at the office or paul would have mentioned it. but where was he all the rest of the time? that was only a couple of hours. and a day is long. and the nights, the nights! good god, the nights, where was he during the nights? käte would have liked to have screamed aloud, but the landlady was watching her with such inquisitive eyes, that she pressed the nails of one hand into the palm of the other and controlled herself. but her voice was nothing but a whisper now: "hasn't he been here at all for the last two days?" "no, not at all. but wait a moment." her love of a gossip was stronger than the reserve she had meant to show. drawing near to the lady who had sunk down in a chair, and dragging a chair forward for herself, she began to chatter to her, giving her all the details: "it was sunday--no, saturday that i began to notice there was something the matter with him. ay, he's one of the dashing sort. he was quite mad." "what do you mean? 'mad' do you say?" the landlady laughed. "oh, i don't mean in that way at all, you mustn't take it so literally, ma'am. well, he was--well, what am i to call it?--well, as they all are. well, and in the evening he went away as usual--well, and then he did not come back again." "and how--how was he?" the mother could only get the words out in jerks, she could no longer speak connectedly, a sudden terror had overwhelmed her, almost paralysing her tongue. "did he--seem strange?" as in a vision his livid face and the place in the sand near schildhorn, where the wind was always blowing, appeared before her many a mother's son, many a mother's son--o god, o god, if he had made away with himself! she trembled as the leaves do in a storm, and broke down altogether. the landlady guessed the mother's thoughts instinctively, and she assured her in a calm good-natured voice: "no, don't imagine that for a moment. he wasn't sad--and not exactly happy either--well, like--like--well, just in the right mood." "and--oh, could you not give me a--a hint of--where--where he might be?" the woman shook her head doubtfully. "who could know that? you see, ma'am, there are so many temptations. but wait a moment." she shut her eyes tightly and pondered. "some time ago such a pretty girl used to come here, she used to fetch him to go to the theatre, she said--well, it may have been true. she often came, very often--once a week at least. she was fair, really a pretty girl." "fair--quite light-coloured hair--a good deal of it and waved over the ears?" "yes, yes, it was done like that, combed over the ears, a large knot behind you could not help noticing it, it was so fair. and they were on very friendly terms with each other." fair hair--extremely fair. ah, she had known it at once when she saw him at schildhorn with that fair-haired girl. everything seemed to be clear to her now. "you--do not know, i suppose--oh, do you happen to know her name?" "he called her frida." "frida?" "yes, frida. i know that for certain. but she does not come here any more now. but perhaps he's got a letter from her. i'll look, just you wait." and the woman bent down, drew out the paper-basket from under the writing-table and began to rummage in it. "he throws everything into the paper-basket, you see," she said in an explanatory tone of voice. she had certainly never sought there. käte looked on with staring eyes, whilst the woman turned over every scrap of paper with practised ringers. all at once she cried out: "there, we've got it." and she placed some bits of paper triumphantly on the table. "here's a letter from her. do you see? i know the writing. now we'll see." laying their heads together the two women tried to piece together the separate bits of the letter that had been torn up. but they were not successful, too much was wanting, they could only put a very few sentences together: "not come any more-- "angry with me-- "soon come to you some evening-- "always your" but wait, here was the signature. that had not been torn, here it stood large and connected at the bottom of the sheet of paper: "always your" "frida lÄmke." "frida lämke?" käte gave a loud cry of surprise. frida lämke--no, she had never thought that--or were there perhaps two of the same name? that fair-haired child that used to play in the garden in former years? why yes, yes, she had always had bold eyes. "you know her, i suppose?" asked the landlady, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. käte did not answer. she stared at the carpet in deep thought. was this worse--or was it not so bad? could it not still be hindered now that she was on the track, or was everything lost? she did not know; her head was no longer clear enough for her to consider the matter from a sensible point of view, she could not even think any more. she only had the feeling that she must go to the lämkes. only go there, go there as quickly as possible. jumping up she said hastily: "that's all right, quite all right--thanks. oh, it's all right." and hastening past the disconcerted woman she hurried to the door and down the stairs. somebody happened to unlock the door from outside at that moment; thus she got out. now she was in the street. she had never stood in friedrichstrasse so quite alone at that time of night before; her husband had always accompanied her, and if she happened to go to the theatre or a concert alone for once in a way, he had always fetched her himself or made friedrich fetch her, at any rate. all at once she was seized with something that resembled fear, although the beautiful street was as light as day. such a quantity of men, such a quantity of women. they flowed past her like a stream, and she was carried with them. figures surged round her like waves--rustling dresses that smelt strongly of scent, and gentlemen, men, young and old, old men and youths, some of whom were hardly more than boys. it was like a corso there--what were they all seeking? so this was berlin's much-talked-of and amusing life at night? it was awful, oh, unspeakably horrible. suddenly käte saw everything from one point of view only. hitherto she had been blind, as unsuspicious as a child. a policeman's helmet came into sight. she flew away as though somebody were in pursuit of her: the man could not see that she had grey hairs and that she was a lady. perhaps he, too, looked upon her as one of those. let her only get away, away. she threw herself into a cab, she fell rather than got into it. she gave the driver her address in a trembling voice. a burning longing came over her all at once: home, only home. home to her clean, well-regulated house, to those walls that surrounded her like a shelter. no, he must not come into her clean house any more, not carry his filth into those rooms. she drove the whole way huddled up in a corner, her trembling eyelids closed convulsively; the road seemed endless to her to-day. how slowly the cab drove. oh, what would paul say? he would be getting anxious, she was so late. all at once käte longed to fly to her husband's arms and find shelter on his breast. she had quite forgotten she had wanted to go to the lämkes straight away. besides, how could she? it was almost midnight, and who knows, perhaps she would only find a mother there, who was just as unhappy as she? lost children--alas, one does not know which is more terrible, a lost son or a lost daughter! käte cried bitterly. but when the tears stole from under her closed lids and ran down her cheeks, she became calmer. now that she no longer saw the long procession in the street, did not see what went on there every night, her fear disappeared. her courage rose again; and as it rose the knowledge came to her, that she was only a weak and timid woman, but he a robust youth, who was to be a man, a strong swimmer. there was no need to lose all hope yet. by the time the first pines in the quiet colony glided past to the right and left of her and the moonshine showed pure white on their branches, käte had made up her mind. she would go to the lämkes next day and speak to the mother, and she would not say anything to her husband about it beforehand. the same fear that now so often made her mute in his presence took possession of her once more: he would never feel as she felt. he would perhaps seize the boy with a rough hand, and that must not be. she was still there, and it was her duty to help the stumbling lad with gentle hand. käte went up to her husband quite quietly, so calmly that he did not notice anything. but when she took the road to the lämkes next day, her heart trembled and beat as spasmodically as it had done before. she had fought against her fear and faint-heartedness the whole morning; now it was almost noon on that account, paul had told her at breakfast that wolfgang had not been to the office the day before and only for quite a short time the preceding day. "i don't know what's the matter with the boy," he had said. "i'm really too angry with him. but i suppose we ought to find out what's happened to him." "i'll do so," she had answered. her feet hardly carried her as she slowly crept along, but at last she almost ran: he had been her child for many, many years, and she shared the responsibility. she no longer asked herself how she was to begin the conversation with frau lämke, she hoped the right word would be given her when the time came. so she groped her way down the dark steps to the cellar where the lämkes lived, knocked at the door and walked in without waiting for an answer. frau lämke was just washing the floor, the brush fell from her hand and she quickly let down the dress that she had turned up: frau schlieben? what did she want at her house? the pale woman with the innocent-looking face that had grown so thin gazed at the lady with the utmost astonishment. "how do you do, frau lämke," said käte, in quite a friendly voice. "is your daughter frida at home? i want to speak to her." "no, frida isn't at home." the woman looked still more perturbed: what did the lady want with frida? she had never troubled about her before. "frida is at business." "is she? do you know that for certain?" there was something offensive in her way of questioning, but frau lämke did not notice anything in her innocence. "frida is never back from business at this time of day, but she is due in less than half an hour. she has two hours off at dinner-time; in the evening she does not come in until about ten, as they only close at nine. but if you would like her to come to you after her dinner"--frau lämke was very curious, what could she want with frida?--"she'll be pleased to do so." "she'll be here in half an hour, you say?" "yes, certainly. she's always in a hurry to come home to her mother--and she's always hungry too." "i will wait for her if i may," said käte. "please sit down." frau lämke hastily wiped a chair with her apron: after all, it was an honour that wolfgang's mother came to see frida in the cellar. and in a voice full of cordial sympathy she said: "how is the young gentleman? if i may ask. is he quite well?" käte did not answer her: that was really too great an impertinence, quite an unheard-of impertinence. how could she ask so boldly? but all at once she was filled with doubt: did she know anything about it? she looked into her innocent eyes. this woman had probably been deceived as she had been. she had not the heart to explain matters--poor mother! so she only nodded and said evasively: "quite well, thanks." they were silent, both feeling a certain embarrassment. frau lämke peeled the potatoes for dinner and put them on, now and then casting a furtive look at the lady who sat waiting. käte was pale and tried to hide her yawns; her agitation had been followed by a feeling of great exhaustion. for was she not waiting in vain? and this mother would also wait in vain to-day. the girl, that hypocrite, was not coming. käte was seized with something akin to fury when she thought of the girl's fair hair. that was what had led her boy astray, that had bewitched him--perhaps he could not throw her off now. "always your--your frida lämke"--she had sulked in that letter, he had probably wanted to draw back but--"if you don't come i shall come to you,"--oh, she would no doubt take care not to let him go, she held him fast. käte did not believe that frida lämke would come home. it was getting on for two o'clock. her mother had lied, perhaps she was acting in concert with the girl all the time. but now käte gave a start, a step was heard on the cellar steps, and on hearing it her mother said, delighted: "that's frida." someone hummed a tune outside--then the door opened. frida lämke was wearing a dark fur toque on her fair hair now, instead of the little sailor hat; it was imitation fur, but two pigeon wings were stuck in on one side, and the hat suited her pert little face well. käte was standing in the greatest agitation; she had jumped up and was looking at the girl with burning eyes. so she had really come. she was there but wolfgang, where was he? she quite shouted at the girl as she said: "do you know where my son is--wolfgang--wolfgang schlieben?" frida's rosy face turned white in her surprise. she wanted to say something, stammered, hesitated, bit her lips and got scarlet. "how should i know? i don't know." "you know very well. don't tell a lie." käte seized hold of frida violently by both her slender arms. she would have liked to catch hold of her fair hair and scream aloud whilst tearing it out: "my boy! give me back my boy!" but she had not the strength to go on shaking her until she had forced her to confess. frida's blue eyes looked at her quite openly, quite frankly, even if there seemed to be a slight anxiety in her glance. "i've not seen him for a long time, ma'am," she said honestly. and then her voice grew softer and there was a certain anxiety in it: "he used to come here formerly, but he never does now--does he, mother?" frau lämke shook her head: "no, never." she did not feel at all at her ease, everything seemed so strange to her: frau schlieben in their cellar, and what did she want with frida? something had happened, there was something wrong. but whatever it was her frida was innocent, frau schlieben must know that. and so she took courage: "if you think that my frida has anything to do with it, ma'am, you're very much mistaken. my frida has walked out a long time with flebbe--hans flebbe, the coachman's son, he's a grocer--and besides, frida is a respectable girl. what are you thinking about my daughter? but it's always like that, a girl of our class cannot be respectable, oh no!" the insulted mother got quite aggressive now. "my frida was a very good friend of your wolfgang, and i am also quite fond of him when i felt so wretched last summer he sent me fifty marks that i might go to fangschleuse for three weeks and get better--but let him try to come here again now, i'll turn him out, the rascal!" her pale face grew hot and red in her vague fear that something might be said against her frida. frida rushed up to her and threw her arm round her shoulders: "oh, don't get angry, mother. you're not to excite yourself, or you'll get that pain in your stomach again." frida became quite energetic now. with her arm still round her mother's shoulders she turned her fair head to käte: "you'll have to go somewhere else, ma'am, i can't tell you anything about your son. mother and i were speaking quite lately about his never coming here now. and i wrote him a note the other day, telling him to come and see us--because i had not seen him for ever so long, and--and--well, because he always liked to be with me. but he hasn't answered it. i've certainly not done anything to him. but he has changed greatly." she put on a knowing look: "i think it would be better if he still lived at home, ma'am." käte stared at her. what did she suspect? what did she know? did she really know anything? doubts rose in her mind, and then came the certainty: this girl was innocent, otherwise she would not have been able to speak like that. even the most artful person could not look so ingenuous. and she had also confessed quite of her own accord that she had lately written to wolfgang--no, this girl was not so bad, it must be another one with fair hair. but where was she to look for her?--where find wolfgang? and holding out both her hands to the girl as though she were begging her pardon, she said in a voice full of misery: "but don't you know anything? have you no idea whatever where he might be? it was two days yesterday since he went away--since he disappeared--disappeared entirely, his landlady does not know where." "disappeared entirely--two days ago?" frida opened her eyes wide. "yes, i've just told you so. that's why i am asking you. he has disappeared, quite disappeared." a furious impatience took possession of his mother and at the same time the full understanding of her painful position. she put her hands before her face and groaned aloud. frau lämke and her daughter exchanged glances full of compassion. frida turned pale, then red, it seemed as if she were about to say something, but she kept silent nevertheless. "but he's not bad, no, he's not bad," whispered frau lämke. "who says that he's bad?" käte started up, letting her hands fall from before her face. all the misery she had endured during those long years and the hopelessness of it all lay in her voice as she added: "he's been led astray, he has gone astray--he's lost, lost!" frida wept aloud. "oh, don't say that," she cried. "he'll come back again, he's sure to come back. if only i--" she hesitated and frowned as she pondered--"knew for certain." "help me! oh, can't you help me?" frau lämke clasped her hands when she heard the poor woman's cry of "help me!" and trembled with excitement: how terrible if a mother has to live to see her child do such things, the child she has brought into the world with such pain. forgetting the respect with which she always regarded käte she tottered up to her and grasped her cold hand as it hung at her side: "oh dear, oh dear, i am so grieved, so terribly grieved. but calm yourself. you know a mother has still such power, quite special power, her child never forgets her quite." and she smiled with a certain security. "but he isn't my son--not my own son--i'm not his real mother." käte confessed now what she had never confessed before. her fear dragged it out of her and the hope that the woman would say: "he won't forget such a mother either, certainly not." but frau lämke did not say it. there was doubt written on her face and she shook her head. she had not thought of her not being wolfgang's real mother at that moment. there was a troubled silence in the room. all that could be heard was a sound of heavy breathing, until at last frida broke the paralysing stillness in her clear voice. "have you been to see the landlady to-day?" she asked. käte shook her head in silence. "well then, ma'am, you say it was two days ago yesterday, then he may have come back to-day. we shall have to make inquiries. shall i run there quickly?" and she was already at the door, and did not hear her mother call after her: "frida, frida, you must eat a mouthful first, you haven't eaten any dinner yet," but ran up the cellar steps in her good-natured haste and compassionate sympathy. käte ran after her. but they got no further news in friedrichstrasse. there were fires in the rooms, they had been dusted, the breakfast table had even been laid as if the young gentleman was expected to come any moment--the landlady hoped to receive special praise for her thoughtfulness--but the young gentleman had not returned. * * * * * * * * * * * * * käte schlieben was ill in bed. the doctor shrugged his shoulders: there was not much to be done, it was a question of complete apathy. if only something would happen that would rouse her, something for which it would repay her to make an effort, she would be all right again. at present he prescribed strengthening food--her pulse was so bad--every hour a spoonful of puro, essence of beef, eggs, milk, oysters and such like. paul schlieben was sitting near his wife's bed; he had just come home from town. he was sitting there with bent head and knit brows. "still nothing about him? what did the woman say--nothing at all about him?" käte had just whispered in a feeble voice. his only answer was: "we shall have to communicate with the police after all now." "no, no, not with the police. should we have him sought as though he were a criminal? you're terrible, paul. be quiet, paul." her voice that had been so feeble at first had almost become a scream. he shrugged his shoulders. "there's nothing left for us to do but that," and he looked at her anxiously and then lowered his head. it seemed to him as though he could not realise the calamity that had overtaken him, as though it were too great. it was now a week since wolfgang had gone away--the misery that fellow had brought on them was terrible, terrible. but his wife's condition made him still more uneasy. how would it end? her increased nervousness was dangerous; and then there was her complete loss of strength. käte had never been a robust woman, but now she was getting so thin, so very thin; the hand that lay so languidly on the coverlet had become quite transparent during the last week. oh, and her hair so grey. the man sought for the traces of former beauty in his wife's face with sad eyes: too many wrinkles, too many lines graven on it, furrows that the plough of grief had made there. he had to weep; it seemed too hard to see her like that. turning his head aside he shaded his eyes with his hand. he sat thus in silence without moving, and she did not move either, but lay as though asleep. then somebody knocked. the man glanced at his wife in dismay: had it disturbed her? but she did not raise her eyelids. he went to the door on tip-toe and opened it. friedrich brought the post, all sorts of letters and papers. paul only held out his hand to take them from habit, he took so little interest in anything now. during the first days after wolfgang's disappearance käte had always trembled for fear there should be something about him in the newspaper, she had been tortured by the most terrible fears; now she no longer asked. but it was the man's turn to tremble, although he tried to harden himself: what would they still have to bear? he never took up a paper without a certain dread. "don't rustle the paper so horribly, i can't bear it," said the feeble woman irritably. then he got up to creep out of the room--it was better he went, she did not like him near her. but his glance fell on one of the letters. whose unformed, copy-book handwriting was that? probably a begging letter. it was addressed to his wife, but she did not open any letters at present; and he positively longed to open just that letter. it was not curiosity, he felt as if he must do it. he opened the letter more quickly than he was in the habit of doing. a woman had written it, no doubt a girl the letters were carefully formed, with no character in them. and the person had evidently endeavoured to disguise her writing. "if you wish to find out anything about your son, you must go to , puttkammerstrasse, and watch the third storey in the back building, left side wing, where 'knappe' is written above the bell. there she lives." no name had been signed underneath it; "a good friend" was all that was written below. paul schlieben had a feeling as if the paper were burning his fingers--common paper, but pink and smelling of cheap perfumed soap--an anonymous letter, faugh! what had this trash to do with them? he was about to crumple it up when käte's voice called to him from the bed: "what have you got there, paul? a letter? show me it." and as he approached her, but only slowly, hesitatingly, she raised herself up and tore the letter out of his hand. she read it and cried out in a loud voice: "frida lämke has written that. i'm sure it's from her. she was going to look for him--and her brother and the man she's engaged to--they will have found him. puttkammerstrasse--where is that? , we shall have to go there. immediately, without delay. ring for the maid. my shoes, my things--oh, i can't find anything. for goodness' sake do ring. she must do my hair--oh, never mind, i can do it all myself." she had jumped out of bed in trembling haste; she was sitting in front of her dressing-table now, combing her long hair herself. it was tangled from lying in bed, but she combed it through with merciless haste. "if only we don't arrive too late. we shall have to make haste. he's sure to be there, quite sure to be there. why do you stand there looking at me like that? do get ready. i shall be ready directly, we shall be able to go directly. paul, dear paul, we are sure to find him there--oh god!" she threw out her arms, her weakness made her dizzy, but her will conquered the weakness. now she stood quite firmly on her feet. nobody would have believed that she had just been lying in her bed perfectly helpless. her husband had not the courage to oppose her wishes, besides, how could things be worse than they were? they could never be worse than they were, and at all events she would never be able to reproach him any more that he had not loved the boy. when, barely half an hour later, they got into the carriage friedrich had telephoned for, she was less pale than, and did not look so old as, he. chapter xvii whenever frida lämke met wolfgang schlieben now, she cast down her eyes and he pretended not to see her. he was angry with her: the confounded little minx to betray him. she was the only one who could have put his parents on his track. how should they otherwise have ever guessed it? he could have kicked himself for having once given that viper hints about his acquaintance in puttkammerstrasse. frida and her friendship, just let her try to talk to him again about friendship. pooh, women on the whole were not worth anything. a fierce contempt for women had taken possession of the young fellow. he would have liked to spit in their faces--all venal creatures--he knew quite enough about them now, ay, and loathed them. the boy, who was not yet nineteen, felt tired and old; strangely tired. when wolfgang thought of the time that had just passed, it seemed to him like a dream; now that the rooms in friedrichstrasse had been given up and he was living with his parents again, even like a bad dream. and when he met frida lämke--that could not be avoided as he drove to and fro regularly in office hours now--he felt a bitter pang every time. he did not even say how do you do to her, he could not bring himself to say even that. if only he could throw of! the oppression that weighed him down. they were not unkind to him--no, they were even very good--but still he had always the feeling that they only tolerated him. that irritated him and made him sad at the same time. they had not reproached him, would probably not do so either, but his father was always grave, reserved, and his mother's glance had something that simply tortured him. he was filled with a morbid distrust: why did they not tell him straight out they despised him? something that was almost remorse troubled him during the nights when he could not sleep. at such times his heart would throb, positively flutter, he had to sit up in bed--he could not bear to lie down--and fight for breath. then he stared into the dark, his eyes distended with terror. oh, what a horrible condition that was. in the morning when the attack was over--this "moral sickness"--as he used to call it scornfully--he was vexed at his sentimentality. what wrong had he done? nothing different from what hundreds of other young fellows do, only they were not so idiotic as he. that frida, that confounded gossip. he would have liked to wring her neck. after those bad nights wolfgang was still more unamiable, more taciturn, more sulky, more reserved than ever. and he looked more wretched. "he's run down," said paul schlieben to himself. he did not say so to his wife--why agitate her still more?--for he could see that she was uneasy from the way she took care of him. she did not make use of words or of caresses--those days were over--but she paid special attention to his food; he was positively pampered. a man of his age ought to be much stronger. his back no longer seemed to be so broad, his chest was less arched, his black eyes lay deep in their sockets and had dark lines under them. he held himself badly and he was always in very bad spirits. his spirits, yes, his spirits, those were at the root of all the evil, but no care could alter them and no medicine. the young fellow was dissatisfied with himself, that was it, and was it any wonder? he felt ashamed of himself. and the situation in which he had found him rose up before his father's mental vision with terrible distinctness. he had let his wife wait downstairs for him--true, she had made a point of going up with him, but he had insisted on her staying down in the court-yard, that narrow, dark yard which smelt of fustiness and dust--he had gone up alone. three flights of stairs. they had seemed terribly steep to him, his knees had never felt so tired before when mounting any stairs. there was the name "knappe." he had touched the bell--ugh, what a start he had given when he heard the shrill peal. what did he really want there? as the result of an anonymous letter he, paul schlieben, was forcing his way in on strange people, into a strange house? the blood surged to his head--and at that moment the person opened the door in a light blue dressing-gown, no longer young, but buxom, and with good-natured eyes. and by the gleam of a miserable kitchen lamp, which lighted up the pitch-dark passage even at noon, he had seen a smart top-coat and a fine felt hat hanging in the entrance, and had recognised wolfgang's things. so he was really there? there? so the anonymous letter had not lied after all. he did not know exactly what he had done after that; he only knew he had got rid of some money. and then he had led the young man down the stairs by the arm--that is to say, dragged him more than led him. käte had met them halfway. she had found the time too long downstairs, open-mouthed children had gathered round her, and women had watched her from the windows. she was almost in despair: why did paul remain upstairs such a terribly long time? she had had no idea, of course, that he had first to wake his son out of a leaden sleep in an untidy bed. and she must never, never know. now they had got him home again, but was it a pleasure? to that paul schlieben had to give a curt "no" as answer, even if he had felt ever so disposed to forgive, ever so placable. no joy came to them from that quarter now. perhaps they might have some later, much later. for the time being it would be best for the young man to serve his time as a soldier. wolfgang was to present himself on the first of april. schlieben pinned his last hope to that. wolfgang had always wished to serve with the rathenow hussars, but after their last experiences his father deemed it more advisable to let him join the more sedate infantry. formerly wolfgang would have opposed this plan very strenuously--in any case it must be cavalry--now it did not enter his head to do so. if he had to serve as a soldier, it was quite immaterial to him where; he was dead tired. his only wish was to sleep his fill for once. kullrich was dead--his sorrowing father had sent him the announcement from görbersdorf towards christmas--and he? he had wasted too many nights in dissipation. it was a blow to paul schlieben that wolfgang was not accepted as a soldier. "disqualified"--a hard word--and why disqualified? "serious organic defect of the heart"--his parents read it with eyes that thought they had made a mistake and that still read correctly. wolfgang was very exhausted when he came home after the examination, but he did not seem to mind much that he was disqualified. he did not show it--but was he not, all the same? the doctor tried to put everything in as favourable a light as he could after he, too, had examined him. "defect of the heart, good gracious, defect of the heart, there isn't a single person who has a perfectly normal heart. if you take a little care of yourself, wolfgang, and live a regular life, you can grow to be a very old man with it." the young fellow did not say a word. the schliebens overwhelmed their doctor with reproaches. why had he not told them it long ago? he must surely have known. why had he left them in such ignorance? dr. hofmann defended himself: had he not again and again exhorted them to be careful? he had been anxious about the boy's heart ever since he had had scarlet fever, and had not concealed his fears. all the same, he had not thought matters would get worse so quickly. the boy had lived too gay a life. "serious organic defect of the heart"--that was like a sentence of death. wolfgang laid down his arms. all at once he felt he had no longer the strength to fight against those attacks in the night. what he had fought out all alone in his bed, even without lighting his candle, before he knew that, now drove him to his feet. it drove him to the window--he tore it open--drove him round the room, until he at last, completely exhausted, found rest in the arm-chair. it drove him even to knock at his parents' door: "are you asleep? i am so frightened. sit up with me." * * * * * * * * * * * * * they had had bad nights for weeks. wolfgang had suffered and his mother with him. how could she sleep when she knew that somebody in the next room was in torture? now he was better again. their old friend's medicines had had a good effect, and wolfgang had gone through a regular cure: baths, friction, massage, special diet. now they could be quite satisfied with the result. it was especially the strictly regular life that had done him good; his weight had increased, his eyes were brighter, his complexion fresher. they were all full of hope--all except one. that one had no wish to live any longer. the month of april was raw and stormy, quite exceptionally cold. it was impossible for the convalescent to be as much in the open air as was desirable, especially as any exercise that would warm him, such as tennis, cycling, riding, was still too tiring for him. the doctor proposed to send him to the riviera. even if there were only a few weeks left before it would be too hot there, that would suffice. his father was at once willing for the young fellow to go. if it would do him good of course he must go. käte offered to accompany him. "but why, my dear lady? the youngster can quite well go alone," the doctor assured her. however, she insisted on it, she would go with him. it was not because she still feared she might lose him; it was her duty to do so, she must accompany him even if she had not wished to. and at the same time a faint desire began to stir in her, too, unknown to herself. she was so well acquainted with the south--should they go to sestri, for example? she looked inquiringly at her husband. had they not once spent some perfectly delightful days on the coast near spezia? there, near the blue sea, where the large stone pines are greener and give more shade than the palms further south, where there is something crisp and refreshing in the air in spite of its mildness, where there is nothing relaxing in the climate but everything is vivifying. he smiled; of course they could go there. he was so pleased that his wife's enthusiasm was not quite a thing of the past. wolfgang rummaged about in his room for a long time on the afternoon before their departure. käte, who feared he might exert himself too much whilst packing, had sent friedrich to assist him. but the latter soon came downstairs again: "the young gentleman wishes to do it alone." when wolfgang had put the last things into his trunk he looked round his room thoughtfully. he had grown up there, he had so often looked upon the room as a cage, would he ever return to it? _here have we no continuing city, but we seek one to come._ the text he had received at his confirmation hung on the wall opposite him in a beautiful frame. he had not read it for a long time. now he read it again, smiling slightly, a little scornfully and a little sadly. yes, he would flutter back into it. he had got used to the cage. and now he resolved to do something more as the very last thing--to go to frida. frau lämke was speechless with astonishment, almost frightened, when she saw young heir schlieben step into her room about the time her frida generally came home. she stammered with embarrassment: "no, frida isn't at home yet--and artur isn't either--and father is up in the lodge--but if you will put up with my company until--until--they come"--she pushed him a chair with a good deal of noise. he drew his chair close to the table at which she had been sewing. now he was sitting where he used to sit. and he remembered his first invitation to the lämkes' quite distinctly--it had been frida's tenth birthday--he had sat there with the children, and the coffee and the cakes had tasted so excellent. and a host of other memories came back to him--nothing but pleasant memories--but still he and frau lämke did not seem able to start a proper conversation. did he feel oppressed at the thought of meeting frida again? or what made him so restless there? yes, that was it, he did not feel at home there now. there was something sad in his voice when he said to frau lämke as he held out his hand to her on leaving: "well--good-bye." "well, i hope you'll have a real good time--good bye for the present." he nodded in reply and shook her hand once more, and then he went. he preferred to go and meet frida, that was better than sitting in that room. his heart was throbbing. then he saw her coming towards him. although it was dark and the street lamps not so good as in the town, he recognised her already far off. she was wearing the same sailor hat with the blue band she had had the summer before; it was certainly rather early in the year, but it suited her--so fresh and springlike. a feeling surged up in wolfgang, as she stood before him, that he had never known in the presence of any woman: a brotherly feeling of great tenderness. he greeted her in silence, but she said in a glad voice: "oh, is it you, wolfgang?" and held out her hand to him. he strolled along beside her as he had done before; she had slackened her pace involuntarily. she did not know exactly on what footing they were with each other, but still she thought she could feel that he was no longer angry. "we are going away to-morrow," he said. "well, i never! where?" and he told her. she interrupted him in the middle. "are you angry with me?" she asked in a low voice. he shook his head in the negative, but he did not say anything further about it. all she had intended saying to him, that she had not been able to do anything else, that hans had found him out, that she had promised his mother and that she herself had been so extremely anxious about him, remained unsaid. it was not necessary. it was as if the past were dead and buried now, as if he had entirely forgotten it. when he told the girl, who was listening with much interest, about the riviera where he was going, something like a new pleasure in life seemed to creep into his heart again. oh, all he wanted was to get away from his present surroundings. when he got to the riviera everything would be better. he had not got an exact impression of what it would be like there; he had only half listened, no, he had not listened at all when his mother told him about the south, it had all been so immaterial to him. now he felt himself that it was a good thing to take an interest in things again. he drew a deep breath. "are you going to send me a pretty picture post-card from there, too?" she asked. "of course, many." and then he laid his arm round her narrow shoulders and drew her towards him. and she let him draw her. they stood in the public street, where the bushes that grew on both sides of it were already in bud and the elder was swelling with the first sap, and clung to each other. "come back quite well," she sobbed. and he kissed her tenderly on her cheek: "frida, i really have to thank you." when frida went to business next morning--it was half past seven--she said to her mother: "now he's gone," and she remained thoughtful the whole day. she had not spoken to wolfgang for many weeks and she had not minded it at all during the time but since the evening before she had felt sad. she had thought much of him, she could not forget him at all. chapter xviii käte was alone with her son. now she had him all to herself. what she had striven for jealously before had now been given to her. not even nature that looked in at the windows with such alluring eyes could attract him. it surprised her--nay, it almost saddened her now--that he did not show more interest. they travelled through switzerland--he saw it for the first time--but those high mountains, whose summits were lost in the snow and the clouds and that moved her to tears of adoring admiration the first time she saw them, hardly wrung a glance from him. now and then he looked out of the carriage window, but he mostly leant back in his corner reading, or dreaming with open eyes. "are you tired?" "no," he said; nothing but "no," but without the surly abruptness which had been peculiar to him. his tone was no longer unpleasant and repellent. käte looked at her son with anxious eyes: was the journey tiring him? it was fortunate that she was with him. it seemed to her that she was indispensable, and a feeling of heartfelt satisfaction made her insensible to the fatigue of the long journey. wolfgang was not much interested in the cathedral at milan. "yes, grand," he said when she grew enthusiastic about the marvellous structure. but he would not go up to the platform with her, from which they would have a magnificent view all round as far as the distant alps, as the weather was so clear. "you go alone, leave me here." at first it seemed ridiculous to her that she, the old woman, should go up whilst he, the young man, remained below. but at last she could not resist the desire to see all those marvellous things again that she had already once enjoyed. she took a ticket for the platform, and he opened one of the camp stools that stand about in the enormous empty cathedral and sat down, his back against a marble pillar. oh, it was nice to rest here. after the market outside, with its noise and the buzzing of voices and all the gaudy colours, he found a twilight here filled with the perfume of incense. it did not disturb him that doors opened and closed, that people came in and out in crowds. that here a guide gave the visitors the information he had learnt by heart, drawling it quite loudly in a cracked voice without heeding that he meanwhile almost stumbled over the feet of those who were kneeling on low benches, confessing their sins in a whisper to a priest seated there. that there someone was celebrating mass--the priests were curtsying and ringing their bells--whilst here a cook chattered to a friend of hers, the fowls that were tied together by their legs lying beside her. all that did not disturb him, he did not notice it even. the delicious twilight filled his senses, he was so sleepy, felt such a blessed fatigue. all the saints smiled before his closing eyes, sweet marys and chubby little angels resembling cupids. he felt at his ease there. milan cathedral, that wonder of the world, lost its embarrassing grandeur; the wide walls moved together, became narrow and home-like, and still they enfolded the world a peaceful world in which sinners kneel down and rise again pure. wolfgang was seized with a great longing to kneel down there also. oh, there it was again, the longing he had had in his boyhood. how he had loved the church their maid cilia had taken him to. he still loved it, he loved it anew, he loved it now with a more ardent love than in those days. he felt at home in this church, he had the warm feeling of belonging to it. _qui vivis et regnas in sæcula sæculorum._ the golden monstrance gleamed as it was raised on high, those who were praying bowed low, blissful harmonies floated under the high arched dome, ever more and more beautiful--more and more softly. his eyelids closed. and he saw cilia--as fresh, as beautiful as life itself. oh, how very beautiful. surely she had not looked like that before? he knew that he was dreaming, but he was not able to shake off the dream. and she came quite close to him--oh, so close. and she made the sign of the cross--over him the organ played softly--hark, what was she saying, what was she whispering above him? he wanted to seize hold of her hand, question her, then he heard another voice: "wolfgang, are you asleep?" käte had laid her hand lightly on his hands, which were folded on his knees. "i suppose i was a long time up there? you have felt bored?" "oh no, no." he said it enthusiastically. they went out of the cathedral together, whilst the organ sounded behind them until they reached the market-place. käte was in ecstasies about the view she had had, so did not notice the mysterious radiance in wolfgang's eyes. he was quiet, and seemed to agree to everything. * * * * * * * * * * * * * his manner began to cause his mother some uneasiness. what would have made her happy before--oh, how she had longed for a more docile child in bygone days!--saddened her now. was he, after all, worse than they had any idea of? they had now reached the coast, had got to sestri. those were the same stone pines under which she had sat and painted as a younger woman eighteen years ago. but another hotel had come into existence since then, quite a german hotel, german landlord, german waiters, german food, german society, all the comfort the germans like. käte had wanted to live a retired life, to devote herself to wolfgang; but now she felt she needed a chat with this one or that one at times, for even if she and wolfgang were together, she felt alone all the same. what was he thinking of? his brow and his eyes showed that he was thinking of something, but he did not express his thoughts. was he low-spirited--bright? happy--sad? were there many things he repented of and did he ponder over them, or did he feel bored here? she did not know. he kept away from everybody else with a certain obstinacy. it was in vain that käte encouraged him to play tennis with young girls who were on the look-out for a partner; if he did not overdo it he might certainly try to play. he was also invited to go out sailing, but he did not seem to care for that sport any longer. wolfgang lay right out on the mole for the most part, against the rocky point of which the blue sea flings itself restlessly until it is a mass of white foam, and looked across at the coast near san remo swimming in a ruddy violet vapour or back at the naked heights of the apennines, in whose semi-circle the white and red houses of sestri nestle. when the fishing boats glided into the harbour with slack sails like weary birds, he got up and sauntered along to meet them at the landing-place. then he would stand there with his hands in his trouser pockets, to see what fish they brought ashore. the catches were not large. then he took his hands out of his pockets and gave the fishermen what money he had with him. if his mother had known what her son was thinking of! if she had guessed that his soul flew away with weary wings like a gull drifting over a boundless sea! wolfgang was suffering from home-sickness. he did not like being there. everything was much too soft, much too beautiful there; he felt bored. the stone pines with their pungent smell were the only things he liked; they were even better than the pines in the grunewald. but he was not really longing for the grunewald either. it was always the same, whether he was here or there he was always racked with longing. for what? for what place? that was what he pondered over. but he would not have liked to say it to his mother, for he saw now that she did all she could for him. and he found an affectionate word to say to her more frequently than he had ever done before in his life. so at last, at last i käte often gave him a covert side-glance: was this the same boy who had resisted her so defiantly as a child, had refused her love, all her great love? this boy whose face had moved her so strangely in milan cathedral, was he the same who had lain on the doorstep drunk?--ugh, so drunk! the same who had sunk, sunk so low, that he--oh, she would not think of it any more. käte wanted to forget; she honestly tried to do so. when she found him in the cathedral sitting near the pillar, his hands folded, his eyelids closed dreamily, he had seemed to her so young, still touchingly young; his forehead had been smooth, as though all the lines on it had been wiped away. and she had to think: had they not expected too much of him? had they always been just to him? had they understood him as they ought to have understood him? doubts arose in her mind. she had always deemed herself a good mother; since that day in the cathedral she felt as though she had failed in something. she herself could not say in what. but sadness and a large amount of self-torturing pain were mingled with the satisfaction that her son had now come to her. ah, now he was good, now he was at least something like what she had wished him to be--softer, more tractable--but now--what pleasure had she from it now? "wolfgang still causes me uneasiness," she wrote to her husband. "it's beautiful here, but he does not see it. i am often frightened." when her husband had offered to go with them he had done so because he wished to save her in many ways--käte had opposed it almost anxiously: no, no, it was not at all necessary. she would much prefer to be alone with wolfgang, she considered it so much more beneficial both for him and for herself. but now she often thought of her husband, and wrote to him almost every day. and even if it were only a few lines on a postcard, she felt the need of sending him a word. he, yes he would find it just as beautiful there as she found it. as they had both found it in the old days. they had once climbed that path over the rocks together, he had given her his hand, had led her so that she should not feel dizzy, and she had eyed the blue glassy sea far below her and far above her the grey rocky promontory with the deep green stone pines that kissed the blue of the sky with a blissful shudder. had she grown so old in those eighteen years that she dared not go along that path any more? she had tried but it was of no use, she had been seized with a sudden dizziness. that was because the hand was not there that had supported her so firmly, so securely. oh yes, those had been better days, happier. käte entirely forgot that she had coveted something so ardently in those days, that she had saddened many an hour for herself and him, embittered every enjoyment. now she looked past the son who was strolling along by her side, looked into the distance with tender eyes in which a gleam of her lost youth still shone--her good husband, he was so alone. did he think of her as she of him? that evening when wolfgang had retired to his room--what he did there, whether he still sat up reading or writing or had already gone to bed she did not know--she wrote to her husband. it was not the length and the full particulars she gave in the letter that pleased paul schlieben so much--she had also written long detailed letters to him from franzensbad at the time--but he read something between the lines. it was an unexpressed wish, a longing, a craving for him. and he resolved to go to the south. after all, they had lived so many years together, that it was quite comprehensible that the one felt lonely without the other. he settled the business he had in hand with energetic eagerness. he hoped to be ready to start in a week at the latest. but he would not write to her beforehand, would not write anything whatever about it, it was to be a surprise for once in a way. * * * * * * * * * * * * * the midday sun at sestri was hot, but in spite of its gleaming power the air became agreeable and refreshing just a little before sunset. a sweet odour poured forth from every plant then, and this streaming wealth of perfume was so soothing, so delicious. käte felt her heart overflow. thank god, she was still not quite exhausted, not quite worn-out yet, she still possessed the faculty of enjoying what was beautiful. if paul had only been there. high up, quite at the edge of the outermost promontory on that coast and surrounded by the white foam of the ardent sea that longs to climb up to the cypresses and pines, the holm-oaks and the strawberry-trees, the many sweet-smelling roses, lies the garden of a rich marchese. the mother and her son were sitting there. they were looking in silence at the gigantic sun, which hung red, deep purple just above the sea that, quiet and devout, solemn and expectant in the holy conception of the light, shone with the splendid reflection of it. it was one of those hours, those marvellous rare hours in which even mute things become eloquent, when the hidden becomes revealed, the stones cry aloud. the woman felt quite startled as she gazed and gazed: oh, there it was, the same gigantic red sun that she had once seen disappear into the waves of the wild venn. alas, that that thought should come even now and torture her. she turned quickly and looked at wolfgang with timid apprehension--if he should guess it. but he was sitting on a stone, taking no interest in his surroundings; he had crossed his legs and his eyes were half closed. of what was he dreaming? she had to rouse him. "isn't that splendid, grand, sublime?" "oh yes." "it's setting--look how it's setting." käte had jumped up from the ivy-clad pine-stump and was pointing at it. her cheeks were flushed and she was full of enthusiasm at the sight of the purple sea, the radiant light that was disappearing in such splendour. the tears came to her eyes; they were dazzled. when she looked again it struck her that wolfgang was very pale. "are you cold?" a sudden coolness blew from the sea. "no. but i"--suddenly he opened his dark eyes wide and looked at her firmly--"i should like to know something about my mother. now you can speak--i'm listening." "of your--your"--she stammered, it came so unexpectedly. alas, the sun, the venn sun. she would have preferred to have been silent now; now she had not the courage she had had before. but he urged her. "tell me." there was something imperious in his voice. "what is her name?--where does she live?--is she still alive?" käte looked around with terrified eyes. "is she still alive?"--she could not even answer that. oh yes, yes, surely--of course--she was still alive. and she told him all. told him how they had got him away from the venn, had fled with him as though he had been stolen. as she told him it she turned pale and then red and then pale again--oh, what a passion he would fly into. how he would excite himself. and how angry he would be with her. for they had never troubled about his mother since they left the venn, never again. she could not tell him any more. he did not ask any other questions. but he did not fly into a passion as she had feared; she need not have defended her action when he remained silent for some time, positively make excuses for it. he gave her a friendly glance and only said: "you meant well, i feel sure of that." as they went down the steps leading from the park to the town he offered her his arm. he led her, to all appearances, but still she had the feeling as if he were the one who needed a support--he tottered. the cemetery at sestri lies behind the marchese's garden. the white marble monuments gleamed through the grey of evening; the white wings of an enormous angel rose just above the wall that encircles the park. käte looked back: did not something like a presentiment seem to be wafted to them from there--or was it a hope? she did not know whether wolfgang felt as she did or whether he felt anything, but she pressed his arm more closely and he pressed hers slightly in return. she heard him walking restlessly up and down his room during the night that followed the evening they had spent in the garden of villa piuma. she had really made up her mind to leave him alone--she had looked after him much too much formerly--but then she thought he was still a patient, and that the agitation he must have felt on hearing her story might be injurious to him. she wanted to go to him, but found his door locked. he only opened it after she had repeatedly knocked and implored him to let her come in. "what do you want?" there was again something of the old repellent sound in his voice. but she would not allow herself to be deterred. "i thought you might perhaps like to--well, talk a little more about it," she said tenderly. "what am i to do?" he cried, and he wrung his hands and started to stride restlessly up and down the room again. "if only somebody would tell me what i'm to do now. but nobody knows. nobody can know. what am i to do--what am i to do?" käte stood there dismayed: oh, now he had such thoughts. she saw it, he had wept. she clung to him full of grieved sympathy. she did what she had not done for a long time, for an exceedingly long time, she kissed him. and shaken in the depths of her being by his "what am i to do?" as by a just reproach, she said contritely: "don't torture yourself. don't fret. if you like we'll go there--we'll look for her--we shall no doubt find her." but he shook his head vehemently and groaned. "that's too late now--much too late. what am i to do there now? i am no use for that or for this"--he threw out his hands--"no use for anything. mother, mother!" throwing both his arms round the woman he fell down heavily in front of her and pressed his face against her dress. she felt he was sobbing by the convulsive movement of his body, by the tight grasp of his hot hands round her waist. "if only i knew--my mother--mother--oh, mother, what am i to do?" he wept aloud, and she wept with him in compassionate sympathy. if only paul had been there. she could not find any comforting words to say to him, she felt so deserving of blame herself, she believed there was no longer any comfort to be found. before her eyes stood the _one_ agonising, torturing question: "how is it to end?" engraved in large letters, like the inscriptions over cemetery gates. * * * * * * * * * * * * * käte took counsel with herself: should she write to her husband "come"? wolfgang was certainly not well again. he did not complain, he only said he could not sleep at night and that made him so tired. she did not know whether it was moral suffering that deprived him of his sleep or physical. she was in great trouble, but she still put off the letter to her husband. why should she make him hasten to them, take that long journey? it would not be of any use. it was still not clear to her that she wanted him for herself, for her own sake. she even omitted writing to him for a few days. wolfgang lay a great deal on the couch in his room with the shutters closed; he did not even read. she often went in to keep him company--he must not feel lonely--but it seemed almost as though he were just as pleased to be alone. when she looked at him furtively over the top of her book in the semi-obscurity of the room, she could not think he was so ill. it was probably a disinclination to do anything more than anything else--a slackness of will-power that made him so apathetic also physically. if only she could rouse him. she proposed all manner of things, drives along the coast to all the beautifully situated places in the neighbourhood, excursions into the mountains--they were so near the highest summits in the alps, and it was indescribably beautiful to look down into the fruitful valleys of the _cinque terre_ that were full of vineyards--sails in the gulf, during which the boat carries you so smoothly under the regular strokes of practised boatmen, that you hardly notice the distance from the shore and still are very soon swimming far out on the open sea, on that heavenly clear, blue sea, whose breath liberates the soul. did he want to fish--there were such exquisite little gaily-coloured fish there, that are so stupid and greedy they grab at every bait--would he not shoot ospreys as well? she positively worried him. but he always gave her an evasive reply; he did not want to. "i'm really too tired to-day." then she sent for the italian doctor. but wolfgang was angry: what did he want with that quack? he was so disagreeable to the old man that käte felt quite ashamed of him. then she left him alone. why should she try to show him kindness if he would not be shown kindness? she despaired about him. it made her very depressed to think that their journey also seemed a failure--yes, it was, she saw that more every day. the charm of novelty that had stirred him up during the first days had disappeared; now it was as it had been before--worse. for now the air no longer seemed to agree with him. when they walked together he frequently stood still and panted, like one who has difficulty in breathing. she often felt quite terrified when that happened. "let us turn round, i know you don't feel well." but this difficulty in breathing passed away so quickly that she scolded herself for the excessive anxiety she always felt on his account, an anxiety that had embittered so many years of her life. but one night he had another attack, worse than the others he had already had at home. it might have been about midnight when käte, who was sleeping softly, rocked to sleep by the constant roar of the sea, was startled by a knocking at the door between their two rooms, and by a cry of "mother, oh mother!" was not that a child moaning? she sat up drowsily--then she recognised his voice. "wolfgang, yes, what's the matter?" she threw on her morning-gown in a fright, pushed her feet into her velvet shoes, opened the door--there he stood outside in his shirt and with bare feet, trembling and stammering: "i feel--so bad." he looked at her imploringly with eyes full of terror, and fell down before she had time to catch hold of him. käte almost pulled the bell down in her terror. the porter and chambermaid came running. "telegraph 'come' to my husband--to my husband. quickly, at once." when the scared proprietor of the hotel also appeared, they laid the sick lad on his untidy bed again; the porter rushed to the telegraph station and for the doctor, the chambermaid sobbed. the landlord himself hurried down into his cellar to fetch some of the oldest brandy and the best champagne. they were all so extremely sorry for the young gentleman; he seemed to be lying in a deep swoon. käte did not weep like the good-natured person the chambermaid, whose tears ran down her cheeks the whole time. she had too much to think of, she had to do her duty until the last. until the last--now she knew it. it was not necessary for the doctor to shake his head nor to whisper mysteriously to the proprietor of the hotel--she knew it. restoratives were brought from the chemist's; the sick lad's head was lowered, his feet raised, they gave him camphor injections--the heart would not be whipped on any more. käte did not leave him; she stood close to his bed. the golden, invincible, eternal light was just rising gloriously out of the waves when he stammered something once more. she bent over him as closely as she had once done over the sleeping boy, when she had longed to give him breath of her breath, to mould him anew for herself, to give him life of her life. she had not that wish any longer. she let him go now. and if she bent over him so closely now, hung on his lips so affectionately, it was only to hear his last wish. "mo-ther?" there was such a question in his voice. he said nothing further. he only opened his eyes once more, looked round searchingly, sighed and then expired. * * * * * * * * * * * * * the sun laughed in at the windows. and the woman, who, with dry eyes, was now standing at one of them looking out at the splendour, at the refreshing, glorious morning that was more sparkling than ever before, felt vanquished by the power of nature. it was too great, too sublime, too irresistible--she must bend the knee admiringly before nature, however veiled her eyes were. käte stood a long time in deep thought. outside was life, here in the room was death. but death is not the greatest evil. she turned round with a trembling sigh and stepped back to the bed: "thank god!" then she sank on her knees before the dead boy, folded his cold hands and kissed him. she did not hear that someone tapped softly at the door. "madame." the chambermaid stuck her head in. and a man's head was visible above the chambermaid's. "madame." käte did not hear. "here is somebody--the gentleman--the gentleman has arrived." "my husband?" paul schlieben had pushed the girl aside and had entered, pale, hurriedly, in great agitation. his wife, his poor wife. what a lot she had had to go through alone. the lad dead! they had met him with the news as he arrived unsuspectingly to surprise them at their breakfast. "paul!" it was a cry of the most joyful surprise, the utmost relief. she fled from the cold dead into his warm arms. "paul, paul--wolfgang is dead!" now she found tears. streaming tears that would not cease and that were still so beneficial. all the bitterness she had felt whilst her son was still alive disappeared with them. "poor boy--our poor dear boy." these tears washed him clean, so clean that he again became the little innocent boy that had lain in the blooming heather and laughed at the bright sun with transparent eyes. oh, if she had only left him there. she would always reproach herself for not having done so. "paul, paul," she sobbed aloud. "thank god, you are here. had you any idea of it? yes, you had. you know how miserable, how unhappy i feel." the elderly woman clasped her arms round the elderly man with almost youthful fervour: "if i had not you--oh, the child, the poor child." "don't cry so much." he wanted to console her, but the tears rolled down his lined face too. he had travelled there as quickly as he could, urged on by a sudden anxiety--he had had no letters from her--he had come full of joy to surprise them, and now he found things like this. he strove for composure. "if only i had left him there--oh, if only i had left him there!" the man entered into his wife's feelings of torture and self-reproach, but he pointed to the dead boy, whose face above the white shirt looked peculiarly refined, almost perfect, young and smooth and quite peaceful, and then drew her more closely towards him with the other hand. "don't cry. you were the one to make a man of him--don't forget that." "do you think so?--oh paul!"--she bowed the face that was covered with tears in deep pain--"i did not make him any happier by it." she had to weep, weep unceasingly in deep acknowledgment of worldly error. she grasped her husband's hands tremulously and drew him down with her at the side of the bed. the hands of husband and wife were clasped together over the son they had lost. they whispered, deeply repentant and as though it came from one mouth: "_forgive us our trespasses._" file was produced from images generously made available by the kentuckiana digital library) big brother [illustration: robin] "_cosy corner series_" big brother by annie fellows-johnston [illustration] boston joseph knight company copyright, by joseph knight company [illustration: illustrations] page robin _frontispiece_ "a barefoot girl wearing a sunbonnet" "mrs. estel was listening to little scraps of history," etc. "the little white cottage in new jersey," "robin followed him everywhere" "steven would coax him over in a corner to look at the book" "the black dancing bear had always to be put to bed" "once he took a ball of yarn to roll after the white kitten" "he wanted to get away from the house," etc. "they commenced to build a snow man" big brother. every coach on the long western-bound train was crowded with passengers. dust and smoke poured in at the windows and even the breeze seemed hot as it blew across the prairie cornfields burning in the july sun. [illustration] it was a relief when the engine stopped at last in front of a small village depot. there was a rush for the lunch counter and the restaurant door, where a noisy gong announced dinner. "blackberries! blackberries!" called a shrill little voice on the platform. a barefoot girl, wearing a sunbonnet, passed under the car windows, holding up a basket full, that shone like great black beads. a gentleman who had just helped two ladies to alight from the steps of a parlor car called to her and began to fumble in his pockets for the right change. "blackberries! blackberries!" sang another voice mockingly. this time it came from a roguish-looking child, hanging half-way out of a window in the next car. he was a little fellow, not more than three years old. his hat had fallen off, and his sunny tangle of curls shone around a face so unusually beautiful that both ladies uttered an exclamation of surprise. "look, papa! look, mrs. estel!" exclaimed the younger of the two. "oh, isn't he a perfect picture! i never saw such eyes, or such delicate coloring. it is an ideal head." "here, grace," exclaimed her father, laughingly. "don't forget your berries in your enthusiasm. it hasn't been many seconds since you were going into raptures over them. they certainly are the finest i ever saw." the girl took several boxes from her basket, and held them up for the ladies to choose. grace took one mechanically, her eyes still fixed on the child in the window. "i'm going to make friends with him!" she exclaimed impulsively. "let's walk down that way. i want to speak to him." "blackberries!" sang the child again, merrily echoing the cry that came from the depths of the big sunbonnet as it passed on. grace picked out the largest, juiciest berry in the box, and held it up to him with a smile. his face dimpled mischievously, as he leaned forward and took it between his little white teeth. "do you want some more?" she asked. his eyes shone, and every little curl bobbed an eager assent. "what's your name, dear," she ventured, as she popped another one into his mouth. "robin," he answered, and leaned farther out to look into her box. "be careful," she cautioned; "you might fall out." he looked at her gravely an instant, and then said in a slow, quaint fashion: "why, no; i can't fall out, 'cause big brother's a holdin' on to my feet." she drew back a little, startled. it had not occurred to her that any one else might be interested in watching this little episode. she gave a quick glance at the other windows of the car, and then exclaimed: "what is it, papa,--a picnic or a travelling orphan asylum? it looks like a whole carload of children." yes, there they were, dozens of them, it seemed; fair faces and freckled ones, some dimpled and some thin; all bearing the marks of a long journey on soot-streaked features and grimy hands, but all wonderfully merry and good-natured. just then a tired-looking man swung himself down the steps, and stood looking around him, knitting his brows nervously. he heard the girl's question, and then her father's reply: "i don't know, my dear, i am sure; but i'll inquire if you wish." the man's brows relaxed a little and he answered them without waiting to be addressed. "they are children sent out by an aid society in the east. i am taking them to homes in kansas, mostly in the country." "you don't mean to tell me," the old gentleman exclaimed in surprise, "that you have the care of that entire car full of children! how do you ever manage them all?" the man grinned. "it does look like a case of the old woman that lived in a shoe, but there are not as many as it would seem. they can spread themselves over a good deal of territory, and i'm blessed if some of 'em can't be in half a dozen places at once. there's a little english girl in the lot--fourteen years or thereabouts--that keeps a pretty sharp eye on them. then they're mostly raised to taking care of themselves." some one accosted him, and he turned away. grace looked up at the bewitching little face, still watching her with eager interest. "poor baby!" she said to herself. "poor little homeless curly head! if i could only do something for you!" then she realized that even the opportunity she had was slipping away, and held up the box. "here, robin," she called, "take it inside so that you can eat them without spilling them." "all of 'em?" he asked with a radiant smile. he stretched out his dirty, dimpled fingers. "_all_ of 'em," he repeated with satisfaction as he balanced the box on the sill. "all for big brother and me!" another face appeared at the window beside robin's, one very much like it; grave and sweet, with the same delicate moulding of features. there was no halo of sunny curls on the finely shaped head, but the persistent wave of the darker, closely cut hair showed what it had been at robin's age. there was no color in the face either. the lines of the sensitive mouth had a pathetic suggestion of suppressed trouble. he was a manly-looking boy, but his face was far too sad for a child of ten. "gracie," said mrs. estel, "your father said the train will not start for fifteen minutes. he has gone back to stay with your mother. would you like to go through the car with me, and take a look at the little waifs?" "yes, indeed," was the answer. "think how far they have come. i wish we had found them sooner." a lively game of tag was going on in the aisle. children swarmed over the seats and under them. one boy was spinning a top. two or three were walking around on their hands, with their feet in the air. the gayest group seemed to be in the far end of the car, where two seats full of children were amusing themselves by making faces at each other. the uglier the contortion and more frightful the grimace, the louder they laughed. in one corner the english girl whom the man had mentioned sat mending a little crocheted jacket, belonging to one of the children. she was indeed keeping a sharp eye on them. "'enry," she called authoritatively, "stop teasing those girls, hi say. pull the 'airs from your hown 'ead, and see 'ow you like that naow! sally, you shall not drink the 'ole enjuring time. leave the cup be! no, maggie, hi can tell no story naow. don't you see hi must be plying my needle? go play, whilst the car stops." robin smiled on grace like an old friend when she appeared at the door, and moved over to make room for her on the seat beside him. he had no fear of strangers, so he chattered away in confiding baby fashion, but the older boy said nothing. sometimes he smiled when she told some story that made robin laugh out heartily, but it seemed to her that it was because the little brother was pleased that he laughed, not because he listened. presently mrs. estel touched her on the shoulder. "the time is almost up. i am going to ask your father to bring my things in here. as you leave at the next station, i could not have your company much longer, anyhow. i have all the afternoon ahead of me, and i want something to amuse me." "i wish i could stay with you," answered grace, "but mamma is such an invalid i cannot leave her that long. she would be worrying about me all the time." she bade robin an affectionate good-by, telling him that he was the dearest little fellow in the world, and that she could never forget him. he followed her with big, wistful eyes as she passed out, but smiled happily when she turned at the door to look back and kiss her hand to him. at the next station, where they stopped for a few minutes, he watched for her anxiously. just as the train began to pull out he caught a glimpse of her. there was a flutter of a white handkerchief and a bundle came flying in through the window. he looked out quickly, just in time to see her stepping into a carriage. then a long line of freight cars obstructed the view. by the time they had passed them they were beyond even the straggling outskirts of the village, with wide cornfields stretching in every direction, and it was of no use to look for her any longer. mrs. estel lost no time in making the young english girl's acquaintance. she was scarcely settled in her seat before she found an opportunity. her umbrella slipped from the rack, and the girl sprang forward to replace it. "you have had a tiresome journey," mrs. estel remarked pleasantly after thanking her. "yes, indeed, ma'am!" answered the girl, glad of some one to talk to instead of the children, whose remarks were strictly of an interrogative nature. it was an easy matter to draw her into conversation, and in a short time mrs. estel was listening to little scraps of history that made her eyes dim and her heart ache. [illustration] "do you mind telling me your name?" she asked at length. "ellen, ma'am." "but the other," continued mrs. estel. "we're not to tell, ma'am." then seeing the look of inquiry on her face, explained, "sometimes strangers make trouble, hasking the little ones hall sorts hof questions; so we've been told not to say where we're going, nor hany think helse." "i understand," answered mrs. estel quickly. "i ask only because i am so much interested. i have a little girl at home that i have been away from for a week, but she has a father and a grandmother and a nurse to take care of her while i am gone. it makes me feel so sorry for these poor little things turned out in the world alone." "bless you, ma'am!" exclaimed ellen cheerfully. "the 'omes they're going to be a sight better than the 'omes they've left behind. naow there's 'enery; 'is mother died hin a drunken fit. 'e never knew nothink hall 'is life but beating and starving, till the haid society took 'im hin 'and. "then there's sally. why, sally's living 'igh naow--hoff the fat hof the land, has you might say. heverybody knows 'ow 'er hold huncle treated 'er!" mrs. estel smiled as she glanced at sally, to whom the faucet of the water-cooler seemed a never-failing source of amusement. ellen had put a stop to her drinking, which she had been doing at intervals all the morning, solely for the pleasure of seeing the water stream out when she turned the stop-cock. now she had taken a tidy spell. holding her bit of a handkerchief under the faucet long enough to get it dripping wet, she scrubbed herself with the ice-water, until her cheeks shone like rosy winter apples. then she smoothed the wet, elfish-looking hair out of her black eyes, and proceeded to scrub such of the smaller children as could not escape from her relentless grasp. some submitted dumbly, and others struggled under her vigorous application of the icy rag, but all she attacked came out clean and shining. her dress was wringing wet in front, and the water was standing in puddles around her feet, when the man who had them in charge came through the car again. he whisked her impatiently into a seat, setting her down hard. she made a saucy face behind his back, and began to sing at the top of her voice. one little tot had fallen and bumped its head as the train gave a sudden lurch. it was crying pitifully, but in a subdued sort of whimper, as if it felt that crying was of no use when nobody listened and nobody cared. he picked it up, made a clumsy effort to comfort it, and, not knowing what else to do, sat down beside it. then for the first time he noticed mrs. estel. she had taken a pair of scissors from her travelling-bag, and had cut several newspapers up into soldiers and dolls and all kinds of animals for the crowd that clamored around her. they were such restless little bodies, imprisoned so long on this tedious journey, that anything with a suggestion of novelty was welcome. when she had supplied them with a whole regiment of soldiers and enough animals to equip a menagerie, she took another paper and began teaching them to fold it in curious ways to make boxes, and boats, and baskets. one by one they crowded up closer to her, watching her as if she were some wonderful magician. they leaned their dusty heads against her fresh gray travelling-dress. they touched her dainty gloves with dirty, admiring fingers. they did not know that this was the first time that she had ever come in close contact with such lives as theirs. they did not know that it was the remembrance of another child,--one who awaited her home-coming,--a petted little princess born to purple and fine linen, that made her so tender towards them. remembering what hers had, and all these lacked, she felt that she must crowd all the brightness possible into the short afternoon they were together. every one of them, at some time in their poor bare lives, had known what it was to be kindly spoken to by elegant ladies, to be patronizingly smiled upon, to be graciously presented with gifts. but this was different. this one took the little hodge girl right up in her lap while she was telling them stories. this one did not pick out the pretty ones to talk to, as strangers generally did. it really seemed that the most neglected and unattractive of them received the most of her attention. from time to time she glanced across at robin's lovely face, and contrasted it with the others. the older boy attracted her still more. he seemed to be the only thoughtful one among them all. the others remembered no past, looked forward to no future. when they were hungry there was something to eat. when they were tired they could sleep, and all the rest of the time there was somebody to play with. what more could one want? the child never stirred from his place, but she noticed that he made a constant effort to entertain robin. he told him stories and invented little games. when the bundle came flying in through the window he opened it with eager curiosity. grace had hurried into the village store as soon as the train stopped and had bought the first toy she happened to see. it was a black dancing bear, worked by a tiny crank hidden under the bar on which it stood. robin's pleasure was unbounded, and his shrieks of delight brought all the children flocking around him. "more dancin', big brother," he would insist, when the animal paused. "robin wants to see more dancin'." so patient little "big brother" kept on turning the crank, long after every one save robin was tired of the black bear's antics. once she saw the restless 'enry trying to entice him into a game of tag in the aisle. big brother shook his head, and the fat little legs clambered up on the seat again. robin watched mrs. estel with such longing eyes as she entertained the others that she beckoned to him several times to join them, but he only bobbed his curls gravely and leaned farther back in his seat. presently the man strolled down the aisle again to close a window, out of which one fidgety boy kept leaning to spit at the flying telegraph poles. on his way back mrs. estel stopped him. "will you please tell me about those two children?" she asked, glancing towards robin and his brother. "i am very much interested in them, and would gladly do something for them, if i could." "certainly, madam," he replied deferentially. he felt a personal sense of gratitude towards her for having kept three of his most unruly charges quiet so long. he felt, too, that she did not ask merely from idle curiosity, as so many strangers had done. "yes, everybody asks about them, for they _are_ uncommon bright-looking, but it's very little anybody knows to tell." then he gave her their history in a few short sentences. their father had been killed in a railroad accident early in the spring. their mother had not survived the terrible shock more than a week. no trace could be found of any relatives, and there was no property left to support them. several good homes had been offered to the children singly in different towns, but no one was willing to take both. they clung together in such an agony of grief, when an attempt was made at separation, that no one had the heart to part them. then some one connected with the management of the aid society opened a correspondence with an old farmer of his acquaintance out west. it ended in his offering to take them both for a while. his married daughter, who had no children of her own, was so charmed with robin's picture that she wanted to adopt him. she could not be ready to take him, though, before they moved into their new house, which they were building several miles away. the old farmer wanted the older boy to help him with his market gardening, and was willing to keep the little one until his daughter was ready to take him. so they could be together for a while, and virtually they would always remain in the same family. mr. dearborn was known to be such an upright, reliable man, so generous and kind-hearted in all his dealings, that it was decided to accept his offer. "do they go much farther?" asked the interested listener, when he had told her all he knew of the desolate little pilgrims. "only a few miles the other side of kenton," he answered. "why, kenton is where i live," she exclaimed. "i am glad it will be so near." then as he passed on she thought to herself, "it would be cruel to separate them. i never saw such devotion as that of the older boy." his feet could not reach the floor, but he sat up uncomfortably on the high seat, holding robin in his lap. the curly head rested heavily on his shoulder, and his arms ached with their burden, but he never moved except to brush away the flies, or fan the flushed face of the little sleeper with his hat. something in the tired face, the large appealing eyes, and the droop of the sensitive mouth, touched her deeply. she crossed the aisle and sat down by him. "here, lay him on the seat," she said, bending forward to arrange her shawl for a pillow. he shook his head. "robin likes best for me to hold him." "but he will be cooler and so much more comfortable," she urged. taking the child from his unwilling arms, she stretched him full length on the improvised bed. involuntarily the boy drew a deep sigh of relief, and leaned back in the corner. "are you very tired?" she asked. "i have not seen you playing with the other children." "yes'm," he answered. "we've come such a long way. i have to amuse robin all the time he's awake, or he'll cry to go back home." "where was your home?" she asked kindly. "tell me about it." he glanced up at her, and with a child's quick instinct knew that he had found a friend. the tears that he had been bravely holding back all the afternoon for robin's sake could no longer be restrained. he sat for a minute trying to wink them away. then he laid his head wearily down on the window sill and gave way to his grief with great choking sobs. she put her arm around him and drew his head down on her shoulder. at first the caressing touch of her fingers, as they gently stroked his hair, made the tears flow faster. then he grew quieter after a while, and only sobbed at long intervals as he answered her questions. his name was steven, he said. he knew nothing of the home to which he was being taken, nor did he care, if he could only be allowed to stay with robin. he told her of the little white cottage in new jersey, where they had lived, of the peach-trees that bloomed around the house, of the beehive in the garden. he had brooded over the recollection of his lost home so long in silence that now it somehow comforted him to talk about it to this sympathetic listener. [illustration] soothed by her soft hand smoothing his hair, and exhausted by the heat and his violent grief, he fell asleep at last. it was almost dark when he awoke and sat up. "i must leave you at the next station," mrs. estel said, "but you are going only a few miles farther. maybe i shall see you again some day." she left him to fasten her shawl-strap, but presently came back, bringing a beautifully illustrated story-book that she had bought for the little daughter at home. "here, steven," she said, handing it to him. "i have written my name and address on the fly-leaf. if you ever need a friend, dear, or are in trouble of any kind, let me know and i will help you." he had known her only a few hours, yet, when she kissed him good-by and the train went whirling on again, he felt that he had left his last friend behind him. when one is a child a month is a long time. grandfathers say, "that happened over seventy years ago, but it seems just like yesterday." grandchildren say, "why, it was only yesterday we did that, but so much has happened since that it seems such a great while!" one summer day can stretch out like a lifetime at life's beginning. it is only at threescore and ten that we liken it to a weaver's shuttle. it was in july when old john dearborn drove to the station to meet the children. now the white august lilies were standing up sweet and tall by the garden fence. "seems like we've been here 'most always," said steven as they rustled around in the hay hunting eggs. his face had lost its expression of sadness, so pathetic in a child, as day after day robin's little feet pattered through the old homestead, and no one came to take him away. active outdoor life had put color in his face and energy into his movements. mr. dearborn and his wife were not exacting in their demands, although they found plenty for him to do. the work was all new and pleasant, and robin was with him everywhere. when he fed the turkeys, when he picked up chips, when he drove the cows to pasture, or gathered the vegetables for market, robin followed him everywhere, like a happy, dancing shadow. [illustration] then when the work was done there were the kittens in the barn and the swing in the apple-tree. a pond in the pasture sailed their shingle boats. a pile of sand, left from building the new ice-house, furnished material for innumerable forts and castles. there was a sunny field and a green, leafy orchard. how could they _help but be happy?_ it was summer time and they were together. steven's was more than a brotherly devotion. it was with almost the tenderness of mother-love that he watched the shining curls dancing down the walk as robin chased the toads through the garden or played hide-and-seek with the butterflies. "no, the little fellow's scarcely a mite of trouble," mrs. dearborn would say to the neighbors sometimes when they inquired. "steven is real handy about dressing him and taking care of him, so i just leave it mostly to him." mrs. dearborn was not a very observing woman or she would have seen why he "was scarcely a mite of trouble." if there was never a crumb left on the doorstep where robin sat to eat his lunch, it was because big brother's careful fingers had picked up every one. if she never found any tracks of little bare feet on the freshly scrubbed kitchen floor, it was because his watchful eyes had spied them first, and he had wiped away every trace. he had an instinctive feeling that if he would keep robin with him he must not let any one feel that he was a care or annoyance. so he never relaxed his watchfulness in the daytime, and slept with one arm thrown across him at night. sometimes, after supper, when it was too late to go outdoors again, the restless little feet kicked thoughtlessly against the furniture, or the meddlesome fingers made mrs. dearborn look at him warningly over her spectacles and shake her head. [illustration] sometimes the shrill little voice, with its unceasing questions, seemed to annoy the old farmer as he dozed over his weekly newspaper beside the lamp. then, if it was too early to go to bed, steven would coax him over in a corner to look at the book that mrs. estel had given him, explaining each picture in a low voice that could not disturb the deaf old couple. it was at these times that the old feeling of loneliness came back so overwhelmingly. grandpa and grandma, as they called them, were kind in their way, but even to their own children they had been undemonstrative and cold. often in the evenings they seemed to draw so entirely within themselves, she with her knitting and he with his paper or accounts, that steven felt shut out, and apart. "just the strangers within thy gates," he sometimes thought to himself. he had heard that expression a long time ago, and it often came back to him. then he would put his arm around robin and hug him up close, feeling that the world was so big and lonesome, and that he had no one else to care for but him. sometimes he took him up early to the little room under the roof, and, lying on the side of the bed, made up more marvellous stories than any the book contained. often they drew the big wooden rocking-chair close to the window, and, sitting with their arms around each other, looked out on the moonlit stillness of the summer night. then, with their eyes turned starward, they talked of the far country beyond; for steven tried to keep undimmed in robin's baby memory a living picture of the father and mother he was so soon forgetting. "don't you remember," he would say, "how papa used to come home in the evening and take us both on his knees, and sing 'kingdom coming' to us? and how mamma laughed and called him a big boy when he got down on the floor and played circus with us? "and don't you remember how we helped mamma make cherry pie for dinner one day? you were on the doorstep with some dough in your hands, and a greedy old hen came up and gobbled it right out of your fingers." robin would laugh out gleefully at each fresh reminiscence, and then say: "tell some more r'members, big brother!" and so big brother would go on until a curly head drooped over on his shoulder and a sleepy voice yawned "sand-man's a-comin'." the hands that undressed him were as patient and deft as a woman's. he missed no care or tenderness. when he knelt down in his white gown, just where the patch of moonlight lay on the floor, his chubby hands crossed on big brother's knee, there was a gentle touch of caressing fingers on his curls as his sleepy voice repeated the evening prayer the far away mother had taught them. there was always one ceremony that had to be faithfully performed, no matter how sleepy he might be. the black dancing bear had always to be put to bed in a cracker box and covered with a piece of red flannel. [illustration] one night he looked up gravely as he folded it around his treasure and said, "robin tucks ze black dancin' bear in bed, an' big brother tucks in robin. who puts big brother to bed?" "nobody, now," answered steven with a quivering lip, for his child's heart ached many a night for the lullaby and bedtime petting he so sorely missed. "gramma deebun do it?" suggested robin quickly. "no: grandma dearborn has the rheumatism. she couldn't walk up-stairs." "she got ze wizzim-tizzim," echoed robin solemnly. then his face lighted up with a happy thought. "nev' mind; robin'll put big brother to bed _all_ ze nights when he's a man." and big brother kissed the sweet mouth and was comforted. during the summer mr. dearborn drove to town with fresh marketing every morning, starting early in order to get home by noon. saturdays he took steven with him, for that was the day he supplied his butter customers. the first time the boy made the trip he carried mrs. estel's address in his pocket, which he had carefully copied from the fly-leaf of the book she had given him. although he had not the remotest expectation of seeing her, there was a sense of companionship in the mere thought that she was in the same town with him. he watched the lamp-posts carefully as they went along, spelling out the names of the streets. all of a sudden his heart gave a bound. they had turned a corner and were driving along fourth avenue. he took the slip of paper from his pocket. yes, he was right. that was the name of the street. then he began to watch for the numbers. , , ; they passed on several more blocks. mr. dearborn drove up to the pavement and handed him the reins to hold, while he took the crock of butter into the house. steven glanced up at the number. it was . then the next one--no, the one after that--must be the place. it was a large, elegant house, handsomer than any they had passed on the avenue. as long as it was in sight steven strained his eyes for a backward look, but saw no one. week after week he watched and waited, but the blinds were always closed, and he saw no signs of life about the place. then one day he saw a carriage stop at the gate. a lady all in black stepped out and walked slowly towards the house. her long, heavy veil hid her face, but he thought he recognized her. he was almost sure it was mrs. estel. he could hardly resist the inclination to run after her and speak to her; but while he hesitated the great hall door swung back and shut her from sight. he wondered what great trouble had come to her that she should be dressed in deep black. the hope of seeing her was the only thing about his weekly trips to town that he anticipated with any pleasure. it nearly always happened that some time during the morning while he was gone robin got into trouble. nobody seemed to think that the reason the child was usually so good was due largely to steven's keeping him happily employed. he always tried to contrive something to keep him busy part of the morning; but robin found no pleasure very long in solitary pursuits, and soon abandoned them. [illustration] once he took a ball of yarn from the darning-basket to roll after the white kitten. he did not mean to be mischievous any more than the white kitten did, but the ball was part of grandma dearborn's knitting work. when she found the needles pulled out and the stitches dropped, she scolded him sharply. all her children had been grown up so long she had quite forgotten how to make allowances for things of that sort. there was a basket of stiff, highly colored wax fruit on the marble-topped table in the parlor. miss barbara dearborn had made it at boarding-school and presented it to her sister-in-law many years before. how robin ever managed to lift off the glass case without breaking it no one ever knew. that he had done so was evident, for in every waxen red-cheeked pear and slab-sided apple were the prints of his sharp little teeth. it seemed little short of sacrilege to mrs. dearborn, whose own children had regarded it for years from an admiring distance, fearing to lay unlawful fingers even on the glass case that protected such a work of art. he dropped a big white china button into the cake dough when molly, "the help," had her back turned. it was all ready to be baked, and she unsuspectingly whisked the pan into the oven. company came to tea, and grandpa dearborn happened to take the slice of cake that had the button in it. manlike, he called everyone's attention to it, and his wife was deeply mortified. he left the pasture gate open so that the calves got into the garden. he broke grandpa dearborn's shaving-mug, and spilled the lather all over himself and the lavender bows of the best pin-cushion. he untied a bag that had been left in the window to sun, to see what made it feel so soft inside. it was a bag of feathers saved from the pickings of many geese. he was considerably startled when the down flew in all directions, sticking to carpet and curtains, and making molly much extra work on the busiest day in the week. but the worst time was when steven came home to find him sitting in a corner, crying bitterly, one hand tied to his chair. he had been put there for punishment. it seemed that busy morning that everything he touched made trouble for somebody. at last his exploring little fingers found the plug of the patent churn. the next minute he was a woebegone spectacle, with the fresh buttermilk pouring down on him, and spreading in creamy rivers all over the dairy floor. these weekly trips were times of great anxiety for steven. he never knew what fresh trouble might greet him on his return. one day they sold out much earlier than usual. it was only eleven o'clock when they reached home. grandma dearborn was busy preparing dinner. robin was not in sight. as soon as steven had helped to unhitch the horses he ran into the house to look for him. there was no answer to his repeated calls. he searched all over the garden, thinking maybe the child was hiding from him and might jump out any moment from behind a tree. he was beginning to feel alarmed when he saw two little bare feet slowly waving back and forth above the tall orchard grass. he slipped over the fence and noiselessly along under the apple-trees. robin was lying on his stomach watching something on the ground so intently that sometimes the bare feet forgot to wave over his back and were held up motionless. with one hand he was pulling along at a snail's pace a green leaf, on which a dead bumble-bee lay in state. with the other he was keeping in order a funeral procession of caterpillars. it was a motley crowd of mourners that the energetic forefinger urged along the line of march. he had evidently collected them from many quarters,--little green worms that spun down from the apple boughs overhead; big furry brown caterpillars that had hurried along the honeysuckle trellis to escape his fat fingers; spotted ones and striped ones; horned and smooth. they all straggled along, each one travelling his own gait, each one bent on going a different direction, but all kept in line by that short determined forefinger. steven laughed so suddenly that the little master of ceremonies jumped up and turned a startled face towards him. then he saw that there were traces of tears on the dimpled face and one eye was swollen nearly shut. "o robin! what is it now?" he cried in distress. "how did you hurt yourself so dreadfully?" "ole bumble!" answered robin, pointing to the leaf. "he flied in ze kitchen an' sat down in ze apple peelin's. i jus' poked him, nen he flied up and bit me. he's dead now," he added triumphantly. "gramma killed him. see all ze cattow-pillows walkin' in ze p'cession?" so the days slipped by in the old farmhouse. frost nipped the gardens, and summer vanished entirely from orchard and field. the happy outdoor life was at an end, and robin was like a caged squirrel. steven had his hands full keeping him amused and out of the way. "well, my lad, isn't it about time for you to be starting to school?" mr. dearborn would ask occasionally. "you know i agreed to send you every winter, and i must live up to my promises." but steven made first one pretext and then another for delay. he knew he could not take robin with him. he knew, too, how restless and troublesome the child would become if left at home all day. so he could not help feeling glad when molly went home on a visit, and grandma dearborn said her rheumatism was so bad that she needed his help. true, he had all sorts of tasks that he heartily despised,--washing dishes, kneading dough, sweeping and dusting,--all under the critical old lady's exacting supervision. but he preferred even that to being sent off to school alone every day. one evening, just about sundown, he was out in the corncrib, shelling corn for the large flock of turkeys they were fattening for market. he heard grandma dearborn go into the barn, where her husband was milking. they were both a little deaf, and she spoke loud in order to be heard above the noise of the milk pattering into the pail. she had come out to look at one of the calves they intended selling. "it's too bad," he heard her say, after a while. "rindy has just set her heart on him, but arad, he thinks it's all foolishness to get such a young one. he's willing to take one big enough to do the chores, but he doesn't want to feed and keep what 'ud only be a care to 'em. he always was closer'n the bark on a tree. after all, i'd hate to see the little fellow go." "yes," was the answer, "he's a likely lad; but we're gettin' old, mother, and one is about all we can do well by. sometimes i think maybe we've bargained for too much, tryin' to keep even _one_. so it's best to let the little one go before we get to settin' sech store by him that we can't." a vague terror seized steven as he realized who it was they were talking about. he lay awake a long time that night smoothing robin's tangled curls, and crying at the thought of the motherless baby away among strangers, with no one to snuggle him up warm or sing him to sleep. then there was another thought that wounded him deeply. twist it whichever way he might, he could construe mr. dearborn's last remark to mean but one thing. they considered him a burden. how many plans he made night after night before he fell asleep! he would take robin by the hand in the morning, and they would slip away and wander off to the woods together. they could sleep in barns at night, and he could stop at the farmhouses and do chores to pay for what they ate. then they need not be a trouble to any one. maybe in the summer they could find a nice dry cave to live in. lots of people had lived that way. then in a few years he would be big enough to have a house of his own. all sorts of improbable plans flocked into his little brain under cover of the darkness, but always vanished when the daylight came. the next saturday that they went to town was a cold, blustering day. they started late, taking a lunch with them, not intending to come home until the middle of the afternoon. the wind blew a perfect gale by the time they reached town. mr. dearborn stopped his team in front of one of the principal groceries, saying, "hop out, steven, and see what they're paying for turkeys to-day." as he sprang over the wheel an old gentleman came running around the corner after his hat, which the wind had carried away. steven caught it and gave it to him. he clapped it on his bald crown with a good-natured laugh. "thanky, sonny!" he exclaimed heartily. then he disappeared inside the grocery just as mr. dearborn called out, "i believe i'll hitch the horses and go in too; i'm nearly frozen." steven followed him into the grocery, and they stood with their hands spread out to the stove while they waited for the proprietor. he was talking to the old gentleman whose hat steven had rescued. he seemed to be a very particular kind of customer. "oh, go on! go on!" he exclaimed presently. "wait on those other people while i make up my mind." while mr. dearborn was settling the price of his turkeys, the old gentleman poked around like an inquisitive boy, thumping the pumpkins, smelling the coffee, and taking occasional picks at the raisins. presently he stopped in front of steven with a broad, friendly smile on his face. "you're from the country, ain't you?" he asked. "yes, sir," answered steven in astonishment. "came from there myself, once," he continued with a chuckle. "law, law! you'd never think it now. fifty years makes a heap o' difference." he took another turn among the salt barrels and cracker boxes, then asked suddenly, "what's your name, sonny?" "steven," answered the boy, still more surprised. the old fellow gave another chuckle and rubbed his hands together delightedly. "just hear that, will you!" he exclaimed. "why, that's my name, my very own name, sir! well, well, well, well!" he stared at the child until he began to feel foolish and uncomfortable. what image of his own vanished youth did that boyish face recall to the eccentric old banker? as mr. dearborn turned to go steven started after him. "hold on, sonny," called the old gentleman, "i want to shake hands with my namesake." he pressed a shining half-dollar into the little mittened hand held out to him. "that's for good luck," he said. "i was a boy myself, once. law, law! sometimes i wish i could have stayed one." steven hardly knew whether to keep it or not, or what to say. the old gentleman had resumed conversation with the proprietor and waved him off impatiently. "i'll get robin some candy and save all the rest till christmas," was his first thought; but there was such a bewildering counter full of toys on one side of the confectioner's shop that he couldn't make up his mind to wait that long. he bought some shining sticks of red and white peppermint and turned to the toys. there was a tiny sailboat with a little wooden sailor on deck; but robin would always be dabbling in the water if he got that. a tin horse and cart caught his eye. that would make such a clatter on the bare kitchen floor. at last he chose a gay yellow jumping-jack. all the way home he kept feeling the two little bundles in his pocket. he could not help smiling when the gables of the old house came in sight, thinking how delighted robin would be. he could hardly wait till the horses were put away and fed, and he changed impatiently from one foot to another, while mr. dearborn searched in the straw of the wagon-bed for a missing package of groceries. then he ran to the house and into the big, warm kitchen, all out of breath. "robin," he called, as he laid the armful of groceries on the kitchen table, "look what brother's brought you. why, where's robin?" he asked of mrs. dearborn, who was busy stirring something on the stove for supper. she had her back turned and did not answer. "where's robin," he asked again, peering all around to see where the bright curls were hiding. she turned around and looked at him over her spectacles. "well, i s'pose i may's well tell you one time as another," she said reluctantly. "rindy came for him to-day. we talked it over and thought, as long as there had to be a separation, it would be easier for you both, and save a scene, if you wasn't here to see him go. he's got a good home, and rindy'll be kind to him." steven looked at her in bewilderment, then glanced around the cheerful kitchen. his slate lay on a chair where robin had been scribbling and making pictures. the old cat that robin had petted and played with that very morning purred comfortably under the stove. the corncob house he had built was still in the corner. surely he could not be so very far away. he opened the stair door and crept slowly up the steps to their little room. he could scarcely distinguish anything at first, in the dim light of the winter evening, but he saw enough to know that the little straw hat with the torn brim that he had worn in the summer time was not hanging on its peg behind the door. he looked in the washstand drawer, where his dresses were kept. it was empty. he opened the closet door. the new copper-toed shoes, kept for best, were gone, but hanging in one corner was the little checked gingham apron he had worn that morning. steven took it down. there was the torn place by the pocket, and the patch on the elbow. he kissed the ruffle that had been buttoned under the dimpled chin, and the little sleeves that had clung around his neck so closely that morning. then, with it held tight in his arms, he threw himself on the bed, sobbing over and over, "it's too cruel! it's too cruel! they didn't even let me tell him good-by!" he did not go down to supper when mrs. dearborn called him, so she went up after a while with a glass of milk and a doughnut. "there, there!" she said soothingly; "don't take it so hard. try and eat something; you'll feel better if you do." steven tried to obey, but every mouthful choked him. "rindy'll be awful good to him," she said after a long pause. "she thinks he's the loveliest child she ever set eyes on, but she was afraid her husband would think he was too much of a baby if she took him home with those long curls on. she cut 'em off before they started, and i saved 'em. i knew you'd be glad to have 'em." she lit the candle on the washstand and handed him a paper. he sat up and opened it. there lay the soft, silky curls, shining like gold in the candle-light, as they twined around his fingers. it was more than he could bear. his very lips grew white. mrs. dearborn was almost frightened. she could not understand how a child's grief could be so deep and passionate. he drew them fondly over his wet cheeks, and pressed them against his quivering lips. then laying his face down on them, he cried till he could cry no longer, and sleep came to his relief. next morning, when steven pulled the window curtain aside, he seemed to be looking out on another world. the first snow of the winter covered every familiar object, and he thought, in his childish way, that last night's experience had altered his life as the snowdrifts had changed the landscape. he ate his breakfast and did up the morning chores mechanically. he seemed to be in a dream, and wondered dully to himself why he did not cry when he felt so bad. when the work was all done he stood idly looking out of the window. he wanted to get away from the house where everything he saw made his heart ache with the suggestion of robin. "i believe i'd like to go to church to-day," he said in a listless tone. [illustration] "yes, i'd go if i were you," assented mr. dearborn readily. "mother and me'll have to stay by the fire to-day, but i've no doubt it'll chirk you up a bit to get outdoors a spell." he started off, plodding through the deep snow. "takes it easier than i thought he would," said mr. dearborn. "well, troubles never set very hard on young shoulders. he'll get over it in a little while." as steven emerged from the lane into the big road he saw a sleigh coming towards him, driven by the doctor's son. as it drew nearer a sudden thought came to him like an inspiration. "o harvey!" he cried, running forward. "will you take me with you as far as simpson's?" "why, yes, i guess so," answered the boy good-naturedly. he was not surprised at the request, knowing that mrs. dearborn and mrs. simpson were sisters, and supposing that steven had been sent on some errand. it was three miles to the simpson place, but they seemed to have reached it in as many minutes. harvey turned off towards his own home, while steven climbed out and hurried along the public road. "half-way there!" he said to himself. he was going to town to find mrs. estel. he was a long time on the way. a piercing wind began to blow, and a blinding snow-storm beat in his face. he was numb with cold, hungry, and nearly exhausted. but he thought of little robin fifteen miles away, crying at the strange faces around him; and for his sake he stumbled bravely on. he had seen mrs. dearborn's daughter several times. she was a kind, good-natured woman, half-way afraid of her husband. as for arad pierson himself, steven had conceived a strong dislike. he was quick-tempered and rough, with a loud, coarse way of speaking that always startled the sensitive child. suppose robin should refuse to be comforted, and his crying annoyed them. could that black-browed, heavy-fisted man be cruel enough to whip such a baby? steven knew that he would. the thought spurred him on. it seemed to him that he had been days on the road when he reached the house at last, and stood shivering on the steps while he waited for some one to answer his timid ring. "no, you can't speak to mrs. estel," said the pompous colored man who opened the door, and who evidently thought that he had come on some beggar's mission. "she never sees any one now, and i'm sure she wouldn't see you." "oh, _please_!" cried steven desperately, as the door was about to be shut in his face. "she told me to come, and i've walked miles through the storm, and i'm so cold and tired! oh, i _can't_ go back without seeing her." his high, piercing voice almost wailed out the words. had he come so far only to be disappointed at last? "what is it, alec?" he heard some one call gently. he recognized the voice, and in his desperation darted past the man into the wide reception hall. he saw the sweet face of the lady, who came quickly forward, and heard her say, "why, what is the matter, my child?" then, overcome by the sudden change from the cold storm to the tropical warmth of the room, he dropped on the floor, exhausted and unconscious. it was a long time before mrs. estel succeeded in thoroughly reviving him. then he lay on a wide divan with his head on her lap, and talked quietly of his trouble. he was too worn out to cry, even when he took the soft curls from his pocket to show her. but her own recent loss had made her vision keen, and she saw the depth of suffering in the boy's white face. as she twisted the curls around her finger and thought of her own fair-haired little one, with the deep snow drifting over its grave, her tears fell fast. she made a sudden resolution. "you shall come here," she said. "i thought when my little dorothy died i could never bear to hear a child's voice again, knowing that hers was still. but such grief is selfish. we will help each other bear ours together. would you like to come, dear?" steven sat up, trembling in his great excitement. "o mrs. estel!" he cried, "couldn't you take robin instead? i could be happy anywhere if i only knew he was taken care of. you are so different from the piersons. i wouldn't feel bad if he was with you, and i could see him every week. he is so pretty and sweet you couldn't help loving him!" she stooped and kissed him. "you dear, unselfish child, you make me want you more than ever." then she hesitated. she could not decide a matter involving so much in a moment's time. steven, she felt, would be a comfort to her, but robin could be only a care. lately she had felt the mere effort of living to be a burden, and she did not care to make any exertion for any one else. all the brightness and purpose seemed to drop out of her life the day that little dorothy was taken away. her husband had tried everything in his power to arouse her from her hopeless despondency, but she refused to be comforted. steven's trouble had touched the first responsive chord. she looked down into his expectant face, feeling that she could not bear to disappoint him, yet unwilling to make a promise that involved personal exertion. then she answered slowly, "i wish my husband were here. i cannot give you an answer without consulting him. then, you see the society that sent you out here probably has some written agreement with these people, and if they do not want to give him up we might find it a difficult matter to get him. mr. estel will be home in a few days, and he will see what can be done." that morning when steven had been seized with a sudden impulse to find mrs. estel he had no definite idea of what she could do to help him. it had never occurred to him for an instant that she would offer to take either of them to live with her. he thought only of that afternoon on the train, when her sympathy had comforted him so much, and of her words at parting: "if you ever need a friend, dear, or are in trouble of any kind, let me know and i will help you." it was that promise that lured him on all that weary way through the cold snow-storm. with a child's implicit confidence he turned to her, feeling that in some way or other she would make it all right. it was a great disappointment when he found she could do nothing immediately, and that it might be weeks before he could see robin again. still, after seeing her and pouring out his troubles, he felt like a different boy. such a load seemed lifted from his shoulders. he actually laughed while repeating some of robin's queer little speeches to her. only that morning he had felt that he could not even smile again. dinner cheered him up still more. when the storm had abated, mrs. estel wrapped him up and sent him home in her sleigh, telling him that she wanted him to spend thanksgiving day with her. she thought she would know by that time whether she could take robin or not. at any rate, she wanted him to come, and if he would tell mr. dearborn to bring her a turkey on his next market day, she would ask his permission. all the way home steven wondered nervously what the old people would say to him. he dreaded to see the familiar gate, and the ride came to an end so very soon. to his great relief he found that they had scarcely noticed his absence. their only son and his family had come unexpectedly from the next state to stay over thanksgiving, and everything else had been forgotten in their great surprise. the days that followed were full of pleasant anticipations for the family. steven went in and out among them, helping busily with the preparations, but strangely silent among all the merriment. mr. dearborn took his son to town with him the next market day, and steven was left at home to wait and wonder what message mrs. estel might send him. he hung around until after his usual bedtime, on their return, but could not muster up courage to ask. the hope that had sprung up within him flickered a little fainter each new day, until it almost died out. it was a happy group that gathered around the breakfast table early on thanksgiving morning. "all here but rindy," said mr. dearborn, looking with smiling eyes from his wife to his youngest grandchild. "it's too bad she couldn't come, but arad invited all his folks to spend the day there; so she had to give up and stay at home. well, we're all alive and well, anyhow. that's my greatest cause for thankfulness. what's yours, jane?" he asked, nodding towards his wife. as the question passed around the table, steven's thoughts went back to the year before, when their little family had all been together. he remembered how pretty his mother had looked that morning in her dark-blue dress. there was a bowl of yellow chrysanthemums blooming on the table, and a streak of sunshine, falling across them and on robin's hair, seemed to turn them both to gold. now he was all alone. the contrast was too painful. he slipped from the table unobserved, and stole noiselessly up the back stairs to his room. the little checked apron was hanging on a chair by the window. he sat down and laid his face against it, but his eyes were dry. he had not cried any since that first dreadful night. there was such a lively clatter of dishes downstairs and babel of voices that he did not hear a sleigh drive up in the soft snow. "steven," called mr. dearborn from the foot of the stairs, "i promised mrs. estel to let you spend the day with her, but there was so much goin' on i plum forgot to tell you. you're to stay all night too, she says." the ride to town seemed endless to the impatient boy. he was burning with a feverish anxiety to know about robin, but the driver whom he questioned could not tell. "mrs. estel will be down presently," was the message with which he was ushered into the long drawing-room. he sat down uncomfortably on the edge of a chair to wait. he almost dreaded to hear her coming for fear she might tell him that the piersons would not give robin up. maybe her husband had not come home when she expected him. maybe he had been too busy to attend to the matter. a dozen possible calamities presented themselves. unconsciously he held himself so rigid in his expectancy that he fairly ached. ten minutes dragged by, with only the crackle of the fire on the hearth to disturb the silence of the great room. then light feet pattered down the stairs and ran across the broad hall. the _portière_ was pushed aside and a bright little face looked in. in another instant robin's arms were around his neck, and he was crying over and over in an ecstasy of delight, "oh, it's big brother! it's big brother!" not far away down the avenue a great church organ was rolling out its accompaniment to a thanksgiving anthem. steven could not hear the words the choir chanted, but the deep music of the organ seemed to him to be but the echo of what was throbbing in his own heart. there was no lack of childish voices and merry laughter in the great house that afternoon. a spirit of thanksgiving was in the very atmosphere. no one could see the overflowing happiness of the children without sharing it in some degree. more than once during dinner mrs. estel looked across the table at her husband and smiled as she had not in months. along in the afternoon the winter sunshine tempted the children out of doors, and they commenced to build a snow man. they tugged away at the huge image, with red cheeks and sparkling eyes, so full of out-breaking fun that the passers-by stopped to smile at the sight. mrs. estel stood at the library window watching them. once, when robin's fat little legs stumbled and sent him rolling over in the snow, she could not help laughing at the comical sight. it was a low, gentle laugh, but mr. estel heard, and, laying aside his newspaper, joined her at the window. he had almost despaired of ever seeing a return to the old sunny charm of face and manner. [illustration] they stood there together in silence a few moments, watching the two romping boys, who played on, unconscious of an audience. "what a rare, unselfish disposition that little 'big brother' has!" mr. estel said presently. "it shows itself even in their play." then he added warmly, turning to his wife, "dora, it would be downright cruel to send him away from that little chap." he paused a moment. "we used to find our greatest pleasure in making dorothy happy. we lavished everything on her. now we can never do anything more for her." there was another long pause, while he turned his head away and looked out of the window. "think what a lifelong happiness it is in our power to give those children! dora, can't we make room for both of them for her sake?" mrs. estel hesitated, then laid both her hands in his, bravely smiling back her tears. "yes, i'll try," she said, "for little dorothy's sake." that night, as steven undressed robin and tucked him up snugly in the little white bed, he felt that nothing could add to his great happiness. he sat beside him humming an old tune their mother had often sung to them, in the new jersey home so far away. the blue eyes closed, but still he kept on humming softly to himself, "oh, happy day! happy day!" presently mrs. estel came in and drew a low rocking-chair up to the fire. steven slipped from his place by robin's pillow and sat down on the rug beside her. sitting there in the fire-light, she told him all about her visit to the piersons. they had found robin so unmanageable and so different from what they expected that they were glad to get rid of him. mr. estel had arranged matters satisfactorily with the society, and they had brought robin home several days ago. "i had a long talk with mr. dearborn the other day," she continued. "he said his wife's health is failing, and their son is trying to persuade them to break up housekeeping and live with them. if she is no better in the spring, they will probably do so." "would they want me to go?" asked steven anxiously. "it may be so; i cannot tell." steven looked up timidly. "i've been wanting all day to say thank you, the way i feel it; but somehow, the right words won't come. i can't tell you how it is, but it seems 'most like sending robin back home for you and mr. estel to have him. somehow, your ways and everything seem so much like mamma's and papa's, and when i think about him having such a lovely home, oh, it just seems like this is a thanksgiving day that will last _always_!" she drew his head against her knee and stroked it tenderly. "then how would you like to live here yourself, dear?" she asked. "mr. estel thinks that we need two boys." "oh, does he really want me, too? it's too good to be true!" steven was kneeling beside her now, his eyes shining like stars. "yes, we both want you," answered mrs. estel. "you shall be our own little sons." steven crept nearer. "papa and mamma will be so glad," he said in a tremulous whisper. then a sudden thought illuminated his earnest face. "o mrs. estel! don't you suppose they have found little dorothy in that other country by this time, and are taking care of her there, just like you are taking care of us here?" she put her arm around him, and drew him nearer, saying: "my dear little comfort, it may be so. if i could believe that, i could never feel so unhappy again." robin and "ze black dancin' bear" were not the only ones tucked tenderly away to sleep that night. the sleigh bells jingled along the avenue. again the great church organ rolled out a mighty flood of melody, that ebbed and flowed on the frosty night air. and big brother, with his head pillowed once more beside robin's, lay with his eyes wide open, too happy to sleep--lay and dreamed of the time when he should be a man, and could gather into the great house he meant to own all the little homeless ones in the wide world; all the sorry little waifs that strayed through the streets of great cities, that crowded in miserable tenements, that lodged in asylums and poorhouses. into his child's heart he gathered them all, with a sweet unselfishness that would have gladly shared with every one of them his new-found home and happiness. * * * * * google books (harvard university) transcriber's notes: . page scan source: google books: http://books.google.com/books?id=vbgoaaaayaaj (harvard university) a few press opinions on "aaron the jew." by b. l. farjeon. * * * * globe. "aaron is a most engaging figure; nothing loftier, purer, sweeter, can be imagined than the beautiful tie which unites him to his gentle, true-hearted rachel." speaker. "in many respects a really powerful story, strong and sympathetic. the book is infinitely superior in tone and motive to much of the current fiction." guardian. "a very tender and touching sketch, showing what a beautiful and noble life is possible to a jew who would really live in the true spirit of his simple faith and the best traditions of his people. charming pictures of jewish household life.... exceedingly pleasant to read." daily telegraph. "written with earnestness, sincerity, and lively sympathy with all that is good, generous, and tender." the scotsman. "powerful studies of lofty human character. it is full of genuine life, of real men and women, and of sustained interest.... a delightful story. 'aaron the jew' is a strong and original piece of work, and will well repay perusal." lady's pictorial. "this book has been received with such a chorus of praise that nothing is left to say. it is the best novel that mr. farjeon has produced since 'grif.'" glasgow herald. "'aaron the jew' is a benevolent and beautiful character. the story is an interesting one." western morning news. "mr. farjeon has never written a more natural and touching story than this of 'aaron the jew.' all his characters are of an attractive and noble-minded type." westminster gazette. "very simply and touchingly written; rises to the level of real pathos." jewish chronicle. "the book is interesting, and is a worthy addition to the jewish stories which are so much in fashion just now." jewish world. "'aaron the jew' is a contribution to light fiction, all the more welcome because its very slightness may cause it to be read by people who still know nothing of jews and judaism, and so tend to remove senseless prejudices." record. "a powerfully written work." world. "mr. farjeon's new novel, 'aaron the jew,' is his best work since 'grif' made him known to the reading world as a writer of fiction gifted with exceptional power and originality. the story is finely conceived and worked out with great care and lucidity." liverpool daily post. "the book is, indeed, in every way an excellent production of mr. farjeon's pen, and will no doubt attain the popularity it unquestionably deserves." _aaron the jew_ a novel _by_ _b. l. farjeon_ author of "_great porter square_," "_grif_," "_blade o' grass_," "_the last tenant_," _etc._, _etc_. london, hutchinson & co , _paternoster row_ _all rights reserved_ _cheap and popular edition_. * * * * * * the last tenant by b. l. farjeon. _in crown vo, cloth gilt, gilt top, s. d.;_ _picture boards, s_. * * * * * * "a well written novel of absorbing interest." _scotsman_. "the story enchains the reader's attention from the first page to the last."--_yorkshire post_. "must be pronounced a successful piece of detective narration. those who like a good detective story will find what they want in 'the last tenant.'" _manchester guardian_. * * * * * * london: hutchinson & co., paternoster row. contents. book the first. _mother and child_. * * * * chap. i. the poor doctor. ii. dr. spenlove's visitor. iii. dr. spenlove undertakes a delicate mission. iv. flight. v. death better than life. vi. the friend in need. vii. dr. spenlove advises. viii. what was put in the iron box. ix. mr. moss plays his part. book the second. _rachel_. * * * * x. the vision in the churchyard. xi. mr. whimpole introduces himself. xii. the course of the seasons. xiii. aaron cohen preaches a sermon on large noses. xiv. a proclamation of war. xv. the battle is fought and won. xvi. joy and sorrow. xvii. divine consolation. book the third. _the temptation and the fall_. * * * * xviii. unto them a child is born. xix. between life and death. xx. a momentous night. xxi. over a bright cloud a black shadow falls. xxii. the living and the dead. xxiii. plucked from the jaws of death. xxiv. the curtain falls awhile. book the fourth. _honour and progress_. * * * * xxv. after many years. xxvi. the foundation of aaron's fortune. xxvii. the feast of passover. xxviii. rachel's life in the new land. xxix. the farewell. xxx. at the grave of his child. book the fifth. _the gathering of the cloud_. * * * * xxxi. aaron is asked for a subscription, and relates the story of a convert. xxxii. aaron cohen addresses a jewish audience. xxxiii. what shall be done to the man whom the king delighteth to honour? xxxiv. the honourable percy storndale. xxxv. the spirit of the dead past. xxxvi. before all, duty. book the sixth. _retribution_. * * * * xxxvii. esther moss receives a letter. xxxviii. ruth's secret. xxxix. the honourable percy storndale makes an appeal to aaron cohen. xl. a duty performed. xli. there is a providence that shapes our ends. xlii. a mother's joy. xliii. a panic in the city. xliv. the confession. xlv. a poisoned arrow. xlvi. retribution. aaron the jew. * * * book the first. _mother and child_. chapter i. the poor doctor. on a bright, snowy night in december, , dr. spenlove, having been employed all the afternoon and evening in paying farewell visits to his patients, walked briskly towards his home through the narrowest and most squalid thoroughfares in portsmouth. the animation of his movements may be set down to the severity of the weather, and not to any inward cheerfulness of spirits, for as he passed familiar landmarks, he looked at them with a certain regret, which men devoid of sentiment would have pronounced an indication of a weak nature. in this opinion, however, they would have been wrong, for dr. spenlove's intended departure early the following morning from a field which had strong claims upon his sympathies was dictated by a law of inexorable necessity. he was a practitioner of considerable skill, and he had conscientiously striven to achieve a reputation in some measure commensurate with his abilities. from a worldly point of view his efforts had been attended with mortifying failure; he had not only been unsuccessful in earning a bare livelihood, but he had completely exhausted the limited resources with which he had started upon his career; he had, moreover, endured severe privation, and an opening presenting itself in the wider field of london, he had accepted it with gladness and reluctance. with gladness, because he was an ambitious man, and had desires apart from his profession; with reluctance, because it pained him to bid farewell to patients in whom he took a genuine interest, and whom he would have liked to continue to befriend. he had, indeed, assisted many of them to the full extent of his power, and in some instances had gone beyond this limit, depriving himself of the necessaries of life to supply them with medicines and nourishing food, and robbing his nights of rest to minister to their woes. he bore about him distinguishing marks of the beautiful self-sacrifice. on this last night of his residence among them, his purse was empty, and inclement as was the weather, he wore, on his road home, but one thin coat, which was but a feeble protection from the freezing air, which pierced to his skin, though every button was put to its proper use. a hacking cough, which caused him to pause occasionally, denoted that he was running a dangerous risk in being so insufficiently clad; but he seemed to make light of it, and smiled when the paroxysm was over. in no profession can be found displayed a more noble humanity and philanthropy than in that which dr. spenlove practised, and, needy as he was, and narrow as had been his means from the start, his young career already afforded a striking example of sweet and unselfish attributes. in the divine placing of human hosts, the poor doctor and the poor priest shall be found marching in the van side by side. during the whole of the day snow had been falling, and during the whole of the day dr. spenlove had had but one meal. he did not complain; he had been accustomed to live from hand to mouth, and well knew what it was to go to bed hungry; and there was before him the prospect of brighter times. but cheering as was this prospect, his walk home through the falling snow was saddened by the scenes he had witnessed in the course of the day; and one especially dwelt in his mind. "poor creature!" he mused. "what will become of her and her baby? o pitiless world! does it not contain a single human being who will hold out a helping hand?" before one of the poorest houses in one of the poorest streets he paused, and, admitting himself with a private latchkey, unlocked a door on the ground floor, and entered a room which faced the street. there was a wire blind to the window, on which was inscribed,-- consultations from till a.m. this room, with a communicating bedroom at the back, comprised his professional and private residence. dr. spenlove groped in the dark for the matches, and, lighting a candle, applied a match to a fire laid with scrupulous economy in the matter of coals. as he was thus employed, his landlady knocked at the door and entered. "is it you, mrs. radcliffe?" he asked, not turning his head. "yes, sir. let me do that, please." the paper he had lit in the grate was smouldering away without kindling the wood; the landlady knelt down, and with a skilful touch the flame leapt up. dr. spenlove, unbuttoning his thin coat, spread out his hands to the warmth. "any callers, mrs. radcliffe?" "a gentleman, sir, who seemed very anxious to see you. he did not leave his name or card, but said he would call again this evening." "did he mention the hour?" "nine, sir." dr. spenlove put his hand to his waistcoat pocket, and quickly withdrew it, with a smile of humour and self-pity. the landlady noticed the action, and dolefully shook her head. "very anxious to see me, you say, mrs. radcliffe." "very anxious indeed, sir. dear, dear, you're wet through!" "it is a bitter night," he said, coughing. "you may well say that, sir. bad weather for you to be out, with that nasty cough of yours." "there are many people worse off than i am, without either fire or food." "we all have our trials, sir. it's a hard world." "indeed, indeed!" he said, thinking of the female patient whom he had last visited. "where's your overcoat, sir? i'll take it down to the kitchen; it'll dry sooner there." she looked around in vain for it. "never mind my overcoat, mrs. radcliffe." "but you had it on when you went out, sir?" "did i? don't trouble about it. it will dry quickly enough where it is." he was now busily employed making a parcel of books and instruments, which he had taken from different parts of the room, and which were the only articles of value belonging to himself it contained. the landlady stood for a moment or two watching his movements, and then she hurried down to her kitchen, and presently returned with a cup of hot tea. as she passed through the passage, with the cup in one hand and a candle in the other, she glanced at the empty umbrella stand. "his umbrella, too, as well as his overcoat," she muttered. "the man's heart's too big for his body!" she re-entered the room. "i've brought you a cup of tea, sir, if you don't mind taking it." "not at all, mrs. radcliffe. it is very kind of you." he drank the tea, which warmed him through and through. "we're all sorry at your leaving us, sir," said the landlady. "there's plenty that'll miss you." "i am sorry, too," he replied; "but when needs must, you know. i can do no good to myself or others by remaining. if the gentleman calls again, ask him to wait, if his business is of importance. you had better tell him i am leaving portsmouth to-morrow morning." with his parcel under his arm he left the house, and trudging through the snow again, halted at a pawnbroker's shop, lingering awhile before he entered, as sensitive men do before putting the finishing touch to a humiliating act. then, shrugging his shoulders, and muttering, "i ought to be used to it by this time," he plunged into the shop, where he obtained upon his few last treasures as much as would pay his third-class fare to london and the two weeks' rent he owed his landlady. thus safe-guarded for a few hours at least, he left the shop, but instead of immediately retracing his steps to his lodgings he lingered once more irresolutely, with the air of a man who was at war with himself upon a momentous question. the sixteen shillings due to his landlady was in his pocket, and undoubtedly it was but simple honesty that it should be handed over to her without hesitation. but the hapless female patient who had occupied his thoughts during the last hour was at this moment in the throes of a desperate human crisis, and dark as was the present to her suffering soul, the terrors which the future held in store for her were still more agonising. she had a young baby at her breast; she had no food in her cupboard, not a loaf of bread, not a cup of milk; she had not a friend in the world to whom she could appeal for help. she, too, was in debt to her landlord, a hard man who was waiting for another sun to rise to thrust her and her infant into the white and pitiless streets. it would have been done to-day but for the intervention of dr. spenlove, who had pawned his overcoat and umbrella to buy of the poor creature's landlord a respite of twenty-four hours. the sixteen shillings due to mrs. radcliffe would buy her another respite for a longer term, but when this was expired there was still the hopeless future to face. dr. spenlove thrust aside this latter consideration, and thought only of the ineffable relief it was in his power to bring to a heart racked with anguish and despair. he lost sight of the fact that the wretched woman would still be without food, and that she was too weak to work for it. even when she was strong, and able to ply her needle throughout the whole of the day and the greater part of the night, her earnings had never exceeded six shillings a week; she had confessed as much to the good doctor, but for whose timely aid the workhouse would have been her only refuge. as he stood debating with himself the sentiment of pity was strong within him, but he could not banish the voice of justice which whispered that the money was not his to dispose of. all the people with whom he was acquainted were poor, and his landlady was as poor as the rest; he knew that she often depended upon the payment of his rent to pay her own. it might be that just now she could afford to wait awhile for what was due to her; if so, he would dispose of the sixteen shillings as his benevolent instincts impelled him to do; he must, however, ascertain how the land lay before he acted. it may appear strange to many fortunate persons that issues so grave and vital should hang upon a sum of money which to them would not be worth a thought; but it would be a good lesson for them to learn that opportunities are not scarce for bringing heaven's brightest sunshine to overcharged hearts by the judicious bestowal of a few small coins out of the wealth which yields them all the material comforts of life. having made up his mind upon the important matter, dr. spenlove turned homewards, and as he walked he recalled the incidents in connection with the unhappy woman in which he had played a part. she was a stranger in the neighbourhood, and had lived her lonely life in a garret for five months. no person with whom she came in contact knew anything of her or of her antecedents, and it was by chance that he became acquainted with her. attending to his poor patients in the street in which she resided, he passed her one afternoon, and was attracted as much by her modest and ladylike appearance as by the evidence of extreme weakness, which could hardly escape the observation of a man so kindly-hearted as himself. he perceived at once that she was of a superior class to those among whom she moved, and he was impressed by a peculiar expression on her face when his eyes rested on her. it was the expression of a hunted woman, of one who was in hiding and dreaded being recognised. he made inquiries about her, but no one could give him any information concerning her, and in the press of onerous cares and duties she passed out of his mind. some weeks later he met her again, and his first impressions were renewed and strengthened; and pity stirred his heart as he observed from her garments that she was on the downward path of poverty. it was clear that she was frightened by his observance of her, for she hurried quickly on; but physical weakness frustrated her desire to avoid him; she staggered and would have fallen had he not ran forward and caught her. weak as she was she struggled to release herself; he kept firm hold of her, however, animated by compassion and fortified by honest intention. "you have nothing to fear from me," he said. "allow me to assist you. i am dr. spenlove." it was the first time he had addressed her, but his name was familiar to her as that of a gentleman to whom the whole neighbourhood was under a debt of gratitude for numberless acts of goodness. she glanced timidly at his face, and a vague hope stirred her heart; she knew that the time was approaching when she would need such a friend. but the hope did not live long; it was crushed by a sudden fear. "do you know me, sir?" "no," replied dr. spenlove, in a cheerful tone. "you are a stranger to me, as i have no doubt i am to you." "you are not quite a stranger, sir," she said, timidly. "i have heard of your kindness to many suffering people." "tush, tush!" he exclaimed. "a man deserves no credit for doing his duty. you feel stronger now, do you not? if you have no doctor you must allow me to come and see you. do not hesitate; you need such advice as i can give you; and," he added gently, "i will send in my account when you are rich. not till then, upon my honour; and meanwhile i promise to ask no questions." "i am deeply grateful to you, sir." and, indeed, when they parted the world was a little brighter to the poor soul. from that day he attended her regularly, and she was strengthened and comforted by his considerate conduct towards her. she was known as mrs. turner; but it was strange, if she were wife or widow, that she should wear no wedding-ring. as their intimacy ripened his first impression that she was a lady was confirmed, and although he was naturally curious about her history, he kept his promise by not asking her any questions which he instinctively felt it would be painful to her to answer. even when he discovered that she was about to become a mother he made no inquiries concerning the father of her unborn child. on the day he bade her farewell, her baby, a girl, was two weeks old, and a dark and terrible future lay before the hapless woman. his heart bled for her, but he was powerless to help her further. weak and despairing, she sat in her chair with her child at her wasted breast; her dark and deep-sunken eyes seemed to be contemplating this future in hopeless terror. "i am grieved to leave you so," he said, gazing sadly at her; "but it is out of my power to do what i would wish. unhappily, i am almost as poor as yourself. you will try to get strong, will you not?" "i don't know," she murmured. "remember," he said, taking her hand, "you have a duty to perform. what will you do when you are strong?" "i don't know." "nay, nay," he gently urged, "you must not speak so despondently. believe me, i do not wish to force your confidence, but i have gathered from chance words you have let drop that you lived in london. i am going there to-morrow. can i call upon any person who would be likely to assist you?" "there is no one." "but surely you must have some friends or relations----" "i have none. when you leave me i shall be without a friend in the world." "god help you!" he sighed. "will he?" the question was asked in the voice of one who had abandoned hope, who had lost faith in human goodness and eternal justice, and who was tasting the bitterness of death. dr. spenlove remained with her an hour, striving to cheer her, to instil hope into her heart, but his words had no effect upon her; and, indeed, he felt at times that the platitudes to which he was giving utterance were little better than mockery. was not this woman face to face with the practical issues of life and death in their most awful aspect, and was it not a stern fact that there was but one practical remedy for them? she asked for bread, and he was offering her a stone. it was then he went from her room and learned the full truth from her landlord, who was only waiting till he was gone to turn her into the streets. we know by what means he bought a day's respite for her. finally he left her, and bore away with him the darkest picture of human misery of which he had ever had experience. chapter ii. dr. spenlove's visitor. his landlady, mrs. radcliffe, met him on the doorstep, and informed him that the gentleman who had called to see him in the afternoon had called again, and was in his room. "a word, mrs. radcliffe," he said, hurriedly. "i am going to ask a great favour of you. i owe you two weeks' rent." "yes, sir." his heart sank within him; he divined immediately from her tone that she was in need of the money. "would it inconvenience you to wait a little while for it?" "i must, sir, if you haven't got it," she replied, "but i am dreadfully hard pressed, and i reckoned on it. i'm behindhand myself, sir, and my landlord's been threatening me----" "say no more, mrs. radcliffe. justice must be first served. i have the money; take it--for heaven's sake take it quickly! i must not rob the poor to help the poor." he muttered the last words to himself as he thrust the sixteen shillings into her hand. "i am so sorry, sir," said the distressed woman. he interrupted her with, "there, there, i am ashamed that i asked you. i am sure no one has a kinder heart than you, and i am greatly obliged to you for all the attention you have shown me while i have been in your house. the gentleman is in my room, you say?" it was a proof of mrs. radcliffe's kindness of heart that there was a bright fire blazing in the room, made with her own coals, and that the lamp had been replenished with her own oil. dr. spenlove was grateful to her, and he inwardly acknowledged that he could not have otherwise disposed of the few shillings which he had no right to call his own. his visitor rose as he entered, a well-dressed man some forty years of age, sturdily built, with touches of grey already in his hair and beard, and with signs in his face and on his forehead indicative of a strong will. "dr. spenlove?" he asked, as they stood facing each other. "that is my name." "mine is gordon. i have come to see you on a matter of great importance." dr. spenlove motioned to the chair from which his visitor had risen, and he resumed his seat; but although he had said that he had come upon a matter of great importance, he seemed to be either in no hurry to open it, or to be uncertain in which way to do so, for he sat for some moments in silence, smoothing his bearded chin and studying dr. spenlove's face with a stern and studious intentness. "can you spare me half an hour of your time?" he said at length. "longer, if you wish," said dr. spenlove. "it may be longer, if you offer no opposition to the service i wish you to render me; and perhaps it is as well to say that i am willing and can afford to pay for the service." dr. spenlove bent his head. "it is seldom," continued mr. gordon, "that i make mistakes, and the reason is not far to seek. i make inquiries, i clear the ground, i resolve upon a course of action, and i pursue it to its end without deviation. i will be quite frank with you, dr. spenlove; i am a hard, inflexible man. thrown upon the world when i was a lad, i pushed my way to fortune. i am self-made; i can speak fair english. i have received little education, none at all in a classical way; but i possess common sense, and i make it apply to my affairs. that is better than education if a man is resolved to get along in life--as i was resolved to do. when i was a young man i said, 'i will grow rich, or i will know the reason why.' i have grown rich. i do not say it as a boast--it is only fools who boast--but i am worth to-day a solid twenty thousand pounds a year. i make this statement merely as a proof that i am in a position to carry out a plan in which i desire your assistance and co-operation." "my dear sir," said dr. spenlove, who could not but perceive that his visitor was very much in earnest, "the qualities you mention are admirable in their way, but i fear you have come to the wrong man. i am a doctor, and if you do not need my professional advice----" "stop a moment," interrupted mr. gordon, "i have come to the right man, and i do not need professional advice. i am as sound as a bell, and i have never had occasion to pay a doctor's fee. i know what i am about in the mission which brings me here. i have made inquiries concerning you, and have heard something of your career and its results; i have heard of your kindnesses and of the esteem in which you are held. you have influence with your patients; any counsel you might give them, apart from your prescriptions, would be received with respect and attention; and i believe i am not wrong when i say that you are to some extent a man of the world." "to some slight extent only," corrected dr. spenlove, with a faint smile. "sufficient," proceeded mr. gordon, "for my purpose. you are not blind to the perils which lie before weak and helpless women--before, we will say, a woman who has no friends, who is living where she is not known, who is in a position of grave danger, who is entirely without means, who is young and good-looking, and who, at the best, is unable by the work of her hands to support herself." dr. spenlove looked sharply at his visitor. "you have such a woman in your mind, mr. gordon." "i have such a woman in my mind, dr. spenlove." "a patient of mine?" "a patient of yours." there was but one who answered to this description, and whose future was so dark and hopeless. for the first time during the interview he began to be interested in his visitor. he motioned him to proceed. "we are speaking in confidence, dr. spenlove?" "in perfect confidence, mr. gordon." "whether my errand here is successful or not, i ask that nothing that passes between us shall ever be divulged to a third person." "i promise it." "i will mention the name of the woman to whom i have referred, or, it will be more correct to say, the name by which she is known to you. mrs. turner." "you mean her no harm, sir?" "none. i am prepared to befriend her, to save her, if my conditions are accepted." dr. spenlove drew a deep breath of relief. he would go to his new field of labours with a light heart if this unhappy woman were saved. "you have come at a critical moment," he said, "and you have accurately described the position in which she is placed. but how can my mediation, or the mediation of any man, be necessary in such a case? she will hail you as her saviour and the saviour of her babe. hasten to her immediately, dear sir; or perhaps you do not know where she lives, and wish me to take you to her? i am ready. do not let us lose a moment, for every moment deepens her misery." he did not observe the frown which passed into mr. gordon's face at his mention of the child; he was so eager that his hat was already on his head and his hand on the handle of the door. mr. gordon did not rise from his chair. "you are in too great a hurry, dr. spenlove. be seated, and listen to what i have to say. you ask how your mediation can avail. i answer, in the event of her refusal to accept the conditions upon which i am ready to marry her." "to marry her!" exclaimed dr. spenlove. "to marry her," repeated mr. gordon. "she is not a married woman, and her real name need not be divulged. when you hear the story i am about to relate, when you hear the conditions, the only conditions, upon which i will consent to lift her from the degraded depths into which she has fallen, you will understand why i desire your assistance. you will be able to make clear to her the effect of her consent or refusal upon her destiny and the destiny of her child; you will be able to use arguments which are in my mind, but to which i shall not give utterance. and remember, through all, that her child is a child of shame, and that i hold out to her the only prospect of that child being brought up in a reputable way and of herself being raised to a position of respectability." he paused a moment or two before he opened fresh matter. "i was a poor lad, dr. spenlove, without parents, without a home; and when i was fourteen years of age i was working as an errand-boy in london, and keeping myself upon a wage of four shillings a week. i lost this situation through the bankruptcy of my employer, and i was not successful in obtaining another. one day, i saw on the walls a bill of a vessel going to australia, and i applied at the agent's office with a vague idea that i might obtain a passage by working aboard ship in some capacity or other. i was a strong boy--starvation agrees with some lads--and a willing boy, and it happened that one of my stamp was wanted in the cook's galley. i was engaged at a shilling a month, and i landed in melbourne with four shillings in my pocket. "how i lived till i became a man is neither here nor there; but when gold was discovered i lived well, for i got enough to buy a share in a cattle station, which now belongs entirely to me. in , being then on the high road to fortune, i made the acquaintance of a man whom i will call mr. charles, and of his only child, a girl of fourteen, whom i will call mary. i was taken with mr. charles, and i was taken in by him as well, for he disappeared from the colony a couple of years afterwards, in my debt to the tune of a thousand pounds. he had the grace to write to me from london, saying he would pay me some day; and there the matter rested for seven years more, which brings me to two years ago. "at that time i had occasion to visit england on business; and in london i hunted up my debtor, and we renewed our acquaintance. mary was then a young woman of twenty-one; and had it not been for her, it is more than likely i might have made things unpleasant for her father, who was leading the disreputable life of a gambler on racecourses, and in clubs of a low character. "dr. spenlove, you must have gathered from the insight i have given you into my character that i am not a man of sentiment, and you will probably consider it all the more strange that i should have entertained feelings towards mary which caused me to consider whether she would not make me a creditable wife. of these feelings i prefer not to speak in a warmer strain, but shall leave you to place your own construction upon them. while i was debating with myself as to the course i should pursue, the matter was decided for me by the death of mr. charles. he died in disgrace and poverty, and mary was left friendless and homeless. "i stepped in to her rescue, and i made a proposal of marriage to her. at the same time, i told her that i thought it advisable, for her sake and mine, that a little time should elapse before this proposal was carried into effect. i suggested that our marriage should take place in two years; meanwhile, i would return to australia, to build a suitable house and to prepare a home for her, and she would remain in england to fit herself for her new sphere of duties. she accepted me, and i arranged with a lady of refinement to receive her. to this lady both she and i were utter strangers, and it was settled between mary and myself that she should enter her temporary home under an assumed name. it was my proposal that this pardonable deceit should be practised; no person was wronged by it, and it would assist towards mary's complete severance from old associations. our future was in our own hands, and concerned nobody but ourselves. "i returned to australia, and made my preparations. we corresponded once a month, and some few months ago i informed her of the date of my intended arrival in england. to that letter i received no reply; and when i landed and called at the lady's house, i learned that she had fled. i set to work to discover the truth, and i have discovered it; i set to work to track her, and i have succeeded. her story is a common story of betrayal and desertion, and i am not inclined to trouble you with it. she has not the remotest hope of assistance from the man who betrayed her; she has not the remotest hope of assistance from a person in the world with the exception of myself. "dr. spenlove, notwithstanding what has occurred i am here in portsmouth this night with the intention of carrying out the engagement into which i entered with her; i am here, prepared to marry her, on express conditions. the adoption of assumed names, the obscurity she has courted, the absolute silence which is certain to be observed by her, by me, by you, by the man who betrayed her, render me safe. it is known that i have come to england to be married, and she will be accepted as i present her when i return with her as my wife. i will have no discussion as to my motives for taking what the world would consider an unwise step; but you will understand that my feelings for the woman who has played me false must be of a deep and sincere nature, or i should not dream of taking it. "it now only remains for me to state the conditions under which i am prepared to save her from even a more shameful degradation than that into which she has already fallen. i speak plainly. you know as well as i the fate that is in store for her if my offer is rejected." chapter iii. dr. spenlove undertakes a delicate mission. mr. gordon had spoken throughout in a cold, passionless tone, and with no accent of emotion in his voice. if anything could have been destructive of the idea that he loved the woman he wished to marry, it was his measured delivery of the story he had related; and yet there could be no question that there was some nobility in the nature of the sacrifice he was prepared to make for her sake. the contrast between the man and the woman struck dr. spenlove very forcibly. the man was hard and cold, the woman was sensitive and sympathetic. had their circumstances been equal, and had dr. spenlove been an interested adviser, he would have had no hesitation in saying to her: "do not marry this man: there is no point of union between you; you can never kindle in his heart the fire which burns within your own; wedded to him, a dull routine of years will be your portion." but he felt that he dared not encourage himself to pursue this line of argument. although the most pregnant part of mr. gordon's errand had yet to be disclosed, it seemed to him that he would very likely presently be the arbiter of her destiny. "you will be able," mr. gordon had said, "to make clear to her the effect of her consent or refusal upon her destiny and the destiny of her child." whatever the conditions, it would be his duty to urge her to accept the offer that would be made to her; otherwise, he might be condemning her to a course of life he shuddered to contemplate. the responsibility would be too solemn for mere sentimental consideration. these were the thoughts that flashed through his mind in the momentary pause before mr. gordon spoke again. "i believe," his visitor then said, "that i am in possession of the facts relating to mrs. turner"--he reverted to the name by which she was generally known--"but you will corroborate them perhaps. she is in want." "she is in the lowest depths of poverty." "unless she pays the arrears of rent she will be turned into the streets to-morrow." "that is the landlord's determination." "she would have been turned out to-day but for your intervention." "you are well informed, i see," observed dr. spenlove, rather nettled. "i have conversed with the landlord and with others concerning her. she lives among the poor, who have troubles enough of their own to grapple with, and are unable, even if they were inclined, to render her the assistance of which she stands in need. she seems to have kept herself aloof from them, for which i commend her. now, dr. spenlove, i will have no spectre of shame and degradation to haunt her life and mine. her past must be buried, and the grave must never be opened. to that i am resolved, and no power on earth can turn me from it." "but her child?" faltered dr. spenlove. "she will have no child. she must part with her, and the parting must be final and irrevocable. the steps i shall take to this end shall be so effectual that if by chance in the future they should happen to meet there shall be no possibility of recognition. i propose to have the child placed with a family who will adopt her as a child of their own--there will be little difficulty in finding such a family--to the head of which a sum of one hundred pounds will be paid yearly for maintenance. i name no limit as to time; so long as the child lives, so long will the payment be made through my lawyers. should the child die before she reaches the age of twenty-one, the sum of five hundred pounds will be paid to the people who undertake the charge. they will know nothing of me or of the mother; our names will not be divulged to them, and they will not be able to trace us. should they evince a disposition to be troublesome in this respect, the child will be taken from them by my lawyers, and another home provided for her. a hundred pounds a year is a liberal sum, and there will not be the least difficulty in carrying out the proposed arrangement. in proof that i desire the child to have every chance of leading a happy life, i will engage to give her a marriage portion of five hundred pounds. judge for yourself whether a woman in mrs. turner's circumstances would be acting wisely in rejecting my proposition." "you have spoken in a most generous spirit," said dr. spenlove slowly, "so far as money goes; but you seem not to have taken into consideration a mother's feelings." "i have not taken them into consideration: they are not part of my plan. i have looked at the matter only from two points of view--its worldly aspect, and my desire to carry out my personal wishes. i decline to regard it or to argue upon it from the point of view of a mother's feelings. i ask you to judge of it as a man of the world." "of which," said dr. spenlove, "as i have hinted to you, i am a poor example. do you expect me to provide for the babe such a home as that you have described?" "not at all. it is my business to carry out my plan if she accepts the conditions." "what, then, do you wish me to do?" "to lay my proposition before her as nearly as possible in my words, to impress upon her that it is her duty to agree to it, for her own sake and for the sake of the child." "why not do so yourself?" "i have not seen her; i will not see her while she holds in her arms her burden of shame. she shall come to me free and unencumbered, or she shall not come at all. i could not speak to her as i have spoken to you; i should not be able to command myself. she would plead to me, and i should answer her in bitterness and anger. such a scene would set me so strongly against her that i should immediately relinquish my purpose. you can reason with her; you can show her the path in which her duty clearly lies. i do not deny that she is called upon to make a sacrifice; but it is a sacrifice which will lead to good, it is a sacrifice which every right-minded man would urge her to make. indifferent man of the world as you proclaim yourself to be, you cannot be blind to the almost sure fate in store for her in the circumstances in which she is placed. your experiences must have made you acquainted with the stories of women who have fallen as she has fallen, and you will know how many of them were raised from the depths, and how many of them fell into deeper shame. dr. spenlove, i have entirely finished what i came here to say." "before i undertake to do what you require of me," said dr. spenlove, who by this time understood the man he had to deal with, "i must ask you a question or two." "if they relate to the present business," responded mr. gordon, "i will answer them." "failing me, will you employ some other person to act as your envoy to mrs. turner?" "i shall employ no other, for the reason that there is no other whose counsel would be likely to influence her. and for another reason--i have disclosed to you what i will disclose to no other person." "would you leave her as she is?" "i would leave her as she is. early in the morning i should take my departure, and she would have to face the future unaided by me." "if she will not listen to me, if she will not make the sacrifice, you will surely give her out of your abundance some little assistance to help her along?" "out of my abundance," replied mr. gordon, sternly, "i will give her nothing--not the smallest coin. make your mind easy upon one point, dr. spenlove. so far as a practical man like myself is likely to go, i will do what i can to make her happy if she affords me the opportunity. she will live in a respectable atmosphere, she will be surrounded by respectable people, she will have all the comforts that money can purchase, and i shall never utter to her a word of reproach. her past will be as dead to me as if it had never been." dr. spenlove rose. "it is your desire that i shall go to her to-night?" "it is. the matter must be settled without delay." "if she asks for time to reflect----" "i must have an answer to-night, yea or nay." there was no more to be said. the man who had been wronged and deceived, and who had made an offer so strange, and generous, and cruel, was fixed and implacable. "i may be absent some time," said dr. spenlove. "where shall i see you upon my return?" "here, if you will allow me to stay." "you are welcome. my landlady will make you a bed on the sofa." "thank you; i need no bed. i can employ myself while you are away." dr. spenlove stepped to the door, and turned on the threshold. "one other question, mr. gordon. if i succeed, when will you require her to give up her child?" "to-morrow evening. i will have a carriage ready at the door. on the following day mrs. turner and i will leave portsmouth, and there is no probability, after that, that you and i will ever meet again." dr. spenlove nodded, and left the house. chapter iv. flight. the snow was falling more heavily, and a strong wind blew the flakes into his face as he made his way to mrs. turner's garret. he walked as quickly as he could, but his progress was impeded by the force of the wind and by its driving the snow into his eyes. despite these obstacles he preserved his mental balance, and was observant of all that was passing around him; and it was a proof of his kindly and unselfish nature that, in the light of the vital errand upon which he was engaged, he was oblivious of the sense of physical discomfort. conflicting questions agitated his mind. no longer under the influence of the cold, cruel logic which distinguished mr. gordon's utterances, he once more asked himself whether he would be acting rightly in urging mrs. turner to renounce her maternal duties and obligations, and to part for ever with the child of her blood. the human and the divine law were in conflict. on one side degradation and direst poverty from which there seemed no prospect of escape, and driving the mother perhaps to a course of life condemned alike by god and man; on the other side a life of material comfort and respectability for herself and her child. a fortuitous accident--a chance for which he had prayed earlier in the night--had made him at once the arbiter and the judge; his hand was on the wheel to steer these two helpless beings through the voyage upon which they were embarked, and upon him rested the responsibility of their future. there was no case here of ploughing through unknown waters over hidden rocks; he saw the ocean of life before him, he saw the rocks beneath. amid those rocks lay the forms of lost abandoned women who in their mortal career would surely have been saved had an offer of rescue come, such as had come to the woman who chiefly occupied his thoughts. they would have been spared the suffering of despairing days, the horrors of a despairing death; they would have been lifted from the gulf of shame and ignominy. new hopes, new joys would have arisen to comfort them. the sacrifice they would have been called upon to make would have been hallowed by the consciousness that they had performed their duty. it was not alone the happiness of the mortal life that had to be considered; if the ministrations of god's ministers on earth were not a mockery and a snare, it was the immortal life that was equally at stake. the soul's reward sprang from the body's suffering. and still the pitiless snow fell, and the wind howled around him; and through the white whirlwind he beheld the light of heaven and the stars shining upon him. how should he act? he imagined himself steering the vessel through an ocean of sad waters. on the right lay a haven of rest, on the left lay a dark and desolate shore. here, salvation; there, destruction. which way should he turn the wheel? his pity for her had drawn from him during their last interview the exclamation, "god help you!" and she had asked hopelessly, "will he?" he had turned from her then; he had no answer to make. there is, he said to himself now, no divine mediation in human affairs; the divine hand is not stretched forth to give food to the hungry. in so grave an issue as the starvation of a human being, dependence upon divine aid will not avail. admitting this, he felt it to be almost a heresy, but at the same time he knew that it was true. there were but few people in the white streets, and of those few a large proportion tinged his musings with a deeper melancholy. these were ragged shivering children, and women recklessly or despondently gashing the white carpet, so pure and innocent and fair in its sentimental, so hard and bitter and cruel in its material aspect. by a devious process of reasoning he drew a parallel between it and the problem he was engaged in solving. it was poetic, and it freezed the marrow; it had a soul and a body, one a sweet and smiling spirit, the other a harsh and frowning reality. the heart of a poet without boots would have sunk within him as he trod the snow-clad streets. dr. spenlove's meditations were arrested by a sudden tumult. a number of people approached him, gesticulating and talking eagerly and excitedly, the cause of their excitement being a couple of policemen who bore between them the wet limp body of a motionless woman. he was drawn magnetically towards the crowd, and was immediately recognised. "here's dr. spenlove," they cried; "he knows her." yes, he knew her the moment his eyes fell upon her, the people having made way for him. the body borne by the policeman was that of a young girl scarcely out of her teens, an unfortunate who had walked the streets for two or three years past. "you had better come with us, doctor," said one of the policemen, to both of whom he was known. "we have just picked her out of the water." a middle-aged woman pushed herself close to dr. spenlove. "she said she'd do it a month ago," said this woman, "if luck didn't turn." good god! if luck didn't turn! what direction in the unfortunate girl's career was the lucky turn to take to prevent her from courting death? "you will come with us, sir?" said the policeman. "yes," answered dr. spenlove, mechanically. the police station was but a hundred yards away, and thither they walked, dr. spenlove making a hasty examination of the body as they proceeded. "too late, i'm afraid, sir," said the policeman. "i fear so," said dr. spenlove, gravely. it proved to be the case. the girl was dead. the signing of papers and other formalities detained dr. spenlove at the police station for nearly an hour, and he departed with a heavy weight at his heart. he had been acquainted with the girl whose life's troubles were over since the commencement of his career in portsmouth. she was then a child of fourteen, living with her parents, who were respectable working people. growing into dangerous beauty, she had fallen as others had fallen, and had fled from her home, to find herself after a time deserted by her betrayer. meanwhile the home in which she had been reared was broken up; the mother died, the father left the town. thrown upon her own resources, she drifted into the ranks of the "unfortunates," and became a familiar figure in low haunts, one of civilisation's painted, bedizened night-birds of the streets. dr. spenlove had befriended her, counselled her, warned her, urged her to reform, and her refrain was, "what can i do? i must live." it was not an uncommon case; the good doctor came in contact with many such, and could have prophesied with unerring accuracy the fate in store for them. the handwriting is ever on the wall, and no special gift is needed to decipher it. drifting, drifting, drifting, for ever drifting and sinking lower and lower till the end comes. it had come soon to this young girl--mercifully, thought dr. spenlove, as he plodded slowly on, for surely the snapping of life's chord in the springtime of her life was better than the sure descent into a premature haggard and sinful old age. recalling these reminiscences, his doubts with respect to his duty in the mission he had undertaken were solved. there was but one safe course for mrs. turner to follow. he hastened his steps. his interview with mr. gordon and the tragic incident in which he had been engaged had occupied a considerable time, and it was now close upon midnight. it was late for an ordinary visit, but he was a medical man, and the doors of his patients were open to him at all hours. in the poor neighbourhood in which mrs. turner resided, many of the street doors were left unlocked night and day for the convenience of the lodgers, and her house being one of these, dr. spenlove had no difficulty in obtaining admission. he shook the snow from his clothes, and, ascending the stairs, knocked at mrs. turner's door; no answer coming he knocked again and again, and at length he turned the handle and entered. the room was quite dark; there was no fire in the grate, no candle alight. he listened for the sound of breathing, but none reached his ears. "mrs. turner!" he cried. receiving no response he struck a match, and looked around. the room was empty. greatly alarmed he went to the landing, and knocked at an adjoining door. a woman's voice called,-- "who's there?" "it is i, dr. spenlove." "wait a moment, sir." he heard shuffling steps, and presently the tenant appeared, only partially dressed, with a lighted candle in her hand. "i didn't send for you, doctor," she said. "no. i want to ask you about mrs. turner. she is not in her room." "i thought it was strange i didn't hear the baby crying, but i don't know where she is." "did you not hear her go out?" "no, sir; i came home at ten soaked through and through, and i was glad to get to bed. it ain't a night a woman would care to keep out in unless she couldn't help herself." "indeed it is not. did you see anything of her before you went to bed?" "i didn't see her, i heard her. i was just going off when she knocked at my door, and asked if i could give her a little milk for the baby; but i hadn't any to give. besides, she ain't got a feeding-bottle that i know of. she's been trying to borrow one, but nobody in the house could oblige her. she's having a hard time of it, doctor." "she is, poor soul!" said dr. spenlove, with a sigh. "it's the way with all of us, sir; no one ought to know that better than you do. there ain't a lodger in the house that's earning more than twelve shillings a week; not much to keep a family on, is it, sir? and we've got a landlord with a heart of stone. if it hadn't been for her baby, and that it might have got him in hot water, he'd have turned her out weeks ago. he's bound to do it to-morrow if her rent ain't paid. he told me so this morning when he screwed the last penny out of me." "do you know whether she succeeded in obtaining milk for the child?" "it's hardly likely, i should say. charity begins at home, doctor." "it is natural and just that it should; but it is terrible, terrible! where can mrs. turner have gone to?" "heaven knows. one thing i do know, doctor, she's got no friends; she wouldn't make any, kept herself to herself, gave herself airs, some said, though i don't go as far as that. i dare say she has her reasons, only when a woman sets herself up like that it turns people against her. are you sure she ain't in her room?" "the room is empty." "it's enough to be the death of a baby to take it out such a night as this. listen to the wind." a furious gust shook the house, and made every window rattle. to dr. spenlove's agitated senses it seemed to be alive with ominous voices, proclaiming death and destruction to every weak and helpless creature that dared to brave it. he passed his hand across his forehead in distress. "i must find her. i suppose you cannot tell me of any place she may have gone to for assistance?" "i can't, sir. there's a bare chance that as she had no coals and no money to buy 'em with, some one in the house has taken her in for the night. i'll inquire, if you like." "i shall be obliged to you if you will," said dr. spenlove, catching eagerly at the suggestion; "and i pray that you may be right." "you won't mind waiting in the passage, sir, till i've dressed myself. i sha'n't be a minute." she was very soon ready and she went about the house making inquiries; and, returning, said that none of the lodgers could give her any information concerning mrs. turner. "i am sorry to have disturbed you," said dr. spenlove; and, wishing her good-night, he once more faced the storm. the fear by which he was oppressed was that the offer of succour had come too late, and that mrs. turner had been driven by despair to the execution of some desperate design to put an end to her misery. instinctively, and with a sinking heart, he took the direction of the sea, hurrying eagerly after every person he saw ahead of him, in the hope that it might be the woman of whom he was in search. the snow was many inches thick on the roads, and was falling fast; the wind tore through the now almost deserted streets, moaning, sobbing, shrieking, with an appalling human suggestion in its tones created by dr. spenlove's fears. now and then he met a policeman, and stopped to exchange a few words with him, the intention of which was to ascertain if the man had seen any person answering to the description of mrs. turner. he did not mention her by name, for he had an idea--supposing his search to be happily successful--that mr. gordon would withdraw his offer if any publicity were attracted to the woman he was ready to marry. the policemen could not assist him; they had seen no woman with a baby in her arms tramping the streets on this wild night. "anything special, sir?" they asked. "no," he replied, "nothing special;" and so went on his way. chapter v. death better than life. when dr. spenlove left mrs. turner she sat for some time in a state of dull lethargy. no tear came into her eyes, no sigh escaped from her bosom. during the past few months she had exhausted the entire range of remorseful and despairing emotion. the only comfort she had received through all those dreary months sprang from the helpful sympathy of dr. spenlove; apart from, that she had never been buoyed up by a ray of light, had never been cheered by the hope of a brighter day. her one prevailing thought was that she would be better dead than alive. she did not court death; she waited for it, and silently prayed that it would come soon. it was not from the strength of inward moral support that she had the courage to live on; it was simply that she had schooled herself into the belief that before or when her child was born death would release her from the horrors of life. young as she was she so fostered this hope that it became a conviction, and she looked forward to the end with dull resignation. "if i live till my baby is born," she thought, "i pray that it may die with me." here was the case of a woman without the moral support which springs from faith in any kind of religion. in some few mortals such faith is intuitive, but in most instances it requires guidance and wise direction in childhood. often it degenerates into bigotry and intolerance, and assumes the hateful narrow form of condemning to perdition all who do not subscribe to its own particular creed. pagans are as worthy of esteem as the bigots who arrogate to themselves the monopoly of heavenly rewards. mrs. turner was neither pagan nor bigot; she was a nullity. her religious convictions had not yet taken shape, and though, if she had been asked "are you a christian?" she would have replied, "oh yes, i am a christian," she would have been unable to demonstrate in what way she was a christian, or what she understood by the term. in this respect many thousands of human beings resemble her. faith is strength, mightier than the sword, mightier than the pen, mightier than all the world's store of gold and precious stones; and when this strength is displayed in the sweetness of resignation, and in submission to the divine will which chastens human life with sorrow, its influence upon the passions is sustaining, and purifying, and sublime. if mrs. turner had been blessed with faith which displayed itself in this direction, she would have been the happier for it, and hard as were her trials, she would to the last have looked forward with hope instead of despair. the story related by mr. gordon to dr. spenlove was true in every particular. there was no distortion or exaggeration; he had done for mrs. turner and her father all that he said he had done. he had not mentioned the word "love" in connection with the woman he had asked to be his wife. she, on her part, had no such love for him as that which should bind a man and a woman in a life-long tie; she held him in respect and esteem--that was all. but she had accepted him, and had contemplated the future with satisfaction until, until---- until a man crossed her path who wooed her in different fashion, and who lavished upon her flatteries and endearments which made her false to the promise she had given. for this man she had deserted the home which mr. gordon had provided for her, and had deserted it in such a fashion that she could never return to it, could never again be received in it, and this without a word of explanation to the man she had deceived. she was in her turn deceived, and she awoke from her dream to find herself a lost and abandoned woman. in horror she fled from him, and cast her lot among strangers, knowing full well that she would meet with unbearable contumely among those to whom she was known. hot words had passed between her and her betrayer, and in her anger she had written letters to him which in the eyes of the law would have released him from any obligation it might otherwise have imposed upon him. he was well pleased with this, and he smiled as he put those letters in a place of safety--to be brought forward only in case she annoyed him. she did nothing of the kind; her scorn for him was so profound that she was content to release him unconditionally. so she passed out of his life as he passed out of hers. neither of these beings, the betrayed or the betrayer, reckoned with the future; neither of them gave a thought to the probability that the skeins of fate, which to-day separated them as surely as if they had lived at opposite poles of the earth, might at some future time bring them together again, and that the pages of the book which they believed was closed for ever might be reopened for weal or woe. the child's moans aroused the mother from her lethargy. she had no milk to give the babe; nature's founts were dry, and she went from door to door in the house in which she lived to beg for food. she returned as she went, empty-handed, and the child continued to moan. dr. spenlove, her only friend, had bidden her farewell. she had not a penny in her pocket; there was not a crust of bread in the cupboard, not an ounce of coal, not a stick of wood to kindle a fire. she was thinly clad, and she did not possess a single article upon which she could have obtained the smallest advance. she had taken the room furnished, but even if what it contained had been her property a broker would have given but a few shillings for everything in it. the little hand instinctively wandered to the mother's wasted breast, and plucked at it imploringly, ravenously. the woman looked around in the last throes of an anguish too deep for expression, except in the appalling words to which she gave despairing utterance. "come," she cried, "we will end it!" out into the cold streets she crept, unobserved. she shivered, and a pitiful smile crossed her lips. "hush, hush!" she murmured to her babe. "it will soon be over. better dead--better dead--for you and for me!" she crept towards the sea, and hugged the wall when she heard approaching footsteps. she need not have feared; the night was too inclement for any but selfish consideration. the soft snow fell, and enwrapped her and her child in its pitiless shroud. she paused by a lamp-post, and cast an upward look at the heavens, in which she could see the glimmering of the stars. then she went on, and fretfully pressed her babe close to her breast, to stifle the feeble sobs. "be still, be still!" she murmured. "there is no hope in life for either of us. better dead--better dead!" chapter vi. the friend in need. desperately resolved as she was to carry her fatal design into execution she had not reckoned with nature. weakened by the life of privation she had led for so many months, and also by the birth of her child, her physical forces had reached the limit of human endurance. she faltered and staggered, the ground slipped from beneath her weary feet. vain was the struggle, her vital power was spent. from her overcharged heart a voiceless and terrible prayer went up to heaven. "give me strength, o god, give me but a little strength! i have not far to go!" she fought the air with her disengaged hand, and tossed her head this way and that; but her ruthless prayer was not answered, and though she struggled fiercely she managed to crawl only a few more steps. she had yet hundreds of yards to go to reach the sea when some chord within her seemed to snap; her farther progress was instantly arrested, and she found herself incapable of moving backward or forward. swaying to and fro, the earth, the sky the whirling snow, and the dim light of the stars swam in her sight and faded from before her. in that supreme moment she saw a spiritual vision of her dishonoured life. deprived early of a mother's counsel and companionship, she had passed her days with a spendthrift father, whose love for her was so tainted with selfishness that it was not only valueless, but mischievous. when she grew to woman's estate she was worse than alone; she had no guide, no teacher, to point out the rocks and shoals of maidenhood, to inculcate in her the principles of virtue which would act as a safeguard against the specious wiles of men whose eyes were charmed by her beauty, and whose only aim was to lure her to ruin. then her father died, and a friend came forward who offered her a home and an honourable position in the world. friendless and penniless, she accepted him, and gave him her promise, and accepted his money. love had not touched her heart; she thought it had when a wilier man wooed her in another and more alluring fashion, and by this man she had been beguiled and betrayed. then she knew what she had lost, but it was too late; her good name was gone, and she fled to a strange part of the country and lived among strangers, a heartbroken, despairing woman. all the salient features in her career flashed before her. she saw the man who had trusted her, she saw the man in whom she put her trust, she saw herself, an abandoned creature, with a child of shame in her arms. these ghostly figures stood clearly limned in that one last moment of swiftly fading light, as in the moment of sunrise on a frosty morning every distant object stands sharply outlined against the sky; then darkness fell upon her, and with an inarticulate, despairing cry, she sank to the ground in a deathlike swoon. the wind sobbed and shrieked and wailed around her and her child; the falling snow, with treacherous tenderness, fell softly upon them; herself insensible, she had no power to shake it off; her babe was conscious, but its feeble movements were of small avail against the white pall which was descending upon it and its outcast mother. thicker and thicker it grew, and in the wild outcry of this bitter night fate seemed to have pronounced its inexorable sentence of death against these unfortunate beings. ignorant of the fact that chance or a spiritual messenger was guiding him aright, dr. spenlove plodded through the streets. he had no clue, and received none from the half-dozen persons or so he encountered as he walked towards the sea. he was scarcely fit for the task he had undertaken, but so intent was he upon his merciful mission that he bestowed no thought upon himself. the nipping air aggravating the cough from which he was suffering, he kept his mouth closed as a protection, and peered anxiously before him for some signs of the woman he was pursuing. a man walked briskly and cheerily towards him, puffing at a large and fragrant cigar, and stamping his feet sturdily into the snow. this man wore a demonstratively furred overcoat; his hands were gloved in fur; his boots were thick and substantial; and in the independent assertion that he was at peace with the world, and on exceedingly good terms with himself, he hummed the words, in italian, of the jewel song in "faust" every time he removed the cigar from his lips. although it was but a humming reminiscence of the famous and beautiful number, his faint rendering of it was absolutely faultless, and proved him to be a man of refined musicianly taste, quite out of keeping with his demonstratively furred overcoat. music, however, was not his profession; the instincts of his race and a youthful ambition had welded the divine art into his soul, and the instincts of his race had made him--a pawnbroker. singular conjunction of qualities--the music of the celestial spheres and fourpence in the pound a month! a vulgar occupation, that of a pawnbroker, which high-toned gentlemen and mortals of aristocratic birth regard with scorn and contempt. but the last vulgar and debasing music-hall ditty which was carolled with delight by the majority of these gilded beings of a higher social grade never found lodgment in the soul of mr. moss, which, despite that he devoted his business hours to the lending of insignificant sums of money upon any small articles which were submitted to his judgment across the dark counter of his pawnbroking establishment, was attuned to a far loftier height than theirs in the divine realms of song. puff, puff, puff at his cigar, the curling wreaths from which were whirled into threads of fantastic confusion by the gusts of wind, or hung in faint grey curls of beauty during a lull. the starry gleam was transferred from the lips to the fur-covered hand:-- "e' strano poter il viso suo veder; ah! mi posso guardar mi pospo rimirar. di, sei tu? margherita! di, sei tu? dimmi su; dimmi su, di su, di su, di su presto!" from hand to lips the starry gleam, and the soul of mr. moss followed the air as he puffed his weed.... "e la figlia d'un re!... proseguiam l'adornamento. vo provare ancor se mi stan lo smaniglia ed il monil!" the pawnbroker broke into ecstasy. from lips to hand again the starry light, and his voice grew rapturous:-- "ciel! e come una man che sul baaccio mi posa! ah! io rido in poter me stessa qui veder!" the last trill brought him close to dr. spenlove. "friend, friend!" cried the doctor. "a word with you, for charity's sake!" mr. moss did not disregard the appeal. slipping off his right glove, and thereby displaying two fingers decorated with massive rings studded with diamonds, he fished a couple of coppers from a capacious pocket, and thrust them into dr. spenlove's outstretched palm. he thought it was a homeless beggar who had besought charity. dr. spenlove caught his hand, and said,-- "no, no, it is not for that. will you kindly tell me---- "why," interrupted mr. moss, "it is dr. spenlove!" "mr. moss," said dr. spenlove, with a sigh of relief, "i am glad it is you, i am glad it is you." "not gladder than i am," responded mr. moss, jovially. "even in weather like this i shouldn't care to be anybody else but myself." this feeble attempt at humour was lost upon dr. spenlove. "you have come from the direction i am taking, and you may have seen a person i am looking for--a woman with a baby in her arms, a poor woman, mr. moss, whom i am most anxious to find." "i've come from the hard, but i took no account of the people i passed. a man has enough to do to look after himself, with the snow making icicles in his hair, and the wind trying to bite his nose off his face. the first law of nature, you know, doctor, is----" "humanity," interrupted dr. spenlove. "no, no, doctor," corrected mr. moss; "number one's the first law--number one, number one." "you did not meet the woman, then?" "not to notice her. you've a bad cough, doctor; you'll have to take some of your own medicine." he laughed. "standing here is enough to freeze one." "i am sorry i troubled you," said dr. spenlove, hurt by the tone in which mr. moss spoke. "good-night." he was moving away, when mr. moss detained him. "but look here, doctor, you're not fit to be tramping the streets in this storm; you ought to be snuggled up between the blankets. come home with me, and mrs. moss shall make you a hot grog." dr. spenlove shook his head, and passed on. mr. moss gazed at the retreating figure, his thoughts commingling. "a charitable man, the good doctor, a large-hearted gentleman.... 'tardi si fa ahdio! ah! ti scongiuro invan.' and poor as a church mouse. what woman is he running after? mrs. moss would give her a piece of her mind for taking out a baby on such a night. 'notte d'amor, tutta splendor, begli astra d'oro. o celeste voluttà! udir si, t'amo, t'adoro!' too bad to let him go alone, such a good fellow as he is; but mrs. moss will be waiting up for me.... she won't mind when i tell her.... i've a good mind to--yes, i will." and after the doctor went mr. moss, and caught up to him. "doctor, can i be of any assistance to you?" "i shall be glad of your help," said dr. spenlove, eagerly. "i'm rather worn out; i have had a hard day." "it's a trying life, the' life of a doctor," said mr. moss, sympathetically, as they walked slowly on, side by side. "we were talking of it at home only a month ago, when we were discussing what we should put michael to, our eldest boy, doctor." "you have a large family," observed dr. spenlove. "not too large," said mr. moss, cheerfully. "only eleven. my mother had twenty-five, and i've a sister with eighteen. our youngest--what a rogue he is, doctor!--is eight months; our eldest, michael, is seventeen next birthday. school days over, he buckles to for work. we had a family council to decide what he should be. we discussed all the professions, and reduced them to two--doctor, stockbroker. michael had a leaning to be a doctor--that's why we kept it in for discussion--but we succeeded in arguing him out of it. your time's not your own, you see. called up at all hours of the night, and in all weathers; go to a dinner-party, and dragged away before it's half over, obliged to leave the best behind you; can't enjoy a game of cards or billiards. you've got a little bet on, perhaps; or you're playing for points and have got a winning hand, when it's 'doctor, you must come at once; so-and-so's dying.' what's the consequence? you make a miscue, or you revoke, and you lose your money. if you're married, you're worse off than if you're single; you haven't any comfort of your life. 'no, no, michael,' says i, 'no doctoring. stockbroking--that's what you'll go for.' and that's what he _is_ going for. most of our people, doctor, are lucky in their children. they don't forget to honour their father and their mother, that their days may be long in the land, and so on. there's big fish on the stock exchange, and they're worth trying for. what's the use of sprats? it takes a hundred to fill a dish. catch one salmon, and your dish is filled. a grand fish, doctor, a grand fish! what to do with your sons? why, put them where they can make money; don't make scavengers or coal-heavers of them. _we_ know what we're about. there's no brain in the world to compare with ours, and that's no boast, let me tell you. take your strikes, now. a strike of bricklayers for a rise of twopence a day in their wages. how many of our race among the strikers? not one. did you ever see a jewish bricklayer carrying a hod up a hundred-foot ladder, and risking his neck for bread, cheese, and beer? no, and you never will. we did our share of that kind of work in old egypt; we made all the bricks we wanted to, and now we're taking a rest. a strike of bootmakers. how many of our race among the cobblers? one in a thousand, and he's an addlepate. we deal in boots wholesale; but we don't make them ourselves. not likely. we send consignments of them to the colonies, and open a dozen shops in every large city, with fine plate-glass windows. we build houses with _our_ money and _your_ bricks and mortar. when we're after birds we don't care for sparrows: we aim at eagles, and we bring them down; we bring them down." he beat his gloved hands together, and chuckled. "what's your opinion, doctor?" "you are right, quite right," said dr. spenlove, upon whose ears his companion's words had fallen like the buzzing of insects. "should say i was," said mr. moss. "i ought to have gone on the stock exchange myself; but when i was a young man i fancied i had a voice; so i went in for music, studied italian and all the famous operas till i knew them by heart almost, and found out in the end that my voice wasn't good enough. it was a great disappointment, because i had dreamt of making a fortune as a tenor. signor mossini--that was to be my name. my money being all spent, i had to take what was offered to me, a situation with a pawnbroker. that is how i became one, and i've no reason to regret it. eh? why are you running away?" for dr. spenlove suddenly left his companion, and hurried forward. during the time that mr. moss was unbosoming himself they had not met a soul, and dr. spenlove had seen nothing to sustain his hope of finding mrs. turner. but now his observant eyes detected a movement in the snow-laden road which thrilled him with apprehension, and caused him to hasten to the spot. it was as if some living creature were striving feebly to release itself from the fatal white shroud. mr. moss hurried after him, and they reached the spot at the same moment. in a fever of anxiety dr. spenlove knelt and pushed the snow aside, and then there came into view a baby's hand and arm. "good god!" he murmured, and gently lifted the babe from the cold bed. "is it alive? is it alive?" cried mr. moss, all his nerves tingling with excitement. "give it to me--quick! there's some one else there." he saw portions of female clothing in the snow which dr. spenlove was pushing frantically away. he snatched up the babe, and, opening his fur coat, clasped the little one to his breast, and enveloped it in its warm folds. meanwhile dr. spenlove was working at fever-heat. to release mrs. turner from her perilous position, to raise her to her feet, to put his mouth to her mouth, his ear to her heart, to assure himself there was a faint pulsation in her body--all this was the work of a few moments. "does she breathe, doctor?" asked mr. moss. "she does," replied dr. spenlove; and added, in deep distress, "but she may die in my arms." "not if we can save her. here, help me off with this thick coat. easy, easy; i have only one arm free. now let us get her into it. that's capitally done. put the baby inside as well; it will hold them both comfortably. button it over them. there, that will keep them nice and warm. do you know her? does she live far from here? is she the woman you are looking for?" "yes, and her lodging is a mile away. how can we get her home?" "we'll manage it. ah, we're in luck. here's a cab coming towards us. hold on to them while i speak to the driver." he was off and back again with the cab--with the driver of which he had made a rapid bargain--in a wonderfully short space of time. the mother and her babe were lifted tenderly in, the address was given to the driver, the two kind-hearted men took their seats, the windows were pulled up, and the cab crawled slowly on towards mrs. turner's lodging. dr. spenlove's skilful hands were busy over the woman, restoring animation to her frozen limbs, and mr. moss was doing the same to the child. "how are you getting along, doctor? i am progressing famously, famously. the child is warming up, and is beginning to breathe quite nicely." he was handling the babe as tenderly as if it were a child of his own. "she will recover, i trust," said dr. spenlove; "but we were only just in time. it is fortunate that i met you, mr. moss; you have been the means of saving two helpless, unfortunate beings." "nonsense, nonsense," answered mr. moss. "i have only done what any man would do. it is you who have saved them, doctor, not i. i am proud to know you, and i shall be glad to hear of your getting along in the world. you haven't done very well up to now, i fear. go for the big fish and the big birds, doctor." "if that were the universal law of life," asked dr. spenlove, in a tone of exquisite compassion, with a motion of his hands towards mrs. turner and her child, "what would become of these?" "ah, yes, yes," responded mr. moss, gravely; "but i mean in a general way, you know. to be sure, there are millions more little fish and birds than there are big ones, but it's a selfish world, doctor." "you are not an exemplification of it," said dr. spenlove, his eyes brightening. "the milk of human kindness will never be frozen, even on such bitter nights as this, while men like you are in it." "you make me ashamed of myself," cried mr. moss, violently, but instantly sobered down. "and now, as i see we are close to the poor woman's house, perhaps you will tell me what more i can do." dr. spenlove took from his pocket the money with which he had intended to pay his fare to london, and held it out to mr. moss. "pay the cabman for me, and assist me to carry the woman up to her room." mr. moss thrust the money back. "i will pay him myself; it is my cab, not yours. i don't allow any one to get the better of me if i can help it." when the cab stopped he jumped out and settled with the driver, and then he and dr. spenlove carried mrs. turner and her babe to the top of the house. the room was dark and cold, and mr. moss shivered. he struck a match, and held it while dr. spenlove laid the mother and child upon their wretched bed. "kindly stop here a moment," said the doctor. he went into the passage, and called to the lodger on the same floor of whom he had made inquiries earlier in the night. she soon appeared, and after they had exchanged a few words, accompanied him, but partially dressed, to mrs. turner's room. she brought a lighted candle with her, and upon mr. moss taking it from her, devoted herself, with dr. spenlove, to her fellow-lodger and the babe. "dear, dear, dear!" she said, piteously. "poor soul, poor soul!" mr. moss was not idle. all the finer qualities of his nature were stirred to action by the adventures of the night. he knelt before the grate; it was empty; not a cinder had been left; some grey ashes on the hearth--that was all. he looked into the broken coal scuttle; it had been scraped bare. rising to his feet he stepped to the cupboard; a cracked cup and saucer were there, a chipped plate or two, a mouthless jug, but not a vestige of food. without a word he left the room, and sped downstairs. he was absent fifteen or twenty minutes, and when he returned it was in the company of a man who carried a hundredweight of coals upon his shoulders. mr. moss himself was loaded: under his armpits two bundles of wood and a loaf of bread; in one hand tea and butter; in his other hand a can of milk. "god bless you, sir!" said the woman, who was assisting dr. spenlove. mr. moss knelt again before the grate, and made a fire. kettle in hand he searched for water. "you will find some in my room, sir," said the woman. mrs. turner and her babe were now in bed, the child still craving for food, the mother still unconscious, but breathing heavily. the fire lit, and the kettle on, mr. moss put on his fur overcoat, whispered a good-night to dr. spenlove, received a grateful pressure of the hand in reply, slipped out of the house, and took his way home, humming-- "o del ciel angeli immortal, deh mi guidate con voi lassù! dio giusto, a te m'abbandono, buon dio, m'accorda il tuo perdono!" he looked at his hands, which were black from contact with the coals. "what will mrs. moss say?" he murmured. chapter vii. dr. spenlove advises. an hour after mr. moss's departure mrs. turner opened her eyes. it was a moment for which dr. spenlove had anxiously waited. he had satisfied himself that both of his patients were in a fair way of recovery, and thus far his heart was relieved. the woman who had assisted him had also taken her departure after having given the babe some warm milk. her hunger appeased, the little one was sleeping calmly and peacefully by her mother's side. the room was now warm and cheerful. a bright fire was blazing, the kettle was simmering, and a pot of hot tea was standing on the hearth. mrs. turner gazed around in bewilderment. the one candle in the room but dimly lighted it up, and the flickering flames of the fire threw fantastic shadows on walls and ceiling; but so bright was the blaze that there was nothing distressful in these shadowy phantasmagoria. at a little distance from the bed stood dr. spenlove, his pale face turned to the waking woman. she looked at him long and steadily, and did not answer him when he smiled encouragingly at her and spoke a few gentle words. she passed her hand over the form of her sleeping child, and then across her forehead, in the effort to recall what had passed. but her mind was confused; bewildering images of the stages of her desperate resolve presented themselves--blinding snow, shrieking wind, the sea which she had not reached, the phantoms she had conjured up when her senses were deserting her in the white streets. "am i alive?" she muttered. "happily, dear mrs. turner," said dr. spenlove. "you are in your own room, and you will soon be well." "who brought me here?" "i, and a good friend i was fortunate enough to meet when i was seeking you." "why did you seek me?" "to save you." "to save me! you knew, then----" she paused. "i knew nothing except that you were in trouble." "where did you find me?" "in the snow, you and your child. a few minutes longer, and it would have been too late. but an angel directed my steps." "no angel directed you: a devil led you on. why did you not leave me to die? it was what i went out for. i confess it!" she cried, recklessly. "it was my purpose not to live; it was my purpose not to allow my child to live! i was justified. is not a quick death better than a slow, lingering torture which must end in death? why did you save me? why did you not leave me to die?" "it would have been a crime." "it would have been a mercy. you have brought me back to misery. i do not thank you, doctor." "you may live to thank me. drink this tea; it will do you good." she shook her head rebelliously. "what is the use? you have done me an ill turn. had it not been for you i should have been at peace. there would have been no more hunger, no more privation. there would have been an end to my shame and degradation." "you would have taken it with you to the judgment seat," said dr. spenlove, with solemn tenderness. "there would have been worse than hunger and privation. what answer could you have made to the eternal when you presented yourself before the throne with the crime of murder on your soul?" "murder!" she gasped. "murder," he gently repeated. "if you went out to-night with an intention so appalling, it was not only your own life you would have taken, it was the life of the innocent babe now slumbering by your side. can you have forgotten that?" "no," she answered, in a tone of faint defiance, "i have not forgotten it, i do not forget it. god would have forgiven me." "he would not have forgiven you." "he would. what has she to live for? what have i to live for--a lost and abandoned woman, a mother whose association would bring degradation upon her child? how should i meet her reproaches when she grew to be a woman herself? i am not ungrateful for what you have done for me"--she glanced at the fire and the tea he held in his hand--"but it cannot continue. to-morrow will come. there is always a to-morrow to strike terror to the hearts of such as i. do you know what i have suffered? do you see the future that lies before us? what hope is there in this world for me and my child?" "there is hope. you brought her into the world." "god help me, i did!" she moaned. "by what right, having given her life, would you rob her of the happiness which may be in store for her?" "happiness!" she exclaimed, bitterly. "you speak to me of happiness!" "i do, in truth and sincerity, if you are willing to make a sacrifice, if you are willing to perform a duty." "what would i not be willing to do," she cried, despairingly; "what would i not cheerfully do, to make her life innocent and happy--not like mine--oh, not like mine! but you are mocking me with empty words." "indeed i am not," said dr. spenlove, earnestly. "since i left you some hours ago, not expecting to see you again, something has occurred of which i came to speak to you. i found your room deserted, and feared--what we will not mention again. i searched, and discovered you in time to save you; and with all my heart i thank god for it! now, drink this tea. i have much to say to you, and you need strength to consider it. if you can eat a little bread and butter--ah, you can! let me fill your cup again. that is right. now i recognise the lady it was my pleasure to be able to assist, not to the extent i would have wished, because of my own circumstances." his reference to her as a lady, no less than the respectful consideration of his manner towards her, brought a flush to her cheeks as she ate. and, indeed, she ate ravenously. defiant and rebellious as may be our moods, nature's demands are imperative, and no mortal is strong enough to resist them. when she had finished he sat by her side, and was silent awhile, debating with himself how he should approach the task which mr. gordon had imposed upon him. she saved him the trouble of commencing. "are you acquainted with the story of my life?" she asked. "it has been imparted to me," he replied, "by one to whom i was a stranger till within the last few hours." "do i know him?" "you know him well." for a moment she thought of the man who had brought her to this gulf of shame, but she dismissed the thought. it was impossible. he was too heartless and base to send a messenger to her on an errand of friendship, and dr. spenlove would have undertaken no errand of an opposite nature. "will you tell me his name?" "mr. gordon." she trembled, and her face grew white. she had wronged this man; the law might say that she had robbed him. oh! why had her fatal design been frustrated? why was not this torturing existence ended? "you need be under no apprehension," continued dr. spenlove; "he comes as a friend." she tossed her head in scorn of herself as one unworthy of friendship. "he has but lately arrived in england from the colonies, and he came with the hope of taking you back with him as his wife. it is from him i learned the sad particulars of your life. believe me when i say that he is desirous to befriend you." "in what way? does he offer me money? i have cost him enough already. my father tricked him, and i have shamefully deceived him. to receive more from him would fill me with shame; but for the sake of my child i will submit to any sacrifice, to any humiliation--i will do anything, anything! it would well become me to show pride when charity is offered to me!" "do not forget those words--'for the sake of your child you will submit to any sacrifice.' it is your duty, for her sake, to accept any honourable proposition, and mr. gordon offers nothing that is not honourable." (he sighed as he said this, for he thought of the sacredness of a mother's love for her first-born.) "he will not give you money apart from himself. united to him, all he has is yours. he wishes to marry you." she stared at him in amazement. "are you mad!" she cried, "or do you think that i am?" "i am speaking the sober truth. mr. gordon has followed you here because he wishes to marry you." "knowing me for what i am!" she said, still incredulous. "knowing that i am in the lowest depths of degradation; knowing this"--she touched her child with a gentle hand--"he wishes to marry me!" "he knows all. there is not an incident in your career with which he does not seem to be acquainted, and in the errand with which he has charged me he is sincerely in earnest." "dr. spenlove," she said, slowly, "what is your opinion of a man who comes forward to pluck from shame and poverty a woman who has behaved as i have to mr. gordon?" "his actions speak for him," replied dr. spenlove. "he must have a noble nature," she said. "i never regarded him in that light. i took him to be a hard, conscientious, fair-dealing man, who thought i would make him a good wife, but i never believed that he loved me. i did him the injustice of supposing him incapable of love. ah, how i misjudged this man! i am not worthy of him, i am not worthy of him!" "set your mind not upon the past, but upon the future. think of yourself and of your child in the years to come, and remember the fear and horror by which you have been oppressed in your contemplation of them. i have something further to disclose to you. mr. gordon imposes a condition from which he will not swerve, and to which i beg you to listen with calmness. when you have heard all, do not answer hastily. reflect upon the consequences which hang on your decision, and bear in mind that you have to make that decision before i leave you. i am to bear your answer to him to-night; he is waiting in my rooms to receive it." then, softening down all that was harsh in the proposal and magnifying all its better points, dr. spenlove related to her what had passed between mr. gordon and himself. she listened in silence, and he could not judge from her demeanour whether he was to succeed or to fail. frequently she turned her face from his tenderly-searching gaze, as though more effectually to conceal her thoughts from him. when he finished speaking she showed that she had taken to heart his counsel not to decide hastily, for she did not speak for several minutes. then she said plaintively,-- "there is no appeal, doctor?" "none," he answered, in a decisive tone. "he sought you out and made you his messenger, because of his impression that you had influence with me, and would advise me for my good?" "as i have told you, in his own words, as nearly as i have been able to recall them." "he was right. there is no man in the world i honour more than i honour you. i would accept what you say against my own convictions, against my own feelings. advise me, doctor. my mind is distracted; i cannot be guided by it. you know what i am, you know what i have been, you foresee the future that lies before me. advise me." the moment he had dreaded had arrived. the issue was with him. he felt that this woman's fate was in his hands. "my advice is," he said, in a low tone, "that you accept mr. gordon's offer." "and cast aside a mother's duty?" "what did you cast aside," he asked, sadly, "when you went with your child on such a night as this towards the sea?" she shuddered. she would not look at her child; with stern resolution she kept her eyes from wandering to the spot upon which the infant lay; she even moved away from the little body so that she should not come in contact with it. a long silence ensued, which dr. spenlove dared not break. "i cannot blame him," she then said, her voice, now and again, broken by a sob, "for making conditions. it is his respectability that is at stake, and he is noble and generous for taking such a risk upon himself. there is a law for the man and a law for the woman. oh, i know what i am saying, doctor; the lesson has been driven into my soul, and i have learnt it with tears of blood. one of these laws is white, the other black, and justice says it is right. it is our misfortune that we bear the children, and that their little fingers clutch our heart-strings. it would be mockery for me to say that i love my child with a love equal to that i should have felt if she had come into the world without the mark of shame with which i have branded her. with my love for her is mingled a loathing of myself, a terror of the living evidence of my fall. but i love her, doctor, i love her--and never yet so much as now when i am asked to part with her! what i did a while ago was done in a frenzy of despair. i had no food, you see, and she was crying for it; and the horror and the anguish of that hour may overpower me again if i am left as i am. i will accept mr. gordon's offer, and i will be as good a wife to him as it is in my power to be; but i, also, have a condition to make. mr. gordon is much older than i, and it may be that i shall outlive him. the condition i make is--and whatever the consequences i am determined to abide by it--that in the event of my husband's death, and of there being no children of our union, i shall be free to seek the child i am called upon to desert. in everything else i will perform my part of the contract faithfully. take my decision to mr. gordon, and if it is possible for you to return here to-night with his answer, i implore you to do so. i cannot close my eyes, i cannot rest, until i hear the worst. god alone knows on which side lies the right, on which the wrong!" "i will return with his answer," said dr. spenlove, "to-night." "there is still something more," she said, in an imploring tone, "and it must be a secret sacredly kept between you and me. it may happen that you will become acquainted with the name of the guardian of my child. i have a small memorial which i desire he shall retain until she is of age, say until she is twenty-one, or until, in the event of my husband's death, i am free to seek her in years to come. if you do not discover who the guardian is, i ask you to keep this memorial for me until i reclaim it; which may be, never! will you do this for me?" "i will." "thank you for all your goodness to me. but i have nothing to put the memorial in. could you add to your many kindnesses by giving me a small box which i can lock and secure? dear dr. spenlove, it is a mother who will presently be torn from her child who implores you!" he bethought him of a small iron box he had at home, which contained some private papers of his own. he could spare this box without inconvenience to himself, and he promised to bring it to her; and so, with sincere words of consolation, he left her. in the course of an hour he returned. mr. gordon had consented to the condition she imposed. "should i be thankful or not?" she asked, wistfully. "you should be thankful," he replied. "your child, rest assured, will have a comfortable and happy home. here is the box and the key. it is a patent lock; no other key can open it. i will show you how to use it. yes, that is the way." he paused a moment, his hand in his pocket. "you will be ready to meet mr. gordon at two to-morrow?" "and my child?" she asked, with tears in her voice. "when will she be taken from me?" "at twelve." his hand was still fumbling in his pocket, and he suddenly shook his head, as if indignant with himself. "you may want to purchase one or two little things in the morning. here are a few shillings. pray accept them." he laid on the table the money with which he had intended to pay his fare to london. "heaven reward you," said the grateful woman, "and make your life bright and prosperous." her tears bedewed his hand as she kissed it humbly, and dr. spenlove walked wearily home, once more penniless, but not entirely unhappy. chapter viii. what was put in the iron box. the mother's vigil with her child on this last night was fraught with conflicting emotions of agony and rebellion. upon dr. spenlove's departure she rose and dressed herself completely, all her thoughts and feelings being so engrossed by the impending separation that she took no heed of her damp clothes. she entertained no doubt that the renunciation was imperative and in the interest of her babe; nor did she doubt that the man who had dictated it was acting in simple justice to himself and in a spirit of mercy towards her; but she was in no mood to regard with gratitude one who in the most dread crisis in her life had saved her from destruction. the cause of this injustice lay in the fact that until this moment the true maternal instinct had not been awakened within her breast. as she had faithfully expressed it to dr. spenlove, the birth of her babe had filled her with terror and with a loathing of herself. had there been no consequences of her error apparent to the world she would have struggled on and might have been able to preserve her good name; her dishonour would not have been made clear to censorious eyes; but the living evidence of her shame was by her side, and, left to her own resources, she had conceived the idea that death was her only refuge. her acceptance of the better course that had been opened for her loosened the floodgates of tenderness for the child who was soon to be torn from her arms. love and remorse shone in her eyes as she knelt by the bedside and fondled the little hands and kissed the innocent lips. "will you not wake, darling," she murmured, "and let me see your dear eyes? wake, darling, wake! do you not know what is going to happen? they are going to take you from me. perhaps we shall never meet again; and if we do, you have not even a name by which i can call you. but perhaps that will not matter. surely you will know your mother, surely i shall know my child, and we shall fly to each other's arms. i want to tell you all this--i want you to hear it. wake, sweet, wake!" the child slept on. presently she murmured, "it is hard, it is hard! how can god permit such cruelty?" half an hour passed in this way, and then she became more composed. her mind, which had been unbalanced by her misfortunes, recovered its equilibrium, and she could reason with comparative calmness upon the future. in sorrow and pain she mentally mapped out the years to come. she saw her future, as she believed, a joyless life, a life of cold duty. she would not entertain the possibility of a brighter side, the possibility of her becoming reconciled to her fate, of her growing to love her husband, of her having other children who would be as dear to her as this one was. in the state of her feelings it seemed to her monstrous to entertain such ideas, a wrong perpetrated upon the babe she was deserting. in dogged rebellion she hugged misery to her breast, and dwelt upon it as part of the punishment she had brought upon herself. there was no hope of happiness for her in the future, there was no ray of light to illumine her path. for ever would she be thinking of the child for whom now, for the first time since its birth, she felt a mother's love, and who was henceforth to find a home among strangers. in this hopeless fashion did she muse for some time, and then a star appeared in her dark sky. she might, as she had suggested to dr. spenlove, survive her husband; it was more than possible, it was probable, and, though there was in the contemplation a touch of treason towards the man who had come to her rescue, she derived satisfaction from it. in the event of his death she must adopt some steps to prove that the child was hers, and that she, and she alone, had the sole right to her. no stranger should keep her darling from her, should rob her of her reward for the sufferings she had undergone. it was for this reason that she had asked dr. spenlove for the iron box. it was a compact, well-made box, and very heavy for its size. any person receiving it as a precious deposit, under the conditions she imposed, might, when it was in his possession, reasonably believe that it contained mementoes of price, valuable jewels, perhaps, which she wished her child to wear when she grew to womanhood. she had no such treasure. unlocking the box she took from her pocket a packet of letters, which she read with a bitterness which displayed itself strongly in her face, which made her quiver with passionate indignation. "the villain!" she muttered. "if he stood before me now, i would strike him dead at my feet." there was no lingering accent of tenderness in her voice. the love she had for him but yesterday was dead, and for the father of her child she had now only feelings of hatred and scorn. clearly she was a woman of strong passions, a woman who could love and hate with ardour. the letters were four in number, and had been written, at intervals of two or three weeks, by the man who had betrayed and deserted her. the language was such as would have deceived any girl who had given him her heart. the false fervour, the protestations of undying love, the passionate appeals to put full trust in his honour, were sufficient to stamp the writer as a heartless villain, and, if he aped respectability, to ruin him in the eyes of the world. cunning he must have been to a certain extent, but it was evident that, in thus incriminating himself and supplying proofs of his perfidy, he had forgotten his usual caution. perhaps he had been for a short time under a delusion that in his pursuit of the girl he was acting honourably and sincerely, or perhaps (which is more likely), finding that she held back, he was so eager to win her that he addressed her in the only way by which he could compass his desire. the last of the four letters contained a solemn promise of marriage if she would leave her home, and place herself under his protection. it even went so far as to state that he had the license ready, and that it was only her presence that was needed to ratify their union. there was a reference in this letter to the engagement between her and mr. gordon, and the writer declared that it would bring misery upon her. "release yourself from this man," he continued, "at once and for ever. it would be a living death. rely upon my love. all my life shall be devoted to the task of making you happy, and you shall never have occasion for one moment's regret that you have consented to be guided by me." she read these words with a smile of bitter contempt on her lips, and a burning desire in her heart for revenge. "if there is justice in heaven," she muttered, "a day will come!" then she brought forward a photograph of the betrayer, which, with the letters, she deposited in the box. this done, she locked the box, and tying the key to a bit of string, hung it round her neck, and allowed it to fall, hidden, in her bosom. seating herself by the bedside, she gazed upon the babe from whom she was soon to be torn. her eyes were filled with tears, and her sad thoughts, shaped in words, ran somewhat in this fashion: "in a few hours she will be taken from me; in a few short hours we shall be separated, and then, and then--ah, how can i know it and live!--an ocean of waters will divide us. she will not miss me; she does not know me. she will receive another woman's endearments; she will never bestow a thought upon me, her wretched mother, and i--i shall be for ever thinking of her! she is all my own now; presently i shall have no claim upon her. would it not be better to end it as i had intended--to end it now, this moment!" she rose to her feet, and stood with her lips tightly pressed and her hands convulsively clenched; and then she cried in horror, "no, no! i dare not--i dare not! it would be murder, and he said that god would not forgive me. oh, my darling, my darling, it is merciful that you are a baby, and do not know what is passing in my mind! if you do not love me now, you may in the future, when i shall be free, and then you shall feel how different is a mother's love from the love of a strange woman. but how shall i recognise you if you are a woman before we meet again--how shall i prove to you, to the world, that you are truly mine? your eyes will be black, as mine are, and your hair, i hope, will be as dark, but there are thousands like that. i am grateful that you resemble me, and not your base father, whom i pray god to strike and punish. oh, that it were ever in my power to repay him for his treachery, to say to him, 'as you dragged me down, so do i drag you down! as you ruined my life, so do i ruin yours!' but i cannot hope for that. the woman weeps, the man laughs. never mind, child, never mind. if in future years we are reunited, it will be happiness enough. dark hair, black eyes, small hands and feet. oh, darling, darling!" she covered the little hands and feet with kisses. "and yes, yes"--with feverish eagerness she gazed at the child's neck--"these two tiny moles, like those on my neck. i shall know you, i shall know you, i shall be able to prove that you are my daughter!" with a lighter heart she resumed her seat, and set to work mending the infant's scanty clothing, which she fondled and kissed as though it had sense and feeling. a church clock in the distance tolled five. she had been listening for the hour, hoping it was earlier. "five o'clock!" she muttered. "i thought it was not later than three. i am being robbed. oh, if time would only stand still! five o'clock! in seven hours she will be taken from me. seven hours--seven short hours! i will not close my eyes." but after awhile her lids drooped, and she was not conscious of it. the abnormal fatigues of the day and night, the relaxing of the overstrung nerves, the warmth of the room, produced their effect; her head sank upon the bed, and she fell into a dreamful sleep. it was merciful that her dreaming fancies were not drawn from the past. the psychological cause of her slumbers being beguiled by bright visions may be found in the circumstance that, despite the conflicting passions by which she had been agitated, the worldly ease which was secured to her and her child by mr. gordon's offer had removed a heavy weight from her heart. in her visions she saw her baby grow into a happy girlhood; she had glimpses of holiday times, when they were together in the fields or by the seaside, or walking in the glow of lovely sunsets, gathering flowers in the hush of the woods, or winding their way through the golden corn. in these fair dreams her baby passed from girlhood to womanhood, and happy smiles wreathed the lips of the woe-worn woman as she lay in her poor garments on the humble bed by the side of her child. "do you love me, darling?" asked the sleeping mother. "dearly, dearly," answered the dream-child. "with my whole heart, mother." "call me mother again. it is like the music of the angels." "mother, mother!" "you will love me always, darling?" "always, mother; for ever and ever and ever." "say that you will never love me less, that you will never forget me." "i will never love you less; i will never forget you." "darling child, how beautiful you are! there is not in the world a lovelier woman. it is for me to protect and guard you. i can do so: i have had experience. come, let us rest." they sat upon a mossy bank, and the mother folded her arms around her child, who lay slumbering on her breast. there had been a few blissful days in this woman's life, during which she had believed in man's faithfulness and god's goodness, but the dreaming hours she was now enjoying were fraught with a heavenly gladness. nature and dreams are the fairies of the poor and the afflicted. she awoke as the church clock chimed eight. again had she to face the stern realities of life. the sad moment of separation was fast approaching. chapter ix. mr. moss plays his part. at five o'clock on the afternoon of that day dr. spenlove returned to his apartments. having given away the money with which he had intended to pay his fare to london, he had bethought him of a gentleman living in southsea of whom he thought he could borrow a sovereign or two for a few weeks. he had walked the distance, and had met with disappointment; the gentleman was absent on business, and might be absent several days. "upon my word," said the good doctor, as he drearily retraced his steps, "it is almost as bad as being shipwrecked; worse, because there are no railways on desert islands. what on earth am i to do? get to london i must, by hook or by crook, and there is absolutely nothing i can turn into money." then he bethought himself of mr. moss, and in his extremity determined to make an appeal in that quarter. had it not been for what had occurred last night, he would not have dreamed of going to this gentleman, of whose goodness of heart he had had no previous experience, and upon whose kindness he had not the slightest claim. arriving at mr. moss's establishment, another disappointment attended him. mr. moss was not at home, and they could not say when he would return. so dr. spenlove, greatly depressed, walked slowly on, his mind distressed with troubles and perplexities. he had seen nothing more of mr. gordon, who had left him in the early morning with a simple acknowledgment in words of the service he had rendered; nor had he seen anything further of mrs. turner. on his road home he called at her lodgings, and heard from her fellow-lodger that she had left the house. "we don't know where she's gone to, sir," the woman said; "but the rent has been paid up, and a sovereign was slipped under my door. if it wasn't that she was so hard up i should have thought it came from her." "i have no doubt it did," dr. spenlove answered. "she has friends who are well-to-do, and i know that one of these friends, discovering her position, was anxious to assist her." "i am glad to hear it," said the woman; "and it was more than kind of her to remember me. i always had an idea that she was above us." as he was entering his room his landlady ran up from the kitchen. "oh, doctor, there's a parcel and two letters for you in your room, and mr. moss has been here to see you. he said he would come again." "very well, mrs. radcliffe," said dr. spenlove; and, cheered by the news of the promised visit, he passed into his apartment. on the table were the letters and the parcel. the latter, carefully wrapped in thick brown paper, was the iron box he had given to mrs. turner. one of the letters was in her handwriting, and it informed him that her child had been taken away and that she was on the point of leaving portsmouth. "i am not permitted," the letter ran, "to inform you where i am going, and i am under the obligation of not writing to you personally after i leave this place. this letter is sent without the knowledge of the gentleman for whom you acted, and i do not consider myself bound to tell him that i have written it. what i have promised to do i will do faithfully, but nothing further. you, who of all men in the world perhaps know me best, will understand what i am suffering as i pen these lines. i send with my letter the box you were kind enough to give me last night. it contains the memorial of which i spoke to you. dear dr. spenlove, i rely upon you to carry out my wishes with respect to it. if you are acquainted with the guardian of my child, convey it to him, and beg him to retain it until my darling is of age, or until i am free to seek her. it is not in your nature to refuse the petition of a heartbroken mother; it is not in your nature to violate a promise. for all the kindnesses you have shown me receive my grateful and humble thanks. that you will be happy and successful, and that god will prosper you in all your undertakings, will be my constant prayer. farewell." laying this letter aside he opened the second, which was in a handwriting strange to him:-- "dear sir,-- "all my arrangements are made, and the business upon which we spoke together is satisfactorily concluded. you will find enclosed a practical expression of my thanks. i do not give you my address for two reasons. first, i desire no acknowledgment of the enclosure; second, i desire that there shall be no correspondence between us upon any subject. feeling perfectly satisfied that the confidence i reposed in you will be respected, "i am, "your obedient servant, "g. gordon." the enclosure consisted of five bank of england notes for £ each. dr. spenlove was very much astonished and very much relieved. at this juncture the money was a fortune to him; there was a likelihood of its proving the turning-point in his career; and, although it had not been earned in the exercise of his profession, he had no scruple in accepting it. the generosity of the donor was, moreover, in some sense an assurance that he was sincere in all the professions he had made. "mr. moss, sir," said mrs. radcliffe, opening the door, and that gentleman entered the room. as usual, he was humming an operatic air; but he ceased as he closed the door, which, after a momentary pause, he reopened, to convince himself that the landlady was not listening in the passage. "can't be too careful, doctor," he observed, with a wink, "when you have something you want to keep to yourself. you have been running after me, and i have been running after you. did you wish to see me particularly?" "to tell you the truth," replied dr. spenlove, "i had a special reason for calling upon you; but," he added, with a smile, "as it no longer exists, i need not trouble you." "no trouble, no trouble at all. i am at your service, doctor. anything i could have done, or can do now, to oblige, you may safely reckon upon. within limits, you know, within limits." "of course; but the necessity is obviated. i intended to ask you to lend me a small sum of money without security, mr. moss." "i guessed as much. you should have had it, doctor, and no inquiries made, though it isn't the way i usually conduct my business; but there are men you can trust and are inclined to trust, and there are men you wouldn't trust without binding them down hard and fast. now, if you still need the money, don't be afraid to ask." "i should not be afraid, but i am in funds. i am not the less indebted to you, mr. moss." "all right; i am glad you don't want a loan. now for another affair--_my_ affair, i suppose i must call it till i have shifted it to other shoulders, which will soon be done." he paused a moment. "dr. spenlove, that was a strange adventure last night." "it was; a strange and sad adventure. you behaved very kindly, and i should like to repay what you expended on behalf of the poor lady." "no, no, doctor; let it rest where it is. i don't acknowledge your right to repay what you don't owe, and perhaps i am none the worse off for what i did. throw your bread on the waters, you know. my present visit has reference to the lady--as you call her one, i will do the same--we picked out of the snow last night. did you ever notice that things go in runs?" "i don't quite follow you." "a run of rainy weather, a run of fine weather, a run of good fortune, a run of ill fortune." "yes, i have observed it." "you meet a person to-day you have never seen or heard of before. the odds are that you will meet that person to-morrow, and probably the next day as well. you begin to have bad cards, you go on having bad cards; you begin to make money, you go on making money." "you infer that there are seasons of circumstances, as of weather. no doubt you are right." "i know i am right. making the acquaintance of your friend, mrs. turner, last night, in a very extraordinary manner, i am not at all surprised that i have business in hand in which she is concerned. you look astonished; but it is true. you gave her a good character, doctor." "which she deserves. it happens in life to the best of us that we find ourselves unexpectedly in trouble. misfortune is a visitor that does not knock at the door; it enters unannounced." "we have unlocked the door ourselves, perhaps," suggested mr. moss, sagely. "quite likely, but we have done so in a moment of trustfulness, deceived by specious professions. the weak and confiding become the victims." "it is the way of the world, doctor. hawks and pigeons, you know." "there are some who are neither," said dr. spenlove, who was not disposed to hurry his visitor. his mind was easy as to his departure from portsmouth, and he divined from the course the conversation was taking that mr. moss had news of a special nature to communicate. he deemed it wisest to allow him to break it in his own way. "they are the best off," responded mr. moss; "brains well balanced--an even scale, doctor--then you can steer straight and to your own advantage. women are the weakest, as you say; too much heart, too much sentiment. all very well in its proper place, but it weighs one side of the scale down. mrs. moss isn't much better than other women in that respect. she has her whims and crotchets, and doesn't always take the business view." "implying that you do, mr. moss?" "of course i do; should be ashamed of myself if i didn't. what do i live for? business. what do i live by? business. what do i enjoy most? business, and plenty of it!" he rubbed his hands together joyously. "i should have no objection to paint on my shop door, 'mr. moss, business man.' people would know it would be no use trying to get the best of me. they don't get it as it is." "you are unjust to yourself. was it business last night that made you pay the cabman, and sent you out to buy coals and food for an unfortunate creature you had never seen before?" "that was a little luxury," said mr. moss, with a sly chuckle, "which we business men indulge in occasionally to sharpen up our faculties. it is an investment, and it pays; it puts us on good terms with ourselves. if you think i have a bit of sentiment in me you are mistaken." "i paint your portrait for myself," protested dr. spenlove, "and i shall not allow you to disfigure it. granted that you keep as a rule to the main road--business road, we will call it, if you like----" "very good, doctor, very good." "you walk along, driving bargains, and making money honestly----" "thank you, doctor," interposed mr. moss, rather gravely. "there are people who don't do us so much justice." "when unexpectedly," continued dr. spenlove, with tender gaiety, "you chance upon a little narrow path to the right or the left of you, and, your eye lighting on it, you observe a stretch of woodland, a touch of bright colour, a picture of human suffering, that appeals to your poetical instinct, to your musical tastes, or to your humanity. down you plunge towards it, to the confusion, for the time being, of business road and its business attractions." "sir," said mr. moss, bending his head with a dignity which did not sit ill on him, "if all men were of your mind the narrow prejudices of creed would stand a bad chance of making themselves felt. but we are wandering from the main road of the purpose which brought me here. i have not said a word to mrs. moss of the adventure of last night; i don't quite know why, because a better creature doesn't breathe; but i gathered from you in some way that you would prefer we should keep it to ourselves. mrs. moss never complains of my being out late; she rather encourages me, and that will give you an idea of the good wife she is. 'enjoyed yourself, moss?' she asked when i got home. 'very much,' i answered, and that was all. now, doctor, a business man wouldn't be worth his salt if he wasn't a thinking man as well. after i was dressed this morning i thought a good deal of the lady and her child, and i came to the conclusion that you took more than an ordinary interest in them." "you were right," said dr. spenlove. "following your lead, which is a good thing to do if you've confidence in your partner, i found myself taking more than an ordinary interest in them; but as it wasn't a game of whist we were playing, i had no clue to the cards you held. you will see presently what i am leading up to. while i was thinking and going over some stock which i am compelled by law to put up to auction, i received a message that a gentleman wished to see me on very particular private business. it was then about half-past nine, and the gentleman remained with me about an hour. when he went away he made an appointment with me to meet him at a certain place at twelve o'clock. i met him there; he had a carriage waiting. i got in, and where do you think he drove me?" "i would rather you answered the question yourself," said dr. spenlove, his interest in the conversation receiving an exciting stimulus. "the carriage, doctor, stopped at the house to which we conveyed your lady friend and her child last night. i opened my eyes, i can tell you. now, not to beat about the bush, i will make you acquainted with the precise nature of the business the gentleman had with me." "pardon me a moment," said dr. spenlove. "was mr. gordon the gentleman?" "you have named him," said mr. moss, and perceiving that dr. spenlove was about to speak again, he contented himself with answering the question. but the doctor did not proceed; his first intention had been to inquire whether the business was confidential, and if so to decline to listen to the disclosure which his visitor desired to make. a little consideration, however, inclined him to the opinion that this might be carrying delicacy too far. he was in the confidence of both mr. gordon and mrs. turner, and it might be prejudicial to the mother and her child if he closed his ears to the issue of the strange adventure. he waved his hand, thereby inviting mr. moss to continue. "just so, doctor," said mr. moss, in the tone of a man who had disposed of an objection. "it is a singular business, but i have been mixed up with all kinds of queer transactions in my time, and i always give a man the length of his rope. what induced mr. gordon to apply to me is his concern, not mine. perhaps he had heard a good report of me, and i am much obliged to those who gave it; perhaps he thought i was a tradesman who would take anything in pledge, from a flat iron to a flesh and blood baby. any way, if i choose to regard his visit as a compliment, it is because i am not thin-skinned. mr. gordon informed me that he wished to find a home and to provide for a young baby whose mother could not look after it, being imperatively called away to a distant part of the world. had it not been that the terms he proposed were extraordinarily liberal, and that he gave me the names of an eminent firm of lawyers in london who had undertaken the financial part of the business, and had it not been, also, that as he spoke to me i thought of a friend whom it might be in my power to serve, i should have shut him up at once by saying that i was not a baby farmer, and by requesting him to take his leave. interrupting myself, and as it was you who first mentioned the name of mr. gordon, i think i am entitled to ask if you are acquainted with him?" "you are entitled to ask the question. i am acquainted with him." "since when, doctor?" "since last night only." "before we met?" "yes, before we met." "may i inquire if you were then acting for mr. gordon?" "to some extent. had it not been for him i should not have gone in search of mrs. turner." "in which case," said mr. moss, in a grave tone, "she and her child would have been found dead in the snow. that is coming to first causes, doctor. i have not been setting a trap for you in putting these questions; i have been testing mr. gordon's veracity. when i asked him whether i was the only person in portsmouth whom he had consulted, he frankly answered i was not. upon this i insisted upon his telling me who this other person was. after some hesitation he said, 'dr. spenlove.' any scruples i may have had were instantly dispelled, for i knew that it was impossible you could be mixed up in a business which had not a good end." "i thank you." "hearing your name i thought at once of the lady and her child whom we were instrumental in saving. am i right in my impression that you are in possession of the conditions and terms mr. gordon imposes?" "i am." "then i need not go into them. i take it, dr. spenlove, that you do not consider the business disreputable." "it is not disreputable. mr. gordon is a peculiar man, and his story in connection with the lady in question is a singular one. he is not the father of the child, and the action he has taken is not prompted by a desire to rid himself of a responsibility. on the contrary, out of regard for the lady he has voluntarily incurred a very heavy responsibility, which i have little doubt--none, indeed--that he will honourably discharge." "i will continue. having heard what mr. gordon had to say--thinking all the time of the friend who might be induced to adopt the child, and that i might be able to serve him--i put the gentleman to the test. admitting that his terms were liberal, i said that a sum of money ought to be paid down at once, in proof of his good faith. 'how much?' he asked. 'fifty pounds,' i answered. he instantly produced the sum, in bank-notes. then it occurred to me that it would make things still safer if i had an assurance from the eminent firm of london lawyers that the business was honourable and met with their approval; and if i also had a notification from them that they were prepared to pay the money regularly. 'send them a telegram,' suggested mr. gordon, 'and make it full and complete. i will write a shorter one, which you can send at the same time. let the answers be addressed here, and open them both yourself when they arrive, which should be before twelve o'clock.' the telegrams written, i took them to the office; and before twelve came the replies, which were perfectly satisfactory. everything appeared to be so straightforward that i undertook the business. a singular feature in it is that mr. gordon does not wish to know with whom the child is placed. 'my lawyers will make inquiries,' he said, 'and they will be content if the people are respectable.' dr. spenlove, i thought it right that you should be informed of what i have done; you have expressed your approval, and i am satisfied. don't you run away with the idea that i have acted philanthropically. nothing of the kind, sir; i have been paid for my trouble. and now, if you would like to ask any questions, fire away." "were no conditions of secrecy imposed upon you?" "yes; but i said that i was bound to confide in one person. he may have thought i meant mrs. moss, but it was you i had in my mind. i promised that it should go no further, and i do not intend that it shall. mrs. moss will be none the worse for not being let into the secret." "where is the child now?" "in the temporary care of a respectable woman, who is providing suitable clothing for it, mr. gordon having given me money for the purpose." "he has not spared his purse. when do you propose taking the child to her new home?" "to-night." "they are good people?" "the best in the world. i would trust my own children with them. she cannot help being happy with them." "do they live in portsmouth?" "no; in gosport. i think this is as much as i have the right to disclose." "i agree with you. mr. moss, you can render me an obligation, and you can do a kindness to the poor child's mother. she has implored me to endeavour to place this small iron box in the care of the guardians of her child, to be retained by them for twenty-one years, or until the mother claims it, which she will be free to do in the event of her husband dying during her lifetime. i do not know what it contains, and i understand that it is to be given up to no other person than the child or her mother. will you do this for me or for her?" "for both of you, doctor," replied mr. moss, lifting the box from the table. "it shall be given into their care, as the mother desires. and now i must be off; i have a busy night before me. do you go to london to-morrow?" "a train leaves in a couple of hours; i shall travel by that." "well, good-night, and good luck to you. if you want to write to me, you know my address." they parted with cordiality, and each took his separate way, dr. spenlove to the city of unrest, and mr. moss to the peaceful town of gosport, humming as he went, among other snatches from his favourite opera,-- "dio dell' or del mondo signor, sei possente risplendente, sei possente resplendente, culto hai tu maggior guaggiù. non v'ha un uom che non t'incensi stan prostati innanzi a te; ed i popolied i re; i bei scudi tu dispensi, del la terra il dio sei tu." book the second. _rachel_. chapter x. the vision in the churchyard. some twelve months before the occurrence of the events recorded in the preceding chapters, a jew, bearing the name of aaron cohen, had come to reside in the ancient town of gosport. he was accompanied by his wife, rachel. they had no family, and their home was a home of love. they were comparatively young, aaron being twenty-eight and rachel twenty-three, and they had been married five years. hitherto they had lived in london, and the cause of their taking up their residence in gosport was that aaron had conceived the idea that he could establish himself there in a good way of business. one child had blessed their union, whom they called benjamin. there was great rejoicing at his birth, and it would have been difficult to calculate how many macaroons and almond and butter cakes, and cups of chocolate and glasses of anise-seed, were sacrificed upon the altar of hospitality in the happy father's house for several days after the birth of his firstborn. "aaron cohen does it in style," said the neighbours; and as both he and rachel were held in genuine respect by all who knew them, the encomium was not mere empty praise. seldom even in the locality in which the cohens then resided--the east end of london, where charity and hospitality are proverbial--had such feasting been seen at the celebration of a circumcision. "if he lived in bayswater," said the company, "he couldn't have treated us better." and when the father lifted up his voice and said, "blessed art thou, the eternal, our god, king of the universe, who hath sanctified us with his commandments, and commanded us to introduce our sons into the covenant of our father abraham," there was more than usual sincerity in the response, "even as this child has now entered this covenant, so may he be initiated into the covenant of the law, of marriage, and of good works." perhaps among those assembled there were some who could not have translated into english the hebrews' prayers they read so glibly; but this reproach did not apply to aaron, who was an erudite as well as an orthodox jew, and understood every word he uttered. on this memorable day the feasting, commenced in the morning, was continued during the whole day. "i wish you joy, cohen, i wish you joy;" this was the formula, a hundred and a hundred times repeated to the proud father, who really believed that a prince had been born among israel; while the pale-faced mother, pressing her infant tenderly to her breast, and who in her maidenhood had never looked so beautiful as now, received in her bedroom the congratulations of her intimate female friends. the poorest people in the neighbourhood were welcomed; and if the seed of good wishes could have blossomed into flower, a rose-strewn path of life lay before the child. "he shall be the son of my right hand," said aaron cohen; and rachel, as she kissed her child's mouth and tasted its sweet breath, believed that heaven had descended upon earth, and that no mother had ever been blessed as she was blessed. this precious treasure was the crowning of their love, and they laid schemes for baby's youth and manhood before the child was out of long clothes--schemes destined not to be realised. for sixteen months benjamin filled the hearts of his parents with ineffable joy, and then the angel of death entered their house and bore the young soul away. how they mourned for the dear one who was nevermore on earth to rejoice them with his beautiful ways need not here be related; all parents who have lost their firstborn will realise the bitterness of their grief. but not for long was this grief bitter. in the wise and reverent interpretation of aaron cohen, their loss became a source of consolation to them. "let us not rebel," he said to his wife, "against the inevitable and divine will. give praise unto the lord, who has ordained that we shall have a child in heaven waiting to receive us." fraught with tenderness and wisdom were his words, and his counsel instilled comfort into rachel's heart. benjamin was waiting for them, and would meet them at the gates. beautiful was the thought, radiant the hope it raised, never, never to fade, nay, to grow brighter even to her dying hour. their little child, dead and in his grave, brought them nearer to god. heaven and earth were linked by the spirit of their beloved, who had gone before them: thus was sorrow sweetened and happiness chastened by faith. sitting on their low stools during the days of mourning, they spoke, when they were alone, of the peace and joy of the eternal life, and thereby were drawn spiritually closer to each other. the lesson they learned in the darkened room was more precious than jewels and gold; it is a lesson which comes to all, high and low alike, and rich indeed are they who learn it aright. for some time thereafter, when the mother opened the drawer in which her most precious possessions were kept, and kissed the little shoes her child had worn, she would murmur amid her tears,-- "my darling is waiting for me, my darling is waiting for me!" god send to all sorrowing mothers a comfort so sweet! aaron cohen had selected a curious spot in gosport for his habitation. the windows of the house he had taken overlooked the quaint, peaceful churchyard of the market town. so small and pretty was this resting-place for the dead, that one might almost have imagined it to be a burial ground for children's broken toys. the headless wooden soldiers, the battered dolls, the maimed contents of cheap noah's arks, the thousand and one treasures of childhood might have been interred there, glad to be at rest after the ruthless mutilations they had undergone. for really, in the dawning white light of a frosty morning, when every object for miles around sharply outlined itself in the clear air and seemed to have lost its rotund proportions, it was hard to realise that, in this tiny churchyard, men and women, whose breasts once throbbed with the passions and sorrows of life, were crumbling to that dust to which we must all return. no, no; it could be nothing but the last home of plain and painted shepherds, and bald-headed pets, and lambs devoid of fleece, and mayhap--a higher flight which we all hope to take when the time comes for us to claim our birthright of the grave--of a dead bullfinch or canary, carried thither on its back, with its legs sticking heavenwards, and buried with grown-up solemnity, and very often with all the genuineness of grief for a mortal bereavement. have you not attended such a funeral, and has not your overcharged heart caused you to sob in your dreams as you lay in your cot close to mamma's bed? but these fantastic fancies will not serve. it was a real human churchyard, and rachel cohen knew it to be so as she stood looking out upon it from the window of her bedroom on the first floor. it was from no feeling of unhappiness that her sight became dimmed as she gazed upon the tombstones. shadows of children rose before her, the pattering of whose little feet was once the sweetest music that ever fell on parents' ears, the touch of whose little hands carried with it an influence as powerful as a heart-stirring prayer; children with golden curls, children with laughing eyes, children with wistful faces; but there was one, ah! there was one that shone as a star amid the shadows, and that rose up, up, till it was lost in the solemn clouds, sending therefrom a divine message down to the mother's heart, "mamma, mamma, i am waiting for thee!" quiet as was everything around her, rachel heard the words; in the midst of the darkness a heavenly light was shining on her. she wiped the tears from her eyes, and stole down to the room in which her husband was sitting. chapter xi. mr. whimpole introduces himself. it was the front room of the house, on the ground floor, which aaron cohen had converted into a shop. the small parlour windows had been replaced by larger ones, a counter had been put up, behind which were shelves fitted into the walls. these shelves at present were bare, but aaron cohen hoped to see them filled. under the counter were other shelves, as empty as those on the walls. when rachel entered her husband was engaged counting out his money, like the king in his counting house. there was a studious expression on his face, which was instantly replaced by one of deep tenderness as he looked up and saw traces of tears in her eyes. he gathered his money together, banknotes, silver, gold, and coppers, and motioned her into the room at the rear of the shop. this was their living-room; but a large iron safe in a corner denoted that it was not to be devoted entirely to domestic affairs. in another corner was the symbol of his business, which was to be affixed to the front of the premises, over the shop door, the familiar device of three golden balls. letting his money fall upon the table, he drew his wife to his side, and passed his arm around her. "the house," he said, "is almost in order." "yes, aaron; there is very little left to do." "i am also ready for business. i have the license, and to-morrow those glittering balls will be put up and the name painted over the shop window. they are rather large for so small a shop, but they will attract all the more attention." he gazed at her anxiously. "do you think you will be contented and happy here?" "contented and happy anywhere with you," she replied, in a tone of the deepest affection. "in this town especially, rachel?" "yes, in this town especially. it is so peaceful." "but," he said, touching her eyes with his fingers "these?" "not because i am unhappy," she said; and her voice was low and sweet. "i was looking out upon the churchyard from our bedroom window." "ah!" he said, and he kissed her eyes. he divined the cause of her tears, and there was much tenderness in his utterance of the monosyllable and in the kisses he gave her. man and wife for five years, they were still the fondest of lovers. "my dear," said aaron presently, "the spirit of prophecy is upon me. we shall lead a comfortable life in this town; we shall prosper in this house. it was a piece of real good fortune my hitting upon it. when i heard by chance that the man who lived here owned the lease and wished to dispose of it, i hesitated before parting with so large a sum as a hundred pounds for the purchase. it was nearly half my capital, but i liked the look of the place, and a little bird whispered that we should be lucky in it, so i made the venture. i am certain we shall not regret it. here shall be laid the foundation stones of a fortune which shall enable us to set up our carriage. i know what you would say, my life, that we can be happy without a carriage. yes, yes; but a carriage is not a bad thing to have. people will say, 'see what a clever man that aaron cohen is. he commenced with nothing, and he rides in his own carriage already. how grand he looks!' i should like to hear people say that. there is a knock at the street door." "who can it be?" asked rachel. "we know no one in gosport, and it is night." "which is no excuse for our not opening the door," said aaron cohen, sweeping the money off the table into a small chamois leather bag, which he tied carefully at the neck, and put into his pocket. "true, we believe we are not known here, but there may, nevertheless, be an old acquaintance in gosport who has heard of our arrival, and comes to welcome us; or judah belasco may have told a friend of his we are here; or it may be an enterprising baker or grocer who wishes to secure our custom. no," he added, as the knock was repeated, "that is not the knock of a tradesman. it is a knock of self-importance, and you may depend upon it that it proceeds from somebody with a large s. let us see who it is that announces himself so grandly." aaron went to the street door, and rachel followed him into the passage, carrying a candle. the night was dark, and rachel stood a little in the rear, so that aaron could not distinguish the features of his visitor. he was a big man, and that was all that was apparent to the cohens. "mr. cohen?" queried the visitor "yes," said aaron. "mr. aaron cohen?" "that is my name" "can i speak with you?" "certainly." and aaron waited to hear what the stranger had to say. "i am not accustomed to be kept waiting on the doorstep. i should prefer to speak to you in the house." rachel, who was naturally timid, moved closer to her husband, who took the candle from her hand, and held it up in order to see the face of the stranger. "step inside," he said. the stranger followed aaron and rachel into the little parlour, and without taking off his hat, looked at aaron, then at rachel, and then into every corner of the room; the last object upon which his eyes rested was the device of the three golden balls, and a frown gathered on his features as he gazed. aaron noted these movements and signs with attention and amusement. "do you detect any blemish in them?" he asked. "i do not understand you," said the stranger. "in those balls. there was an expression of disapproval on your face as you gazed at them." "i disapprove of them altogether," said the stranger. "i am sorry, but we cannot please everybody. i am not responsible for the insignia; you will find the origin in the armorial bearings of the medici. that is a beautiful hat you have on your head." the stranger stared at him. "really," continued aaron, blandly, "a beautiful hat; it must have cost a guinea. a hat is a fine protection against the hot rays of the sun; a protection, also, against the wind and the rain. but in this room, as you may observe, we have neither wind, nor rain, nor sun; and you may also observe that there is a lady present." the stranger, reddening slightly, removed his hat, and placed it on the table. "my wife," then said aaron. the stranger inclined his head, with the air of a man acknowledging an introduction to one of a lower station. the manner of this acknowledgment was not lost upon aaron. "my wife," he repeated courteously, "mrs. cohen." "i see," said the stranger, glancing again at rachel with condescension. "with your permission i will take a seat." it was distinctly at variance with the hospitable instincts of aaron cohen that he did not immediately respond to this request. "you have the advantage of us," he said. "i have had the pleasure of introducing my wife to you. afford me the pleasure of introducing you to my wife." with an ungracious air the stranger handed aaron a visiting card, upon which was inscribed the name of mr. edward whimpole, and in a corner the word "churchwarden." mr. whimpole's movements were slow, and intended to be dignified, but aaron exhibited no impatience. "my dear, mr. edward whimpole, churchwarden." rachel bowed gracefully, and aaron, with an easy motion of his hand, invited mr. whimpole to a chair, in which he seated himself. then aaron placed a chair for his wife, and took one himself, and prepared to listen to what mr. whimpole had to say. mr. whimpole was a large-framed man with a great deal of flesh on his face; his eyes were light, and he had no eyebrows worth speaking of. the best feature in his face was his mouth, and the most insignificant his nose, which was really not a fair nose for a man of his bulk. it was an added injury inflicted upon him by nature that it was very thin at the end, as though it had been planed on both sides. but then, as aaron had occasion to remark, we don't make our own noses. a distinct contrast presented itself in the two noses which, if the figure of speech may be allowed, now faced each other. mr. whimpole had not disclosed the purpose of his visit, but he had already made it clear that he was not graciously disposed towards the jew. aaron was quite aware of this, but the only effect it had upon him was to render him exceedingly affable. perhaps he scented a bargain, and was aware that mental irritation would interfere with the calm exercise of his judgment in a matter of buying and selling. "may i inquire," he said, pointing to the word "churchwarden" on the card, "whether this is your business or profession?" "i am a corn-chandler," said mr. whimpole. "churchwarden, my dear," said aaron, addressing his wife in a pleasant tone, "_and_ corn-chandler." for the life of him mr. whimpole could not have explained to the satisfaction of persons not directly interested, why he was angry at the reception he was meeting. that aaron cohen was not the kind of man he had expected to meet would not have been accepted as a sufficient reason. "i am not mistaken," said mr. whimpole, with a flush of resentment, "in believing you to be a jew?" "you are not mistaken," replied aaron, with exceeding urbanity. "i am a jew. if i were not proud of the fact, it would be folly to attempt to disguise it, for at least one feature in my face would betray me." "it would," said mr. whimpole, dealing a blow which had the effect of causing aaron to lean back in his chair, and laugh gently to himself for fully thirty seconds. "when you have quite finished," said mr. whimpole, coldly, "we will proceed." "excuse me," said aaron, drawing a deep breath of enjoyment. "i beg you will not consider me wanting in politeness, but i have the instincts of my race, and i never waste the smallest trifle, not even a joke." a little tuft of hair which ran down the centre of mr. whimpole's head--the right and left banks of which were devoid of verdure--quivered in sympathy with the proprietor's astonishment. that a man should make a joke out of that which was generally considered to be a reproach and a humiliation was, indeed, matter for amazement; nay, in this instance for indignation, for in aaron cohen's laughter he, mr. whimpole himself, was made to occupy a ridiculous place. "we are loth," continued aaron, "to waste even the thinnest joke. we are at once, my dear sir, both thrifty and liberal." "we!" exclaimed mr. whimpole, in hot repudiation. "we jews i mean. no person in the world could possibly mistake you for one of the chosen." "i should hope not. the idea is too absurd." "make your mind easy, sir; you would not pass muster in a synagogue without exciting remark. yes, we are both thrifty and liberal, wasting nothing, and in the free spending of our money seeing that we get good value for it. that is not a reproach, nor is it a reproach that we thoroughly enjoy an agreeable thing when we get it for nothing. there are so many things in life to vex us that the opportunity of a good laugh should never be neglected. proceed, my dear sir, proceed; you were saying that you believed you were not mistaken in taking me for a jew." "is it your intention," asked mr. whimpole, coming now straight to the point, "to reside in gosport?" "if i am permitted," replied aaron, meekly. "we have not always been allowed to select our place of residence. i am thankful that we live in an enlightened age and in a free country." "i hear, mr. cohen, that you have purchased the lease of this house." "it is true, sir. the purchase money has been paid, and the lease is mine." "it has twenty-seven years to run." "twenty-seven years and three months. who can tell where we shall be, and how we shall be situated, at the end of that time?" mr. whimpole waved the contemplation aside. "you gave a hundred pounds for the lease." "the precise sum; your information is correct." "i had some intention, mr. cohen, of buying it myself." "indeed! why did you not do so?" "there were reasons. not pecuniary, i beg to say. i delayed too long, and you stepped in before me." "a case of the early bird catching the worm," aaron observed, with a smile. "if it gratifies you to put it that way. i have, therefore, no option but to purchase the lease of you." "mr. whimpole," said aaron, after a slight pause, "i am agreeable to sell you the lease." "i thought as much." and mr. whimpole disposed himself comfortably in his chair. rachel's eyes dilated in surprise. their settlement in gosport had not been made in haste, and all arrangements for commencing the business were made. she could not understand her husband's willingness to give up the house. "i do not expect you to take what you gave for it," said mr. whimpole. "i am prepared to give you a profit; and," he added, jocosely, "you will not be backward in accepting it." "not at all backward. you speak like a man of sense." "how much do you ask for your bargain? how much, mr. cohen? don't open your mouth too wide." "if you will permit me," said aaron, and he proceeded to pencil down a calculation. "it is not an undesirable house, mr. whimpole." "no, no; i don't say it is." "it is compact and convenient." "fairly so, fairly so." "i will accept," said aaron, having finished his calculation, "five hundred pounds." "you cannot be in earnest!" gasped mr. whimpole, his breath fairly taken away. "i am quite in earnest. are you aware what it is you would buy of me?" "of course i am aware; the lease of this house." "not that alone. you would buy my hopes for the next twenty-seven years; for i declare to you there is not to my knowledge in all england a spot in which i so desire to pass my days as in this peaceful town; and there is not in all gosport a house in which i believe i shall be so happy as in this. you see, you propose to purchase of me something more than a parchment lease." "but the--the things you mention are of no value to me." "i do not say they are. i am speaking from my point of view, as men generally do. it is a failing we all have, mr. whimpole. there is no reason why we should bandy words. i am not anxious to sell the lease. wait till it is in the market." "a most unhealthy situation," observed mr. whimpole. "it concerns ourselves, and we are contented." "i cannot imagine a more unpleasant, not to say obnoxious, view." "the view of the churchyard? the spot has already acquired an inestimable value in my eyes. god rest the souls of those who lie in it! the contemplation of the peaceful ground will serve to remind me of the vanity of life, and will be a constant warning to me to be fair and straightforward in my dealings. the warning may be needed, for in the business i intend to carry on, there are--i do not deny it--many dangerous temptations." "tush, tush!" exclaimed mr. whimpole, petulantly. "straightforward dealings, indeed! the vanity of life, indeed!" aaron cohen smiled. only once before in his life had mr. whimpole felt so thoroughly uncomfortable as at the present moment, and that was when he was a little boy and fell into a bed of nettles from which he was unable to extricate himself until he was covered with stings. it was just the same now; he was smarting all over from contact with aaron cohen, who was like a porcupine with sharp-pointed quills. but he would not tamely submit to such treatment; he would show aaron that he could sting in return; he knew well enough where to plant his poisoned arrow. it is due to mr. whimpole to state that he was not aware that the manner in which he was conducting himself during this interview was not commendable. being a narrow-minded man, he could not take a wide and generous view of abstract matters, which, by a perversion of reasoning, he generally regarded from a purely personal standpoint. such men as he, in their jealous regard for their own feelings, are apt to overlook the feelings of others, and, indeed, to behave occasionally as if they did not possess any. this was mr. whimpole's predicament, and, having met a ready-witted man, he was made to suffer for his misconduct. he sent forth his sting in this wise: "you speak, mr. cohen, of being fair and straightforward in your dealings; but, for the matter of that, we all know what we may expect from a----" and having got thus far in his ungenerously-prompted speech, he felt himself unable, in the presence of rachel, and with her reproachful eyes raised to his face, to conclude the sentence. aaron cohen finished it for him. "for the matter of that," he said, gently, "you all know what you may expect from a jew. that is what you were going to say. and with this thought in your mind you came to trade with me. well, sir, it may be that we both have something to learn." "mr. cohen," said mr. whimpole, slightly abashed, "i am sorry if i have said anything to hurt your feelings." "the offence, sir, is atoned for by the expression of your sorrow." this was taking high ground, and mr. whimpole's choler was ready to rise again; but he mastered it, and said, in a conciliatory tone,-- "i will disguise nothing from you; i was born in this house." "the circumstance will make it all the more valuable to us. my dear,"--impressing it upon rachel with pleasant emphasis--"mr. whimpole was born in this house. a fortunate omen. good luck will come to us, as it has come to him. it is a low-rented house, and those who have been born in it must have been poor men's children. when they rise in the world as mr. whimpole has done, it is better than a horseshoe over the door. in which room were you born, mr. whimpole?" "in the room on the back of the first floor," replied mr. whimpole, making a wild guess. "our bedroom. there should be a record on the walls; there should, indeed, be a record, such as is placed outside those houses in london which have been inhabited by famous people. failing that, it is in the power of every man, assuredly every rich man, to make for himself a record that shall be unperishable--far better, my dear sir, than the mere fixing of a plate on a cold stone wall." mr. whimpole gazed at aaron cohen to discover if there was any trace of mockery in his face; but aaron was perfectly grave and serious. "a man's humility," said mr. whimpole, raising his eyes to the ceiling, "his sense of humbleness, would prevent him from making this record for himself. it has to be left to others to do it when they have found him out." "aha! my dear sir," said aaron, softly, "when they have found him out. true, true; but how few of us are! how few of us receive our just reward! how few of us when we are in our graves receive or deserve the tribute, 'here lies a perfect man!' but the record i speak of will never be lost by a rich man's humility, by his humbleness; for it can be written unostentatiously in the hearts of the poor by the aid of silver and gold." "i understand you, mr. cohen,"--inwardly confounding aaron's flow of ideas--"by means of charity." "yes, sir, by means of charity, whereby the name of a man becomes sweet in the mouth. a good name is better than precious oil, and the day of one's death better than the day of his birth. there is an old legend that a man's actions in life are marked in the air above him, in the places in which they are performed. there, in invisible space, are inscribed the records of his good and bad deeds, of his virtues, of his crimes; and when he dies his soul visits those places, and views the immortal writing, which is visible to all the angels in heaven and which covers him with shame or glory. gosport doubtless has many such records of your charity." "i do my best," said mr. whimpole, very much confused and mystified; "i hope i do my best. i said i would disguise nothing from you; i will therefore be quite frank, with no intention of wounding you. i am strictly a religious man, mr. cohen, and it hurts me that one whose religious belief is opposed to my own should inhabit the house in which i was born. i will give you a hundred and twenty pounds for the lease; that will leave you a profit of twenty pounds. come, now!" "i will not accept less for it, sir, than the sum i named." "is that your last word?" "it is my last word." mr. whimpole rose with a face of scarlet, and clapped his hat on his head. "you are a--a----" "a jew. leave it at that. can you call me anything worse?" asked aaron, with no show of anger. "no, i cannot. you are a jew." "i regret," said aaron, calmly, "that i cannot retort by calling you a christian. may our next meeting be more agreeable! good-evening, mr. whimpole." "you do not know the gentleman you have insulted," said mr. whimpole, as he walked towards the door; "you do not know my position in this town. i am in the expectation of being made a justice of the peace. you will live to repent this." "i think not," said aaron, taking the candle to show his visitor out. "i trust you may." "you may find your residence in gosport, where i am universally respected, not as agreeable as you would wish it to be." "we shall see, we shall see," said aaron, still smiling. "i may also make myself respected here." "there is a prejudice against your race----" "am i not aware of it? is not every jew aware of it? is it not thrown in our teeth by the bigoted and narrow-minded upon every possible occasion? we will live it down, sir. we have already done much; we will yet do more. your use of the word 'prejudice' is appropriate; for, as i understand its meaning, it represents a judgment formed without proper knowledge. yes, sir, it is not to be disputed that there exists a prejudice against our race." "which, without putting any false meaning upon it, will make this ancient and respectable town"--here mr. whimpole found himself at a loss, and he was compelled to wind up with the vulgar figure of speech--"too hot to hold you." "this ancient town," said aaron, with a deeper seriousness in his voice, "is known to modern men as gosport." "a clever discovery," sneered mr. whimpole. "are you going to put another of your false constructions on it?" "no, sir. i am about to tell you a plain and beautiful truth. when in olden times a name was given to this place, it was not gosport: it was god's port; and what gods port is there throughout the civilised world in which jew and christian alike have not an equal right to live, despite prejudice, despite bigotry, and despite the unreasonable anger of large corn-chandlers and respected churchwardens? i wish you, sir, good-night." and having by this time reached the street door, aaron cohen opened it for mr. whimpole, and bowed him politely out. chapter xii. the course of the seasons. upon aaron's return to the little parlour he saw that rachel was greatly disturbed. "my life!" he said, and he folded her in his arms and tenderly embraced her. "don't allow such a little thing as this to distress you; it will all come right in the end." "but how you kept your temper," she said; "that is what surprised me." "it gave me the advantage of him, rachel. i was really amused." he pinched her cheeks to bring the colour back to them. "some men must be managed one way, some another. and now for our game of bezique. mr. whimpole's visit"--he laughed at the recollection--"will make me enjoy it all the more." there was no resisting his light-heartedness, and he won a smile from her, despite her anxiety. rachel was not clever enough to discover that it was only by the cunning of her husband that she won the rub of bezique. he was a keen judge of human nature, and he knew that this small victory would help to soothe her. the next day was friday, and the three golden balls were put up, and the name of aaron cohen painted over the shop door. a great many people came to look, and departed to circulate the news. at one o'clock the painting was done, and then aaron said to his wife, "i shall be out till the evening. have you found any one to attend to the lights and the fire?" they were not rich enough to keep a regular servant, and neither of them ever touched fire on the sabbath. "i have heard of a woman," said rachel; "she is coming this afternoon to see me." "good," said aaron, and, kissing rachel, went away with a light heart. in the afternoon the woman, mrs. hawkins, called, and rachel explained the nature of the services she required. mrs. hawkins was to come to the house every friday night to put coals on the fire and extinguish the lights, and four times on saturday to perform the same duties. rachel proposed eightpence a week, but mrs. hawkins stuck out for tenpence, and this being acceded to, she departed, leaving a strong flavour of gin behind her. when aaron returned, the two sabbath candles were alight upon the snow-white tablecloth, and on the table a supper was spread--fried fish, white bread, and fresh butter, and in the fender a steaming coffeepot. rachel was an excellent cook, and had always been famous for her fried and stewed fish, which her husband declared were dishes fit for kings; and, indeed, no one in the land could have desired tastier or more succulent cooking. aaron washed and said his prayers, and then they sat down to their meal in a state of perfect contentment. the head of the modest household broke two small pieces of bread from the loaf, and dipping them in salt, besought the customary blessing on the bread they were about to eat; then praised the fish, praised the butter, praised the coffee, praised his wife, and after a full meal praised the lord, in a song of degrees, for blessings received: "when the eternal restored the captivity of zion, we were as those who dream. our mouths were then filled with laughter, and our tongues with song." he had-a rich baritone voice, and rachel listened in pious delight to his intoning of the prayer. the supper things were cleared away, the white tablecloth being allowed to remain because of the lighted candles on it, which it would have been breaking the sabbath to lift, and then there came a knock at the street door. "that is the woman i engaged," said rachel, hurrying into the passage. there entered, not mrs. hawkins, but a very small girl, carrying a very large baby. the baby might have been eighteen months old, and the girl ten years; and of the twain the baby was the plumper. without "with your leave" or "by your leave," the small girl pushed past rachel before the astonished woman could stop her, and presented herself before the no less astonished aaron cohen. her sharp eyes took in the lighted candles, the cheerful fire, and the master of the house in one comprehensive flash. with some persons what is known as making up one's mind is a slow and complicated process, with the small girl it was electrical. she deposited the large baby in aaron's lap, admonishing the infant "to keep quiet, or she'd ketch it," blew out the candles in two swift puffs, and, kneeling before the grate, proceeded to rake out the coals. so rapid were her movements that the fender was half filled with cinders and blazing coals before rachel had time to reach the room. "in heaven's name," cried aaron, "what is the meaning of this?" "it's all right, sir," said the small girl, in the dark; "i've come for aunty." "put down the poker instantly!" exclaimed aaron. "your aunty, whoever she may be, is not here." "tell me somethink i don't know," requested the small girl. "this is mr. cohen's, the jew, ain't it?" "it is," replied aaron, with despairing gestures, for the baby was dabbing his face with hands sticky with remnants of sugarstuff. "well, wot are yer 'ollering for? i'm only doing wot aunty told me." "and who _is_ your aunty?" "mrs. 'orkins. pretend not to know 'er--do! oh yes, jest you try it on. aunty's up to yer, she is. she sed yer'd try to do 'er out of 'er money, and want 'er to take fippence instid of tenpence." "did she? you have come here by her orders, i suppose?" "yes, i 'ave; to poke out the fire and blow out the candles, and i've done it." "you have," said aaron, ruefully. "and now, little girl, you will do as _i_ tell you. put down that poker. get up. feel on the mantelshelf for a box of matches. i beg your pardon, you are too short to reach. here is the box. take out a match. strike it. light the candles. thank you. last, but not least, relieve me of this baby with the sticky hands." the small girl snatched the baby from his arms and stood before him in an attitude of defiance. for the first time he had a clear view of her. "heaven save us!" he cried, falling back in his chair. her appearance was a sufficient explanation of his astonishment. to say that she was ragged, and dirty, and forlorn, and as utterly unlike a little girl living in civilised society as any little girl could possibly be, would be but a poor description of her. her face suggested that she had been lying with her head in a coal scuttle; she wore no hat or bonnet; her hair was matted; her frock reached just below her knees, and might have been picked out of a dust-heap; she had no stockings; on her feet were two odd boots, several sizes too large for her and quite worn out, one tied to her ankle with a piece of grey list, the other similarly secured with a piece of knotted twine. her eyes glittered with preternatural sharpness; her cheek bones stuck out; her elbows were pointed and red; she was all bone--literally all bone; there was not an ounce of flesh upon her, not any part of her body that could be pinched with a sense of satisfaction. but the baby! what a contrast! her head was round and chubby, and was covered with a mass of light curls; her hands were full of dimples; her face was puffed out with superabundant flesh; the calves of her legs were a picture. in respect of clothes she was no better off than mrs. hawkins's niece. "wot are yer staring at?" demanded the girl. "at you, my child," replied aaron, with compassion in his voice. "let's know when yer done," retorted the girl, "and i'll tell yer 'wot i charge for it." "and at baby," added aaron. "that'll be hextra. don't say i didn't warn yer." there were conflicting elements in the situation; its humour was undeniable, but it had its pathetic side. aaron cohen was swayed now by one emotion, now by another. "so you are mrs. hawkins's niece," he said, with a twinkle in his eyes. "yes, i am. wot 'ave yer got to say agin it?" "nothing. is baby also mrs. hawkins's niece, or nephew?" "if you've no objections," said the girl, with excessive politeness, "she's mrs. pond's little gal, and i nusses 'er." "i have no objection. what is your name?" "wot it may be, my lordship," replied the girl, her politeness becoming arctic, "is one thing--wot it is, is another." "you are a clever little girl," said aaron, smiling and rubbing his hands, "a sharp, clever little girl." "thank yer for nothink," said the girl. she had reached the north pole; it was necessary to thaw her. "upon the mantelshelf," said aaron, "just behind that beautiful blue vase, are two penny pieces. step on a chair--not that cane one, you'll go through it; the wooden one--and see if you can find them." "i see 'em," said the girl, looking down upon aaron in more senses than one. "they are yours. put them in your pocket." the girl clutched the pennies, jumped from the chair--whereat the baby crowed, supposing it to be a game provided for her amusement--and having no pocket, held the money tight in her hand. visions of sweetstuff rose before her. the pennies getting warm, the ice in the north pole began to melt. but there was a doubt in the girl's mind; the adventure was almost too good to be true. "yer don't get 'em back," she said; "stow larks, yer know." "i don't want them back. and now, perhaps, you will tell me your name." "prissy. that's the short 'un." "the long one is----" "priscilla." "a grand name. you ought to have a silk gown, and satin shoes, and a gold comb." prissy opened her eyes very wide. the ice was melting quickly, and the buds were coming on the trees. "and baby's name?" "wictoria rejiner. that's grander, ain't it?" "much grander. victoria regina--a little queen!" prissy gave baby a kiss, with pride and love in her glittering eyes. "what makes your face so black, prissy?" "coals. aunty deals in 'em, and ginger-beer, and bundles of wood, and cabbages, and taters, and oranges, and lemons. and she takes in washing." "you look, prissy, as if you had very little to eat." so genial was aaron cohen's voice that spring was coming on fast. "i don't 'ave much," said prissy, with a longing sigh. "i could eat all day and night if i 'ad the chance." "my dear," said aaron to his wife, "there is some coffee left in the pot. do you like coffee, prissy?" "do i like corfey? don't i like corfey! oh no--not me! jest you try me!" "i will. give me victoria regina. poke the fire. that's right; you are the quickest, sharpest little girl in my acquaintance. pour some water from the kettle into the coffee-pot. set it on the fire. rachel, my dear, take prissy and baby into the kitchen and let them wash themselves, and afterwards they shall have some supper." the buds were breaking into blossom; it really was a lovely spring. in a few minutes rachel and the children re-entered the room from the kitchen, baby with a clean face, and prissy with a painfully red and shining skin. following her husband's instructions, rachel cut half-a-dozen slices of bread, upon which she spread the butter with a liberal hand. prissy, hugging victoria regina, watched the proceedings in silence. by this time the coffee was bubbling in the pot. "take it off the fire, prissy," said aaron cohen; and in another minute the little girl, with baby in her lap, was sitting at the table with a cup of smoking hot coffee, well sugared and milked, which she was so eager to drink that she scalded her throat. the bread and butter was perhaps the sweetest that prissy had ever eaten, and the coffee was nectar. the baby ate more than prissy; indeed, she ate so much and so quickly that she occasionally choked and had to be violently shaken and patted on the back, but she became tired out at last, and before prissy had finished her bounteous meal she was fast asleep in her nurse's arms. aaron cohen leaned back in his chair, and gazed with benevolent eyes upon the picture before him; and as he gazed the sweetest of smiles came to his lips, and did not leave them. rachel, stealing to the back of his chair, put her arms round his neck, and nestled her face to his. it was a most beautiful summer, and all the trees were in flower. chapter xiii. aaron cohen preaches a sermon on large noses. the fire was burning brightly, and the old cat which they had brought with them to gosport was stretched at full length upon the hearthrug. the children were gone, and prissy had received instructions to come again at ten o'clock to extinguish the candles. it may be said of prissy, in respect of her first visit to the house, that she came in like a lion and went out like a lamb. it was a habit on sabbath eve for aaron to read to his wife something from the general literature of the times, or from the newspapers, and to accompany his reading with shrewd or sympathetic remarks, to which rachel always listened in delight. occasionally he read from a book of hebrew prayers, and commented upon them, throwing a light upon poem and allegory which made their meaning clear to rachel's understanding. invariably, also, he blessed her as jewish fathers who have not wandered from the paths of orthodoxy bless their children on the sabbath. now, as she stood before him, he placed his hand on her head, and said,-- "god make thee like sarah, rebecca, rachel, and leah. may the eternal bless and preserve thee! may the eternal cause his face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee! may the eternal lift up his countenance towards thee, and grant thee peace!" it was something more than a blessing; it was a prayer of heartfelt love. rachel raised her face to his, and they tenderly kissed each other. then he took his seat on one side of the fire, and she on the other. a prayer-book and one of charles dickens's stories were on the table, but he did not open them; he had matter for thought, and he was in the mood for conversation. he was in a light humour, which exhibited itself in a quiet laugh, which presently deepened in volume. "i am thinking of the little girl," he explained to rachel. "it was amazing the way she puffed out the candles and poked out the fire--quick as lightning. it was the most comical thing! and her black face--and victoria regina's sticky fingers! ha, ha, ha!" his merriment was contagious, and it drew forth rachel's; the room was filled with pleasant sound. "i saw mr. whimpole to-day," said aaron, "and i made him a bow, which he did not return. my jewish nose offends him. how unfortunate! yes, my life, no one can dispute that the jew has a big nose. it proclaims itself; it is a mark and a sign. he himself often despises it; he himself often looks at it in the glass with aversion. 'why, why, have i been compelled to endure this affliction?' he murmurs, and he reflects with envy upon the elegant nose of the christian. short-sighted mortal, not to understand that he owes everything to his big nose! a great writer--a learned man, who passed the whole of his life in the study of these matters--proclaims the nose to be the foundation, or abutment, of the brain. what follows? that the larger is the nose of a man, the better off for it is the man. listen, my dear." he took a book from a little nest of bookshelves, and turned over the pages. "'whoever,' says this learned writer, 'is acquainted with the gothic arch will perfectly understand what i mean by this abutment; for upon this the whole power of the arch of the forehead rests, and without it the mouth and cheeks would be oppressed by miserable ruins.' he lays down exact laws, which govern the beautiful (and therefore the large) nose. its length should equal the length of the forehead, the back should be broad, its outline remarkably definite, the sides well defined, and, near the eye, it must be at least half an inch in breadth. such a nose, this great authority declares, is of more worth than a kingdom. it imparts solidity and unity to the whole countenance; it is the mountain--bear in mind, my dear, the mountain--that shelters the fair vales beneath. how proud, then, should i be of my nose, which in some respects answers to this description! not in all, no, not in all. i am not so vain as to believe that my nose is worth more than a kingdom; but when i am told that a large nose is a sign of sensibility, and of good nature and good humour, i cannot help a glow of conceited satisfaction stealing over me. how many great men have you known with small noses? there are, of course, exceptions, but i speak of the general rule. our co-religionist, benjamin disraeli--look at his nose; look at the noses of all our great jewish musicians and composers--it is because they are of a proper size that they have become famous. some time since in london i had the opportunity of looking over a wonderful bible--six enormous volumes published by mr. thomas macklin nearly a century ago--embellished with grand pictures by the most eminent english artists; and there i saw the figures of abraham and isaac and jacob, and other ancestors of ours. there is not a small nose on one of the faces of these great patriarchs and prophets. the great painters who drew them had learned from their studies how to delineate the biblical heroes. moses the law-giver--what an administrator, what a grand general was that hero, my dear! how thoroughly he understood men and human nature! aaron, the high priest; king solomon, the man of wisdom; isaiah, the prophet and poet--they all had tremendous noses. a big nose is a grand decoration, and i would sooner possess it than a bit of red ribbon in my button-hole, or a star on my breast. indeed, my life, i have it--the nose of my forefathers!" aaron made this declaration in a tone of comic despair. "and, having it, i will not part with it except with life." there was so much playful humour in the dissertation that rachel laughed outright. her laugh was the sweetest in the world, and it fell like music on aaron's heart. he smiled, and there was a gleam in his eyes, and presently he spoke again. "i am not aware whether you have ever observed the attraction a big nose has for children. take the most popular drama of all ages, 'punch and judy.' where is the artist who would venture to present punch with any but an enormous nose? are the children frightened at it? no, they revel in it. do they sympathise with judy when she is slain? not at all; every whack punch gives her is greeted with shrieks of laughter--because of his enormous nose. introduce two strangers to a baby, one with a very small nose, the other with a very big nose. let them both hold out their arms. instinctively the baby flies to the man with the large nose. it is nature's silent voice that instructs the child. he or she--the sex is not material--instinctively knows which is the better nose of the two, which is the most promising nose, the most suggestive of kisses, and jumps in the air, and cakes, and songs, and all that is dear to a child's heart. the test is infallible. nothing will convince me that you did not marry me because of my big nose." "indeed, dear," said rachel, still laughing, "i hardly think i would have married you without it." "then the fact is established. i am about to make a confession to you, rachel; i am going to tell you the true reason for my choosing this place to reside in, where i am separated by a long distance from the friends of my youth and manhood, and where you, too, my dear child"--in his moments of tenderness he occasionally addressed her thus--"will, i fear, be for a time without friends to whom you can unbosom yourself." "i have you, my dear husband," said rachel, in a tone of deep affection, drawing closer to him, and slipping her little hand into his great hand. a fine, large, nervous hand was aaron cohen's; a palmister would have seen great possibilities in it. rachel's hand, despite her domestic work, was the hand of a lady; she took a proper pride in preserving its delicacy and beauty. "i have you, my dear husband," she said. "yes, my' life, but you used to kiss at least a dozen female friends a day." "i kissed prissy and the baby to-night." "when their faces were washed, i hope. listen to my confession. pride and hard-heartedness drove me from the neighbourhood in which we were married. a thousand pounds did my dear father--god rest his soul!--bequeath to me. it dwindled and dwindled--my own fault; i could not say no. one came to me with a melancholy tale which led to a little loan; another came, and another, and another. i did not make you acquainted with the extent of my transgressions. my dear, i encouraged the needy ones; i even went out of my way to lend, thinking myself a fine fellow, and flapping my wings in praise of my stupidity. not half i lent came back to me. then business began to fall off, and i saw that i was in the wrong groove. i had grown into bad ways; and had i remained much longer in the old neighbourhood i should have been left without a penny. i thought of our future, of the injustice i was inflicting upon you. 'i will go,' said i, 'where i am not known, while i still have a little to earn a living with, among strangers who, when they borrow, will give me value in return, and where i shall not have to say to poor friends, "come to me no more; i am poorer than yourselves." i have been foolish and weak; i will be wise and strong. i will grow rich and hard-hearted.' yes, my dear, that is what i intend, and my heart will not be oppressed by the sight of suffering it is out of my power to relieve. rachel, i am not so clever as i pretend to be; to speak the truth, i am afraid i am rather given to crowing; and when it is not alone my own welfare, but the welfare of one so dear to me as you are, that is concerned, i tremble, i begin to doubt whether i have done right. give me your opinion of the step i have taken." she gazed at him with serious, loving, trustful eyes. "it is a wise step, aaron, i am sure it is. whatever you do is right, and i am satisfied." ten o'clock struck, and a knock at the door announced the faithful prissy, come to put the fire out. she entered with the baby in her arms, sound asleep. she was flushed and excited, and she held her hand over the right side of her face. "victoria ought to be a-bed," said rachel, taking a peep at baby. "she can't go," retorted prissy, "afore 'er mother's ready to take 'er." "where is her mother?" asked aaron. "at the jolly sailor boy, enjying of 'erself." "ah! and where is your aunt?" "at the jolly sailor boy, too, 'aving a 'arf-quartern. there's been a reg'lar row there about mrs. macrory's flannin peddicut." "what happened to it?" "it went wrong. yes, it did. yer needn't larf. call me a story, do! i would if i was you!" "no, no, prissy," said aaron, in a soothing tone. "how did the flannel petticoat go wrong?" "nobody knowed at fust. aunty does mrs. macrory's washing, and a lot more besides, and the things gits mixed sometimes. aunty can't 'elp that--'ow can she? so mrs. macrory's things was took 'ome without the peddicut. mrs. macrory she meets aunty at the jolly sailor boy, and she begins to kick up about it. 'where's my flannin peddicut?' she ses. ''ow should i know?' ses aunty. then wot d'yer think? mrs. macrory sees somethink sticking out of aunty's dress be'ind, and she pulls at it. 'why,' she ses, 'you've got it on!' that's wot the row was about. aunty didn't know 'ow it come on 'er--she's ready to take 'er oath on that. ain't it rum?" "very rum. put out the fire, prissy. it is time for all good people to get to bed." in the performance of this duty prissy was compelled to remove her hand from her face, and when she rose from the floor it was seen that her right eye was sadly discoloured, and that she was in pain. "oh, prissy, poor child!" exclaimed rachel; "you have been hurt!" "yes, mum," said prissy. "mrs. macrory's gal--she's twice as big as me; you should see 'er legs!--she ses, 'you're in that job,' she ses, meaning the peddicut; and she lets fly and gives me a one-er on account." rachel ran upstairs, and brought down a bottle of gillard water, with which she bathed the bruise, and tied one of her clean white handkerchiefs over it. prissy stood quite still, her lips quivering; it may have been the gillard water that filled the girl's unbandaged eye with tears. "that will make you feel easier," said rachel. "blow out the candles now, and be here at half-past eight in the morning." "i'll be sure to be," said prissy, with a shake in her voice. in the dark aaron cohen heard the sound of a kiss. "good-night, sir," said the girl. "good-night, prissy," said aaron. the chain of the street door was put up, and the shutters securely fastened, and then aaron and rachel, hand in hand, went up the dark stairs to their room. "my dear," said aaron, drowsily, a few minutes after he and his wife were in bed, "are you asleep?" "no, aaron," murmured rachel, who was on the border-land of dreams. "i've been thinking,"--he dozed off for a moment or two--"i've been thinking----" "yes, my dear?" --"that i wouldn't give prissy's aunt any flannel petticoats to wash." almost before the words had passed his lips sleep claimed him for its own. chapter xiv. a proclamation of war. on monday morning aaron commenced business. in the shop window was a display of miscellaneous articles ticketed at low prices, and aaron took his place behind his counter, ready to dispose of them, ready to argue and bargain, and to advance money on any other articles on which a temporary loan was required. he did not expect a rush of customers, being aware that pawnbroking was a tree of very small beginnings, a seed which needed time before it put forth flourishing branches. the security was sure, the profits accumulative. he was confident of the result. human necessity, even human frailty, was on his side; all he had to do was to be fair in his dealings. in the course of the day he had a good many callers; some to make inquiries, some to offer various articles for pledge. of these latter the majority were children, with whom he declined to negotiate. "who sent you?" "mother." "go home and tell her she must come herself." he would only do business with grown-up people. setting before himself a straight and honest rule of life, he was not the man to wander from it for the sake of a little profit. of the other description of callers a fair proportion entered the shop out of idle curiosity. he had pleasant words for all, and gave change for sixpences and shillings with as much courtesy as if each transaction was a gain to him; as, indeed, it was, for no man or woman who entered with an unfavourable opinion of him (influenced by certain rumours to his discredit which had been circulated by mr. whimpole) departed without having their minds disturbed by his urbanity and genial manners. "i don't see any harm in him," was the general verdict from personal evidence; "he's as nice a spoken man as i ever set eyes on." many of his visitors went away laughing at the humorous remarks he had made, which they passed on from one to another. on the evening of this first day he expressed his satisfaction at the business he had done. "our venture will turn out well," he said to rachel. "the flag of fortune is waving over us." it was eight o'clock, and, although he scarcely expected further custom, he kept the gas burning in the shop window. "light is an attraction," he observed. "it is better than an advertisement in the papers." the evening was fine. he and rachel were sitting in the parlour, with the intermediate door open. aaron was smoking a handsome silver-mounted pipe and making up his accounts, while his wife was busy with her needle. satan could never have put anything in the shape of mischief in the way of these two pairs of industrious hands, for they were never idle, except during the sabbath and the fasts and holydays, and then it was not idleness, but rest, divinely ordained. the silver-mounted pipe was one of aaron's most precious possessions, it being his beloved wife's gift to him on his last birthday. he would not have sold it for ten times its weight in gold. rachel often held a light to it after it was filled, and aaron, with an affectionate smile, would kiss her white hand in acknowledgment of the service. there are trifling memorials which are almost human in their influence, and in the tender thoughts they inspire. at peace with the world and with themselves, aaron and his wife conversed happily as they worked; but malignant influences were at work, of which they were soon to feel the shock. aaron had put his account books in the safe, and was turning the key, when the sound of loud voices outside his shop reached their ears. the voices were those of children, male and female, who were exercising their lungs in bass, treble, and falsetto. only one word did they utter. "jew! jew! jew!" rachel started up in alarm, her hand at her heart. her face was white, her limbs were trembling. "jew! jew! jew!" aaron put the key of the safe in his pocket, and laid down his pipe. his countenance was not troubled, but his brows were puckered. "jew! jew! jew!" "it is wicked! it is wicked!" cried rachel, wringing her hands. "oh, how can they be so cruel!" aaron's countenance instantly cleared. he had to think, to act, for her as well as for himself. with fond endearments he endeavoured to soothe her; but her agitation was profound, and while these cries of implied opprobrium continued she could not school herself to calmness. not for herself did she fear; it was against her dear, her honoured husband that this wicked demonstration was made, and she dreaded that he would be subjected to violence. stories of past oppressions, accounts she had read in the newspapers of jew-baiting in other countries, flashed into her mind. to her perturbed senses the voices seemed to proceed from men and women; to aaron's clearer senses they were the voices of children, and he divined the source of the insult. rachel sobbed upon his breast, and clasped him close to protect him. "rachel, my love, my life!" he said, in a tone of tender firmness. "be calm, i entreat you. there is nothing to fear. have you lost confidence in your husband? would you increase my troubles, and make the task before me more difficult than it is? on my word as a man, on my faith as a jew, i will make friends of these foolish children, in whose outcries there is no deep-seated venom--i declare it, none. they do not know what they are doing. from my heart i pity them, the young rascals, and i will wage a peaceful war with them--yes, my life, a peaceful war--which will confound them and fill them with wonder. i will make them respect me; i will enrich them with a memory which, when they are men and women, will make them think of the past with shame. i will make all my enemies respect me. if you will help me by your silence and patience, i will turn their bitterness into thistledown, which i can blow away with a breath. take heart, my beloved, dear life of my life! trust to me, and in the course of a few days you shall see a wonder. there, let me kiss your tears away. that is my own rachel, whose little finger is more precious to me than all the world beside. good, good, my own dear wife! do you think it is a tragedy that is being enacted by those youngsters? no, no; it is a comedy. you shall see, you shall see!" she was comforted by his words; she drew strength from his strength; she looked at him in wonder, as he began to laugh even while he was caressing her, and her wonder increased when she saw that his eyes fairly shone with humour. "have no fear, my heart," he said; "have not the slightest fear. i am going to meet them--not with javelin and spear, but with something still more powerful, and with good temper for my shield." "aaron," she whispered, "are you sure there is no danger?" "if i were not sure," he answered, merrily, "i would remain snug in this room. i am not a man of war; i am a man of peace, and with peaceful weapons will i scatter the enemy. for your dear sake i would not expose myself to peril, for do i not know that if i were hurt your pain would be greater than mine? it is my joy to know it. you will remain quietly here?" "i will, my dear husband. but you will not go into the street?" "i shall go no farther than the street door. i shall not need to go farther." he stopped to fill his pipe, and to light it; and then, with loving kisses and a smile on his lips, he left her. when he made his appearance at the shop door there was a sudden hush, and a sudden scuttling away of the twenty or thirty children who had congregated to revile him. he remained stationary at the door, smoking his pipe, and gazing benignantly at them. their fears of chastisement dispelled by his peaceful attitude, they stopped, looked over their shoulders, and slowly and warily came back, keeping, however, at a safe distance from him. they found their voices again; again the reviling cries went forth. "jew! jew! jew!" "good children! good children!" said aaron, in a clear, mellifluous voice. then he put his pipe to his mouth again, and continued to smoke, smiling and nodding his head as if in approval. "jew! jew! jew!" "good little boys and girls," said aaron. "bravo! bravo! you deserve a reward. every labourer is worthy of his hire." he drew from his pocket three or four pennies, which, with smiling nods of his head, he threw among them. instantly came into play other passions--greed, avarice, the determination not to be defrauded of their due. falling upon the money, they scrambled and fought for it. aaron threw among them two or three more pennies, and their ardour increased. they scratched, they kicked, they tumbled over each other; blows were given and returned. those who had secured pennies scampered away with them, and, with loud and vengeful cries, the penniless scampered after them. in a very little while they had all disappeared. to the victors the spoils, it is said; but in this instance it really appeared as if victory had ranged itself on aaron's side. shaking with internal laughter, he remained on his steps awhile, puffing at his pipe; then he put up the shutters, locked the street door, put out the shop lights, and rejoined his wife. "my dear," he said, and his voice was so gay that her heart beat with joy, "that is the end of the first act. they will not come back to-night." chapter xv. the battle is fought and won. "the personal affections by which we are governed," said aaron cohen, seating himself comfortably in his chair, "are, like all orders of beings to which they come, of various degrees and qualities, and the smaller become merged and lost in the larger, as the serpents of pharaoh's magicians were swallowed up by aaron's rod. wisdom is better than an inheritance, and anger resteth in the bosom of fools. moreover, as is observed by rabbi chanina, 'wise men promote peace in the world.' such, my dear rachel, is my aim, and so long as the means within my reach are harmless, so long will i follow the learned rabbi's precept. if the human heart were not full of envy and deceit, what i have done should bring joy to our persecutors; but i will not pledge myself that it has done so in this instance. on the contrary, on the contrary. they have something else to think of than calling me what i am proud to be called--a jew. how they scratched and fought and ran!" aaron paused here to laugh. "the opprobrious cries ceased suddenly, did they not, rachel?" "they did, and i was very much surprised." "you will be more surprised when you hear that i rewarded with modern shekels the labours of the young rascals who would make our lives a torment to us." "you gave them money!" exclaimed rachel, in amazement. "is it possible you rewarded them for their bad work?" "i threw among them seven penny pieces. yes, yes, i rewarded them. why not?" "but why?" "ah, why, why? had i thrown among them seven cannon balls they would scarcely have been more effective. the truth of this will be made manifest to our benefit before many days are gone, or cohen is not my name. wife of my soul, i went forth, not with a lion's, but with a fox's skin. have i not studied the law? are not the cohanim priests, and are not priests supposed to be men of intelligence and resource? we read in proverbs, 'counsel is mine, and sound wisdom; i have understanding, i have strength.' rabbi meyer says that the study of the law endows a man with sovereignty, dominion, and ratiocination. he is slow to anger, ready to forgive an injury, has a good heart, receives chastisement with resignation, loves virtue, correction, and admonition. this, perhaps, is going a little too far, and is endowing a human being with qualities too transcendent; but it is true to a certain extent, and i have profited by the learned rabbi's words. ill fitted should i be to engage in the battle of life if i were not able to cope with the young rascals who made the night hideous outside our door, and who, if i am not mistaken; will repeat their performance to-morrow evening at the same hour." "they will come again!" cried rachel, clasping her hands in despair. "they will come again, and again, and yet again, and then--well, then we shall see what we shall see." "you gave them money to-night," said rachel, sadly, "and they will return for more." "and they will return for more," said aaron, with complacency. "at the present moment i should judge that they are engaged in a fierce contest. when that look comes into your face, my dear, it is an indication that i have said something you do not exactly understand. i threw to them seven apples of discord, which the nimblest and the strongest seized and fled with. but each soldier conceived he had a right to at least one of the apples, and those who were left empty-handed laboured under a sense of wrong. they had been robbed by their comrades. after them they rushed to obtain their portion of the spoils of war. then ensued a grand scrimmage in which noses have been injured and eyes discoloured. even as we converse the battle is continued. i am not there, but i see the scene clearly with my mind's eye." he took a sovereign from his pocket, and regarded it contemplatively. "ah, thou root of much evil and of much good, what have you not to answer for? what blessings is it not in your power to bestow, what evil passions do you not bring into play? rachel, my love, take heart of courage, and when you hear those boys shouting outside tomorrow night do not be alarmed. trust in me; everything will come right in the end." the scene which aaron had drawn from his imagination was as near as possible to the truth. there had been a battle royal between the boys and girls for possession of the pennies; noses were put out of joint, black eyes were given, words of injurious import exchanged, and much bad blood engendered. the sevenpence for which they fought would have gone but a little way to pay for the repairs to the clothes which were torn and rent during the fray. the end of it was that the robbers, after being kicked and cuffed ignominiously, were not allowed to join in a compact made by the penniless, to the effect that they would assemble outside aaron cohen's shop to-morrow night and repeat the tactics which had been so well rewarded, and that all moneys received should be equally divided between the warriors engaged. one ted kite was appointed commander, to organise the expedition and to see fair play. accordingly, on tuesday night a score or so of boys and girls presented themselves in front of the shop, and commenced shouting, "jew! jew! jew!" the fugleman being ted kite, who proved himself well fitted for the task. "there he is, there he is!" said the youngsters eagerly, as aaron made his appearance on the doorstep; and, inspired by their captain, they continued to fire. "good children, good children," said aaron, with good-humoured smiles, and continuing to smoke his silver-mounted pipe. "very well done, very well done indeed!" "ain't he going to throw us nothink?" they asked each other anxiously, their greedy eyes watching aaron's movements. they were kept rather long in suspense, but at length aaron's hand sought his pocket, and half a dozen pennies rattled on the stones. despite their compact down they pounced, and fought and scratched for them as on the previous night, the fortunate ones scudding away as on the first occasion, followed by their angry comrades. they were caught, and compelled to disgorge; the pennies were changed into farthings, and each soldier received one for his pay; the two or three that were left were spent in sweetstuff. "what a game!" the children exclaimed, and appointed to meet on the following night to continue the pastime. on this third night they were kept waiting still longer. aaron cohen did not make his appearance so quickly, and several minutes elapsed before the pennies were thrown to them. on the first night he had disbursed seven, on the second night six, on this third only four. there was the usual fighting for them, and the usual scampering away; but when the sum-total was placed in the hands of ted kite a great deal of dissatisfaction was expressed. only fourpence! they doubted the correctness of the sum; they were sure that more had been thrown; one girl said she counted eight, and others supported her statement. who had stolen the missing pennies? they quarrelled and fought again; they regarded each other with suspicion; doubts were thrown upon the honesty of the captain. off went his coat instantly; off went the coats of other boys; the girls, having no coats to throw off, tucked up their sleeves; and presently six or seven couples were hitting, scratching, and kicking each other. much personal damage was done, and more bad blood engendered. the warfare was not by any means of a heroic nature. nevertheless they assembled on the fourth night, and were kept waiting still longer before they were paid. aaron did not show his liberality, however, until he had had a conference with the captain. his keen eyes had singled out ted kite, and he beckoned to him. ted hesitated; he was only a small boy; aaron cohen was a big man, and in a personal contest could have disposed of him comfortably. "yah, yer coward!" cried the rank and file to their captain. "what are yer frightened at? what did we make yer captain for?" thus taunted, ted kite ventured to approach the smiling foe. "come a little nearer," said aaron; "i am not going to hurt you. i wish you to do me a favour." ted, with a sidelong look over his shoulders at his army, as if appealing to it to rush to his rescue in case he was seized, shuffled forward. aaron cohen held out his hand; ted kite timidly responded, and was surprised at the friendly grip he received. "you are the leader," said aaron, in his most genial voice. "yes, mr. cohen," replied ted, growing bold, "i'm the captain." "clever lad, clever captain! here's a penny for you. don't let them see you take it. it is for you alone. they will do as you tell them, of course." "i'll let 'em know it if they don't." "it's right you should. i think it is very kind of you to come here as you do, but i want you to oblige me and not come to-morrow night it is friday, and the shop will be closed; so you would be wasting your time. that would be foolish, would it not?" "yes, it would," said ted, somewhat bewildered. "shall we come on saturday night?" "certainly, if you think proper. then you will not be here to-morrow?" "we won't, as you'd rather not, mr. cohen." "thank you, i am really obliged to you. now go and join your army." ted kite turned away, walked a step or two, and returned. "but i say, mr. cohen----" "well, my lad?" "do you like it?" "do i like it?" echoed aaron, with a sly chuckle. "should i speak to you as i am doing if i didn't? i think it is very nice of you; very nice, very nice indeed!" "oh!" said ted, in a crest-fallen tone. as aaron took pleasure in the persecution, it was not half such good fun as it had been. "he says he likes it," he said to his comrades, when he was among them. "how much did he give yer?" they inquired, feeling as he did in respect of the fun of their proceedings. "he didn't give me nothink." "we sor him hold out his hand to yer," they protested. "you sor us shake hands, that's what yer saw. let's get on with the game; we don't want to be kept waiting here all night." they went on with the game, calling "jew! jew! jew!" half-heartedly. putting the pecuniary reward out of the question, it was a game that was becoming rather monotonous. they had to call for quite a quarter of an hour before aaron paid them; and this time he paid them with two pennies only. the children fell on the ground, and scraped the stones for more, but found none; and they retired grumbling, discontented, and suspicious of each other's honesty. on friday night, the sabbath eve, aaron and rachel had peace; and on saturday night the children made their appearance again and gave forth their chorus. aaron came to the door, and stood there, smoking his pipe, and smiling at them; but he did not throw any pennies to them. they did not know what to make of it. their voices grew weaker and weaker, they wandered about discontentedly, they declared it was not fair on mr. cohen's part. "we'll try him agin on monday night," they said. they tried him again on monday night, and he stood on his steps, commending them, but he gave them no more pennies. there was no heart whatever now in their invectives. they were not philosophers, and did, not know that the course aaron had pursued had taken the sting out of their tails. "he likes it," they said to one another, as they strolled off moodily, "and he wants us to come here and scream our throats dry without being paid for it. well, we ain't going to do it. we won't call him jew any more, if he wants us ever so much. it ain't likely, now, is it? what does he mean by treating us so shabby?" these young rapscallions thought the world was out of joint. on this monday night an incident occurred which never came to aaron's ears. prissy, hearing of the annoyance to which the cohens were subjected, made her appearance as the boys were wandering disconsolately away, and without wasting time in asking questions, darted like a tiger-cat upon the biggest of them, and fixed her fingers in his hair. she had left victoria regina asleep on the coals in her aunt's shop, and had, so to speak, girded up her loins for the contest, by pinning up her ragged skirts and tucking up her sleeves to the shoulder. "what's that for?" cried the boy, struggling to get free. prissy vouchsafed no explanation; the only words she uttered were addressed to the other boys. "fair play. one at a time. i'm only a gal." chivalry was not dead. they stood round the combatants, and witnessed the fight without interfering. it was a desperate encounter. many an ugly blow did prissy receive; but she depended upon her talons, and pulled such quantities of hair out of the big boy's head, and scratched his face so dreadfully, that he was at length driven to tears and entreaties to her to leave off. "do yer want any more?" screamed prissy, whose breath was almost gone. the big boy's answer was to run away, whimpering, and the other boys hooted him as he fled. "would any other boy like to come on?" demanded the panting prissy. not one accepted the challenge, and prissy, glaring at them as they followed their vanquished comrade, went back to victoria regina, and shed copious tears of indignant satisfaction over the sleeping babe. in this way it was that aaron cohen fought the battle and gained a bloodless victory. he laughed in his sleeve as he thought of it, and laughed aloud in his cosy little parlour when he related the whole affair to rachel. "one shilling and eightpence has it cost me, my love," he said, "and i do not grudge the money. show 'me the battle that has been won for less." rachel was greatly relieved; but her dominant feeling was admiration for her husband's wisdom. "i do not believe any other man in the world would have thought of it," she said; and though aaron shook his head in modest deprecation, he was justified in inwardly congratulating himself upon his astute tactics. the story got about, and the townspeople were much amused by it. "mr. cohen's a clever fellow," they said. he grew to be respected by them, and as the weeks passed by and it was seen that he was not only a fair-dealing but a kindly-hearted man, the innuendoes which mr. whimpole continued to circulate about him produced a very small effect. mr. whimpole was not pleased; where is the man who would have been in his position? talking one night with rachel over the animosity the corn-chandler bore towards the jews, aaron said,-- "i have no doubt, my dear, that he is quite conscientious, and that he considers his prejudices to be the outcome of a just conviction. doubtless his parents had the same conviction, and he imbibed it from them. there are thousands of people who agree with him, and there are worse persecutions than that to which we have been subjected. look at that infamously-governed country, russia, which, in the maps, ought to be stamped blood-red, with a heavy mourning border around it! the wretches who inflict incredible sufferings upon countless innocent beings call themselves christians. they are not christians, they are fiends, and a judgment will fall upon them. spain, once the greatest of nations, fell into decay when the jews deserted it. so will it be with other nations that oppress the jew. let germany look to it. it is easy to arouse the evil passions of human beings, but a brand of fire shall fall upon the heads of those who are employed in work so vile." chapter xvi. joy and sorrow. perhaps, however, to rachel may chiefly be ascribed the general esteem in which the cohens were held by the townsfolk. charitable, kind, and gentle by nature, she was instinctively drawn to all poor people who had fallen into misfortune. here there was no question of jew and christian. a human being was in trouble; that was sufficient for this dear woman, whose heart bled at the sight of suffering. upon her sympathetic ears no tale of distress could fall without bearing fruit. now it was a basin of nourishing soup, now a mould of jelly, now part of a chicken, cooked by herself, and paid for out of her housekeeping money. she won friends everywhere, and her sweet face was like a ray of sunshine in the homes of the poor. it was not at all uncommon to hear that her timely assistance had been the means of restoring to health those who had been stricken down. she walked through life as an angel of mercy might have done, and spiritual flowers grew about her feet. of all the friends who sounded her praises none were more enthusiastic than little prissy, who came now regularly to the house to do domestic work. anxious to increase his trade, aaron had stocked his shop with such articles of wear and adornment which were most in request. he had not the means to pay ready money for the stock, but through a friend in portsmouth, mr. moss, with whom the readers of this story have already become acquainted, he obtained credit from wholesale dealers who would have been chary to trust him without a sufficient recommendation. apart from the pleasures which his modest success in business afforded him, there was a happiness in store for him to which he looked forward with a sense of profound gratitude. rachel was about to become a mother. to this fond couple, who lived only for each other, there could be no greater joy than this. they had lost their firstborn, and god was sending another child to bless their days. they never closed their eyes at night, they never rose in the morning, without offering a prayer of thanks to the most high for his goodness to them. they saw no cloud gathering to darken their happiness. it was an ordinary event, for which aaron could hardly have been prepared. they had been eleven months in gosport when one morning aaron, rising first and going down to his shop, found that burglars had been at work. they had effected an entrance at the back of the house, and had carried away the most valuable articles in the window. the loss, aaron calculated, would not be less than a hundred pounds. it was, to him, a serious loss; he had commenced with a very small capital, and his earnings during the year had left only a small margin over his household and trade expenses. his business was growing, it is true, but for the first six months he had barely paid his way; it was to the future he looked to firmly establish himself, and now in one night all his profits were swept away. more than this; if he were called upon to pay his debts he would have but a few pounds left. rachel, whose health the last week or two had been delicate, her confinement being so near, was in bed by his directions; he had forbidden her to rise till ten o'clock. it was a matter to be thankful for; he could keep the shock of the loss from her; in her condition bad news might have a serious effect upon her. he set everything in order, spoke no word of what had occurred to his wife, re-arranged the shop window, and took down the shutters. in the course of the day he told rachel that he intended to close a couple of hours earlier than usual; he had to go to portsmouth upon business in the evening, and should be absent probably till near midnight. "you will not mind being alone, my love?" he said. "oh no," she answered, with a tender smile; "i have plenty to occupy me." she had been for some time busy with her needle preparing for her unborn child. "but you must go to bed at ten," said aaron. "i shall lock the shop, and take the key of the back door with me, so that i can let myself in." she promised to do as he bade her, and in the evening he left her to transact his business. he had no fear that she would be intruded upon; it was not likely that the house would be broken into two nights in succession; besides, with the exception of some pledges of small value which he kept in the safe, where they were secure from burglars, there was little now to tempt thieves to repeat their knavish doings. so with fond kisses he bade her goodnight. they stood facing each other, looking into each other's eyes. rachel's eyes were of a tender grey, with a light so sweet in them that he never looked into them unmoved. he kissed them now with a strange yearning at his heart. "i hope baby's eyes will be like yours, dear love," he said; "the soul of sweetness and goodness shines in them." she smiled happily, and pressed him fondly to her. ah, if he had known! his first business was with the police. he went to the station, and telling the inspector of his loss, said that he wished it to be kept private, because of his fear that it might reach his wife's ears. the inspector replied that it would be advisable under any circumstances. leaving in the officer's hands a list of the articles that had been stolen, he proceeded to portsmouth to consult his friend mr. moss. that good-hearted gentleman was deeply concerned at the news. "it is a serious thing, cohen," he said. "a very serious thing," replied aaron, gravely; "but i shall overcome it, only i require time. i promised to pay some bills to-morrow, and as i shall need a little stock to replace what i have lost, it will cramp me to do so now." he mentioned the names of the tradesmen to whom he had given the promise, and asked mr. moss to call upon them in the morning and explain the matter to them. "they will not lose their money," he said; "it will not take me very long to make everything right." "i will see them," said mr. moss, "and i am sure they will give you time. aaron cohen's name is a sufficient guarantee." "i hope it will always be," replied aaron. "it is very unfortunate just now, because i have extra expenses coming on me. the nurse, the doctor----" "i know, i know. how is mrs. cohen?" "fairly well, i am glad to say. she knows nothing of what has occurred." "of course not. how could you tell her while she is like that? when mrs. moss is in the same way i am always singing and laughing and saying cheerful things to her. between you and me, we expect an addition ourselves in about four months." "indeed! that will make----" "twelve," said mr. moss, rubbing his hands briskly together. "increase and multiply. it's our bounden duty; eh, cohen?" "yes," said aaron, rather absently. "and now i must go; it will be late before i reach home, and for all rachel's promises i expect she will keep awake for me. good-night, and thank you." "nothing to thank me for. good-night, and good luck." when aaron returned to gosport it was midnight. winter was coming on, and it was cold and dark. buttoning his coat close up to his neck, he hastened his steps. he was not despondent. misfortune had fallen upon him, but he had confidence in himself; and, despite the practical common sense which showed itself in all his actions, there was in his nature an underlying current of spiritual belief in divine assistance towards the successful accomplishment of just and worthy endeavour. that it is man's duty to do right, to work, to pray, to be considerate to his neighbours, to make his home cheerful, to be as charitable as his means will allow--this was his creed; and it was strengthened by his conviction that god made himself manifest even upon earth in matters of right and wrong. he did not relegate the expiation of transgression to the future; he did not believe that a man could wipe out the sins of the past year by fasting, and praying, and beating his breast on the day of atonement. wrong-doing was not to be set aside and forgotten until a convenient hour for repentance arrived. that was the conduct of a man who tried to cheat his conscience, who deluded himself with the hope that the eternal sometimes slept. daily, hourly, a man must keep watch over himself and his actions. this had been his rule of life; and it contributed to his happiness, and to the happiness of those around him. he was within a quarter of a mile of his residence when he was conscious of an unseen disturbance in the air; and presently he saw a distant glare in the sky, and the faint echoes of loud voices stole upon his senses. agitated as he had been by what had transpired during this long unfortunate day, he could not at first be certain whether these signs were real or imaginary; but he soon discovered that they did not spring from his imagination. the glare in the sky became plainly visible, the loud voices reached his cars. there was a fire in the town, and he was proceeding towards it. instantly his thoughts, his fears, centred upon rachel. he ran forward quickly, and found himself struggling through an excited crowd. flames shot upwards; the air was filled with floating sparks of fire. great god! it was his own house that was being destroyed by the devouring element. he did not heed that; the destruction of his worldly goods did not affect him. "my wife!" he screamed. "where is my wife?" by main force they held him back, for he was rushing into the flames. "let me go!" he screamed. "where is my wife?" "it is all right, mr. cohen," a number of voices replied. "she is saved!" "thank god, oh, thank god!" he cried. "take me to her. where is she?" he cared not for the ruin that had overtaken him; like cool water to a parched throat had come the joyful news. "take me to her. in the name of heaven, tell me where she is!" she was in a house, at a safe distance from the fire, and thither he was led. rachel was lying on a couch in her nightdress; sympathising people were about her. "rachel, rachel!" he cried, and fell upon his knees by her side. she did not answer him; she was insensible. "do not agitate yourself," said a voice. it was that of a physician who had been attending to her. "be thankful that she lives." "o lord, i thank thee!" murmured the stricken man. "my rachel lives!" what mattered all the rest? what mattered worldly ruin and destruction? the beloved of his heart was spared to him. "you are a sensible man, mr. cohen," said the physician, "and you must be calm for her sake. in her condition there will be danger if she witnesses your agitation when she recovers." "i will be calm, sir," said aaron, humbly. "she is all i have in the world." he made no inquiries as to the cause of the fire; he did not stir from rachel's side, but sat with his eyes fixed upon her pallid face. the physician remained with them an hour, and then took his departure, saying he would return early in the morning, and leaving instructions to aaron what to do. at sunrise rachel awoke. passing one hand over her eyes, she held out the other in a groping, uncertain way. aaron took it in his, and held it fondly; the pallor left her cheeks. "it is you, my dear?" she murmured. "yes, it is i, my life!" he said, in a low and gentle tone. "you are well--you are safe?" "i am well; i am safe," he replied. "and you, rachel, how do you feel?" "i have a slight headache. it will soon pass away. oh, my dear husband, how thankful i am! when did you return?" "not till you were taken from the house. do not talk now. rest, rest, my beloved!" the endearing words brought a glad smile to her lips. "i will sleep presently, aaron. is the doctor here?" "no, but he will come soon. shall i go for him?" "i can wait, dear; when he comes i should like to speak to him alone." "you are hurt!" he said, alarmed. "tell me!" "i am not hurt, dear; it is only that my head aches a little. he will give me something to relieve me. have no fear for me, aaron; i am in no danger; indeed, indeed, i am not!" "god be praised!" she drew his head to her breast, and they lay in silence awhile, fondly embracing. "let me tell you, dear, and then i will go to sleep again. i went to bed at ten, as you bade me, and though i had it in my mind to keep awake for you i could not do so. i do not know how long i slept, but i awoke in confusion, and there was a strong glare in my eyes. i hardly remember what followed. i heard voices calling to me--prissy's voice was the loudest, i think--and then i felt that strong arms were around me, and i was being carried from the house. that is all, my dear, till i heard your voice, here. where am i?" he informed her; and then, holding him close to her, she fell asleep again. as the clock struck nine the physician entered the room, and aaron told him what had passed. "i can spare half an hour," said the physician. "go and see after your affairs. i will not leave her till you return." kissing rachel tenderly, and smoothing the hair from her forehead, aaron left the house, and went to his own. before he departed he learned from the kind neighbours, who had given rachel shelter, that they were not in a position to keep her and aaron with them, and he said that he would make arrangements to remove her in the course of the day, if the doctor thought it would be safe to do so. his own house, he found, was completely destroyed, but he heard of another at no great distance, which was to be let furnished for a few weeks; and this he took at once, and installed prissy therein, to light fires and get the rooms warm. the arrangement completed, he hastened back to rachel, between whom and the physician a long consultation had taken place during his absence. at the conclusion of their conversation she had asked him one question,-- "shall i be so all my life, doctor?" "i fear so," was his reply. "my poor husband!" she murmured. "my poor, dear husband! say nothing to him, doctor, i implore you. let him hear the truth from my lips." he consented, not sorry to be spared a painful duty. "she is surprisingly well," he said to aaron, "and in a few days will be able to get about a little, though you must not expect her to be quite strong till her child is born." the news was so much better than aaron expected, that he drew a deep breath of exquisite relief. "can she be removed to-day with safety?" he asked. "i think so. she will be happier with you alone. give me your new address; i will call and see her there this evening." at noon she was taken in a cab to her new abode and aaron carried her in, and laid her on the sofa before a bright fire. in the evening the physician called according to his promise. "she is progressing famously," he said to aaron. "get her to bed early, and it may be advisable that she should keep there a few days. but i shall speak more definitely about this later on. mr. cohen, you have my best wishes. you are blessed with a noble wife." tears shone in aaron's eyes. "let me impress upon you," continued the doctor, "to be strong as she is strong; but at present, with the birth of her child so near, it is scarcely physical power that sustains her. she is supported by a spiritual strength drawn from her love for you and her unborn babe." with these words the physician left them together. prissy was gone, and aaron and rachel were alone. they exchanged but few words. rachel still occupied the couch before the fire, and as she seemed to be dozing aaron would not disturb her. thus an hour passed by, and then rachel said,-- "the doctor advises me to go to bed early. will you help me up, dear?" she stood on her feet before him, and as his eyes rested on her face a strange fear entered his heart. "come, my life!" he said. "a moment, dear husband," she said. "i have something to tell you, something that will grieve you. i do not know how it happened, nor does the good doctor know. he has heard of only one such case before. i am not in pain; i do not suffer. it is much to be grateful for, and i am humbly, humbly grateful. it might have been so much worse!" "rachel, my beloved!" said aaron, placing his hands on her shoulders. "keep your arms about me, my honoured husband. let me feel your dear hands, your dear face. kiss me, aaron. may i tell you now?" "tell me now, my beloved." "look into my eyes, dear. i cannot look into yours. dear husband, i am blind!" chapter xvii. divine consolation. the shock of this revelation was so overwhelming that for a few moments aaron was unable to speak. in the words of the prophet, "his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth." his soul was plunged in darkness, and a feeling of passionate rebellion racked his heart. that upon his sweet and innocent wife should have fallen an infliction so awful seemed to blot all brightness out of the world. nay, more--it seemed to be so opposed to the principle of justice as to render it a mockery and a snare. the sentiment which animated him was one of horror and indignation, and he yielded to it unresistingly. what had rachel done to deserve the cruel blow? her life had been a life of purity and innocence; her religious obligations had been zealously fulfilled; in her home her duties had been faithfully and cheerfully performed; to the poor she had been a ministering angel; she had walked truly in the ways of god. not with a crown of sorrow, but with a crown of glory should she have been crowned and was it not natural that he should rebel against it? he was her champion, her protector, her defender; she had no one else. should he stand tamely by and show no sense of the injustice which had been inflicted upon her? very, very rarely had aaron been dominated by so stubborn a mood; very, very rarely had he allowed it to take possession of him; and never in a single instance on his own account. mere worldly misfortune, however disastrous in its effect, he had invariably met with philosophic calm and fortitude. many reverses had attended him, and he had borne them bravely, as a man should, as it was a man's duty to do. with a courage which may be said to be heroic had he accepted each successive stroke, and had immediately applied himself to the task of repairing the breach. no fainthearted soldier he, sitting down and weeping by the roadside when he received a wound. to be up and doing, that was his creed. these were but ordinary checks, which a man must be prepared to encounter in his course through life; weak indeed would he prove himself to be who did not at once set to work manfully and energetically to make the best, instead of the worst, of each rebuff. aaron's keen gift of humour and his talent for justifiable device were of immense assistance to him in these encounters, and in his conversations with rachel he was in the habit of throwing so droll a light upon the difficulties with which he was contending, that he lifted from her heart and from his own a weight which otherwise would have remained there and impeded his efforts. he treated every personal ailment which visited him, and every little accident he met with, in the same fashion, laughing away rachel's distress, and bearing his pain without the least symptom of querulousness. "you seem almost to like pain, my dear," she had said. "there is pleasure in pain," he had answered; "think of the relief." thus did he make the pack upon his shoulders easy to carry, and thus did he contribute to rachel's enjoyment of life. over and above these lesser features in his character reigned the great factors truth and justice. temptations he had had, as all men have, but he was, happily, so constituted that he had not to fight them down; they were destroyed in their suggestion. it was with him an impossibility to advance his own interests by deceit and subterfuge, to make money by cheating his neighbour. he took no credit to himself that he was never guilty of a meanness; it was simply that it was not in his nature to fall so low, and that he walked instinctively in the right path. he had a soul of pity for misfortune, and had frequently conversed with rachel upon the doctrine of responsibility, arguing that children born of vicious parents should not be made accountable for their evil acts to the fullest extent. "it is an inheritance," he argued, "and it is not they who are wholly guilty. my parents gave me an inheritance of cheerfulness and good temper, and i am more grateful for it than i should be if they had left me a large bag of gold." upon questions of right and wrong his good sense and his rectitude led him unerringly to the just side, and when he had a stake in a decision he was called upon to make in such or such an issue he never for a moment hesitated. to have benefited himself at the expense of justice would have been in his eyes a sin which was not to be forgiven. a sin of unconscious omission could be expiated, but a sin of deliberate commission would have weighed for ever on his soul. could such a man as this, a devout and conscientious jew, faithful every day of his life in the observances of his religion, with a firm belief in the mercy and goodness of the eternal god, and with the principles of truth and justice shining ever before him, be guilty of such a sin? it will be presently seen. so far himself, considered as an entity. had he been alone in life, with no other life so welded into his own as to be inseparable from it, it is scarcely possible that he could have been guilty of a conscious wrong, for his soul would have risen in revolt against the suggestion. had he been alone, misfortunes might have fallen upon him unceasingly, poverty might have been his lot through all his days, disease might have racked his bones--he would have borne all with tranquillity and resignation, and would have lifted up his voice in praise of the most high to his last hour. of such stuff are martyrs made; from such elements springs the lofty ideal into which, once in a generation, is breathed the breath of life, the self-sacrificing hero who sheds his blood and dies with a glad light on his face in the battle of right against might, in the battle of weak innocence against the ruthless hand of power. but aaron was not alone; rachel was by his side, leaning upon his heart, looking to him for joy, for peace, for happiness. and when he suffered, it was through her he suffered; and when he was oppressed with sorrow, it was through her he sorrowed. so keen was his sympathy with her, so intense was his love for her, that if only her finger ached he was in pain. we are but human after all, and no man can go beyond a man's strength. legends are handed down to us of divine inspiration falling upon a man who, thus spiritually directed and inspired, becomes a leader, a hero, a prophet; but in that man's heartstrings are not entwined the tender fingers of wife and children. he communes with nature, he hears voices in the forest, the rustling leaves whisper to him, the solemn trees, rearing their stately forms to the dark skies, bear a message to his soul, he sees visions in the dead of night; but he hears not the voice of his beloved, he beholds not the angelic face of his sleeping child in its crib. as blades of grass, which we can rub into nothingness between our fingers, force their upward way to air and sunshine through adamantine stones, as rocks are worn away by the trickling of drops of water, so may a man's sublimest qualities, so may a man's heart and soul, be pierced and reft by human love. it was this absorbing sentiment that agitated aaron when rachel revealed to him that she was blind, it was this that struck him dumb. meekly and patiently she stood before him--he had fallen back a step--and waited for him to speak. he did not utter a word. presently her sweet voice stole upon his senses. "aaron, my beloved, why are you silent? why do you not speak to me?" he lifted his head and groaned. "ah, do not groan, dear husband," she continued. "it is for me you suffer; but i am not suffering--did i not tell you so? it is, indeed, the truth. look into my face; you will see no pain there. all is well with us; all will be well with us; the future is glad and bright. and remember, dear, i need you more than ever now. next to god, you are my rock, my salvation. he has cast this affliction upon me out of his goodness and wisdom. humbly, gratefully, i thank him. let us lift up our voices in his praise." and from her lips flowed, in the ancient tongue, the sublime prayer: "hear, o israel, the eternal, our god, the eternal is one. and thou shalt love the eternal thy god with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy might. and these words which i command thee this day shall be in thine heart. and thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children, and shall speak of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, when thou liest down, and when thou risest up." an angel's voice could not have been more melodious and sweet, and the beauty of the prayer acquired truly a divine strength through rachel's intoning of the pious words. but it was not only her voice that resounded in the room. the moment she commenced to pray rebellion against fate's decree melted out of aaron's heart, and pity took its place. he was restored to his better self. holding her hand, he joined her in the prayer, but not in so loud a voice as usual; she was the teacher now, and he the pupil; he followed her, as it were, and was led by her; and when the prayer was ended her head sank upon his breast, and her arms entwined themselves around his neck. "you are resigned, my dear?" she whispered. "i bow my head," he answered. "the lord's will be done." "i could not keep it from you any longer. i was blind when i opened my eyes in the house of the good people who gave me shelter; i was blind when you sat by my side there; but i feared to tell you; i wished to speak to the doctor first. it was so strange, so sudden, that i hoped it would not last. i awoke with the cry of fire in my ears, and, as i leapt from bed, the bright glare of the flames seemed to strike sight out of my eyes. i fainted, and remember nothing more, only that when i opened my eyes again i could not see. it was merciful that there was no pain. oh, my dear husband, i am so sorry for you; so sorry, so sorry!" "rachel, dear rachel, dear life of my life, it is not for me you should grieve--it is for yourself." "no, dear love, i do not grieve for myself. should i not rather rejoice? because i know, i know,"--she put his hand to her lips and kissed it, then held it to her heart--"that you will bear with me, that i shall not be a trouble to you." "a trouble to me, rachel! you are dearer to me than ever, more precious to me than ever. oh, my dear! i never loved you as i love you now!" "how sweet, how sweet!" she murmured. "how beautiful is life! no woman was ever blessed as i am blessed! and soon, dear love, we shall have with us another evidence of the lord's great mercy. our child, our darling, will be here! ah, what happiness!" she hid her face upon his breast. was there already in her heart the shadow of an abiding sorrow springing from the knowledge that she would never see the face of her unborn child, that she would never be able to look into the beautiful eyes which in a short time would open upon the world? aaron had hoped that baby's eyes would be like hers, but she would never know from personal evidence whether they were or not. if such a sorrow was making itself felt she kept it to herself and guarded it jealously, lest aaron should participate in it. her face was radiant as they continued to converse, and by her loving words she succeeded in thoroughly banishing from aaron's soul the rebellious promptings by which he had first been agitated. thus did rachel, to whom the light of the universe was henceforth as night, become the divine consoler in the home. "i am tired, dear. will you lead me to our room?" he took her in his arms and carried her up, as he would have carried a child; and this new office of love, and indeed everything he did for her, drew them spiritually closer to each other. when she was in bed she asked him to tell her about the fire, and if he would be a great loser by it. he softened the loss, said that he was well insured, that they had a good friend in mr. moss, and that it would not be long before he was on his feet again. content and happiness were expressed on her face as she listened. "it will be a comfort to you to know," he said, "that no one will lose anything by me; every demand will be met, every penny will be paid. in my mansion"--his study of the law and his devotion to his faith led him occasionally into a biblical phrase--"are three stars. first, the eternal god; next, you, my beloved; next, our good name." "that is safe in your keeping, dear," she said. "and will ever be, so far as human endeavour can aid me. you will be glad to hear, too, that the townspeople sympathise with us in our trouble." "i am very glad: it was proved by the kindness that was shown to me when i was taken out of the fire. who that lives to know you does not learn to honour you?" she held his hand in a tender clasp, and kissed it repeatedly. "i will tell you something. i am beginning already to acquire a new sense. when you look at me i feel it. you are looking at me now. when your eyes are not on my face i know it. i shall learn a good deal very soon, very soon! i do not intend to be a burden to you." this was said with tender gaiety. "you can never be that." he touched her eyes. "henceforth i am your eyes. it is a poor return; for you, rachel, are my very life." "dear husband! dear love! kiss me. i want to fall asleep with those words in my ears. you will not stop up long?" "i will go down and put out the lights and see that all is safe. then i will come up at once. sleep, my life, sleep!" he passed his fingers caressingly across her forehead, and she fell asleep with a smile on her lips. he stole softly from the room, and went down and made the house safe; then he returned to the bedroom. the smile had left rachel's lips; her face was paler, and there was a worn look on it. a terrible fear entered his heart. "o god! if she should die! o god! if i should lose her!" he took his silk taleth from its bag, and wrapping it around him, put on his hat, and stood and prayed, with his face to the east:-- "how precious is thy mercy, o god! the children of men take refuge under the shadow of thy wing. they are satisfied with the richness of thy house, and thou causest them to drink of the stream of thy delight. for with thee is the fountain of life; by thy light only do we see light. o continue thy mercy unto them who know thee, and thy righteousness to the upright of heart!" one line in the prayer he repeated again and again-- "for with thee is the fountain of life; by thy light only do we see light." and so he prayed till midnight, and the one supplication into which all else was merged was sent forth with touching pathos from his very heart of hearts-- "o lord of the universe, giver of all good, humbly i beseech thee to spare my beloved! take her not from me! let her live, let her live, to bless my days! let not darkness overwhelm me. it is thy hand that directs the fountain of life." his prayers ended, he sat by the bedside watching his wife's face, and listening to her breathing. and rachel slept on, and dreamt of the child whose face she was never to see on earth. book the third. _the temptation and the fall_. chapter xviii. unto them a child is born. three weeks of great anxiety followed. despite the courage with which rachel had borne the sudden visitation of blindness, her physical strength did not hold out, and, by the doctor's orders, she kept her bed. during these weeks aaron had enough to do to put his affairs in order, and he had the additional trouble that matters turned out worse than he had anticipated. for security's sake, and to set the borrowers at ease, he transferred all the pledges that had been saved to another pawnbroker; those which were destroyed he considered himself bound in honour and common honesty to make good. he made no demur to the claims that were brought against him, but settled them promptly, and settled, also, all his trade debts. what with all this harassing business and his domestic sorrows, he was occupied day and night; but he was careful that rachel should not suspect how bad things were with him. the doctor came daily, and rachel's time was very near. at every visit aaron watched his face for hopeful news of rachel's condition; but the doctor volunteered no information, and only gave instructions to do this or that. this reticence was torture to aaron, and one day he begged the doctor to conceal nothing from him. "there is nothing to conceal," said the doctor. "her state is critical; but what else could be expected? consider what she has passed through." "i think of nothing else, of nothing else!" said aaron, his fingers working convulsively, for a question was trembling on his lips which he felt he must ask, but to which he could scarcely give utterance. at length he found courage. "doctor, will she live?" the doctor bit his lip as he gazed upon aaron's misery. "whatever lies in my power shall be done, but human skill and science have their limitations. we are all in god's hands." and with these words, and a look of compassion, he departed. aaron stood motionless awhile. we are all in god's hands! how often has that been said, and how terrible is its import! human science and skill have done all it is in their power to do, the rest is with god. aaron reasoned the true meaning away. "yes, we are all in god's hands," he murmured; "old and young, rich and poor, the strong and the feeble alike. it is so with one and all. i thank god he did not tell me to prepare for the worst!" he drew comfort, not from what was said, but from what was not said. he continued to commune with himself. "how can she be otherwise than weak? and doctors sometimes think it their duty not to look on the brightest side. my rachel will be spared to me. god will not take her away." he went up to her. a nurse he had engaged was in the room; she could come for only a week, her services at the end of that time being required elsewhere. she put her fingers to her lips as he entered. "is she asleep?" he asked, in a whisper. she nodded in reply; but when he approached the bed, rachel held out her hand to him. "nurse thought you were asleep, dear," he said, bending down to her. "i may have been," she answered. "i fall off into a doze a dozen times an hour, it seems, but i always know when you are near me." she put her hand to her head. "are you in pain, my life?" "oh no. i am rather weak, but i shall get strong soon. whenever i doze i see our dear one, the blessing god is sending us. aaron, dear love, do not be anxious for me. i shall hold our darling in my arms." the nurse gave him a warning look not to encourage her to talk, and, understanding the silent monition, he kissed rachel tenderly, and went down to muse and pray. the settlement of all his debts had left him almost a beggar. he owed not a shilling, except to the doctor, who had said nothing about his account; the week's money for the nurse was carefully put away: he could not have afforded to engage her for a longer term, for all the money he had left in the world amounted to barely two pounds. what was he to do when that was spent? commence business again upon borrowed capital? that seemed to be the only course open to him. but who would lend it to him? it was no small sum that would be required, and all his friends, with the exception of mr. moss, were poor. mr. moss was comparatively a new friend, and he could not expect him to render such substantial assistance without security. and what security could he offer but his own bare word? there were money-lenders; the newspapers teemed with their advertisements. it would be folly to apply to any one of them for so large a loan as fifty pounds, which sum, he calculated, was the least he could begin business again with; he would be sure to be met with a refusal. but what was he to do? he thrust these worldly contemplations aside, and indeed it was impossible for him to dwell upon them with a heavier sorrow at his door, and with a dread crisis so very near. he trusted in god--yes; but he knew that a man must work for his livelihood. well, he would work; he was willing and ready for any honest occupation; but he must wait--for what? he became confused. the pressing worldly necessity, with its exacting and imperative demands, and the overwhelming human sorrow were contending for supremacy. he stepped into the passage, and softly ascending the stairs, listened at rachel's door. as he stood there the nurse came out. "go for the doctor," she whispered. he flew. there was no conflict now in his mind between the two extremities; his worldly trouble was forgotten; he thought only of his beloved wife and their unborn child. the doctor was not in, but was expected in a quarter of an hour, and would be sure to come round at once. leaving an urgent entreaty not to delay a moment, aaron hastened back to his house, and on the road found himself intercepted by prissy, who had grown taller but no stouter since the night upon which she introduced herself to him. by reason of her increased height she looked thinner and scraggier than ever; as usual, victoria regina, who had grown plumper and rounder, was in the girl's arms. "mr. cohen, mr. cohen!" cried prissy. "i can't stop now," he replied, passing her quickly. but prissy's long legs were as active as his, and though victoria regina was a heavy weight to carry, she kept pace with him. "d'yer know wot some people's saying about yer, mr. cohen?" "never mind, never mind, my good girl; i have no time to listen." "they're saying, everybody is," persisted prissy, "that yer as good as ruined, and that yer 'aven't got a shilling left to pay yer way with." "what does it matter what some people say, prissy? there are good and bad, just and unjust. never listen to tittle-tattle." "'ow's it to be 'elped, mr. cohen, when it's dinged in yer ears? mr. whimpole, he ses he sor wot was coming all along, and when i ups and gives 'im a bit o' my mind he slaps my face he does, and pushes me into the gutter. i don't mind that, but no one's going to speak agin yer when i'm by. it ain't likely after all yer've done for me." "you are a good girl, but take no notice of what mr. whimpole says. there are many here who still have a good word for me." "plenty, sir, and that's wot makes mr. whimpole mad; he can't make everybody think as he wants 'em to. there's plenty as speaks up for yer. you look ill, mr. cohen. i 'ope missis is no wus, i do." "she is still weak and ill, prissy; but she will get well soon--eh, prissy?--she will get well soon?" he cast a swift anxious look upon her; even from the lips of this poor girl he sought the comfort of a consoling word. "yes, sir, she's sure to. don't you worry yerself, mr. cohen. gawd won't let nothink wrong 'appen to 'er. he knows what he's up to, gawd does. wot did mrs. cohen say 'erself to me more nor once? 'be a good gal,' she ses, 'and tell the truth, and be as kind as yer can to everybody, and gawd'll look after yer.' and ain't she good, sir, and does she ever say anythink but the truth, and ain't she as kind as kind can be to everybody about 'er? why, it's in everybody's mouth, 'xcept mr. whimpole's! nobody 'xcept 'im's got a word to say agin '_er_. she's sure to get well, mr. cohen, and then yer'll let me see 'er, sir, won't yer?" "yes, prissy, yes," said aaron, laying his hand for a moment on prissy's tangled hair. he had reached his house, and was unlocking the door. "she will get well, please god, and you shall see her. thank you, thank you, my good girl; and now run away." "i'm off, mr. cohen," said prissy; "this is going to bring yer luck, it is." and slipping a large paper parcel into his hand, she scuttled away. he did not know what it was he held until he reached his room, and then he examined it. when he removed the paper he saw a horseshoe and two penny pieces which had been rubbed bright with sand, so that they shone like gold. something shone in aaron's eyes as he gazed at the humble offering. he smiled wistfully, and muttering, "it is an omen of good fortune; god bless you, little prissy!" put the shoe and the pennies carefully aside. then he stepped softly up the stairs, and gently tapped at the bedroom door. "how is she, nurse?" "bearing up wonderfully, sir." "thank god! the doctor will be here presently. i will wait for him at the street door." he had not long to wait; in a very short time he saw the welcome form turning the corner, and the doctor, with a friendly, smiling nod, passed into the house. aaron paced to and fro in the room below, and waited for the word that was to bring joy or despair to his soul. he had put his slippers on, in order that his footsteps should not be heard. in such times of tribulation his thoughts were invariably directed to the divine footstool; as with all devout jews, prayer was part of his life, and never, since the day of his birth, had he prayed so earnestly and fervently as now. every few moments he paused in the supplications he was sending forth, and went into the passage and listened. he heard no sound, not a sob, not a cry; and after remaining in the passage several minutes, he returned to his room and resumed his prayers. his heart was with rachel, and he knew that she was thinking of him. in the light of the perfect love that existed between them, in the anxious expectancy of these lagging minutes, what mattered poverty or riches, what mattered mere worldly misfortune? a stout spirit, a strong shoulder to the wheel, and all would be well; thus much could a right-minded man do with a cheerful spirit. but here and now he was helpless, impotent; here and now was impending a graver issue, which he was powerless to influence. a life--the life of his beloved--was hanging in the balance; and all he could do was to wait, and hope, and pray. hush! what was that? an infant's wail--the cry of a new-born child! with his heart in his ears he stood in the passage, then sank upon the stairs, with his face in his hands. his child lived--but rachel! how was it with her? "lord of the universe," he prayed, inwardly, "spare my beloved! with thee is the fountain of life; by thy light only do we see light. let thy light shine upon me and upon her!" the bedroom door opened and closed, and the doctor came down. the passage was dark, for it was now evening, and aaron could not see the doctor's face. taking aaron's arm, which shook in his grasp like a leaf in a strong wind, the doctor led him into the sitting-room, and lit the gas. "doctor!" implored aaron, with clasped hands. "you have a little girl." "and rachel--my wife!" "be comforted. she is in no immediate danger. she is a brave and noble woman. i will return in a couple of hours. the nurse will tell you when you can go up and see her." aaron laid his head upon the table and wept. chapter xix. between life and death. "aaron!" "my beloved!" "is our darling beautiful?" "very beautiful--like you." "you spoil me, dear; you think too much of me." "it is not possible, rachel. without you my life would not be perfect; without you i should be a broken man." "oh, my dear, my dear!" she said, clasping his hand tight. "it is out of my power to repay you for all your goodness to me." "you repay me every moment of your life. not for a throne would i exchange my place by your side; not for a palace would i exchange my humble home, with you to hallow it." their lips met, and there was silence in the room awhile. "dear husband, you are not disappointed that our child is a girl?" "i am rejoiced that we have with us a daughter in israel. what greater happiness could i desire? when you are strong, when i hear your footsteps about the house again, all will be well." a holy joy dwelt in her face. "my darling, my darling!" she murmured, as she held the sleeping babe to her breast. "i had a fear, but it is gone, a fear that our precious one would be deprived of sight. what happiness entered my heart when the doctor told me that her eyes were bright and beautiful, and that she could see! i was fearful that my affliction might be visited upon her. it would have broken my heart. but i am blessed--i am happy; our child can see the light, the green fields, the flowers. if only the gracious lord will not take her, if only he will spare her to live to an honoured old age!" "he will, he will, my beloved! we must not talk any more. sleep and grow strong." he sat by her bedside in silence, gazing upon her face, which was as the face of an angel, and then he stole softly downstairs. he had much to occupy his thoughts; rachel's danger happily passed, as he hoped, he could turn his attention to his worldly affairs, which, indeed, being at a desperate pass, would have forced themselves to the front under any circumstances. by the doctor's orders he had been compelled to make certain purchases which had not only emptied his purse, but had driven him to the necessity of parting with two or three articles of jewellery which he and rachel possessed. these proceeds gone he was an absolute beggar. never in his life had he been placed in so serious a position. difficulties had been encountered and confronted with courage and success, times of embarrassment had been tided over, losses had been made good, and he had fought his way cheerfully; but now his heart sank within him at the prospect that was opening out. rachel needed not only care and unremitting attention, but delicacies in the shape of food, to keep up her strength. nourishing soups, a glass of port wine, a chicken--these were no trifles to a man in aaron's position; and, unable to afford the regular services of a servant, he had to look after these matters himself, to perform domestic work, to cook, and to keep the whole house in order. the nurse's attention was devoted solely to the sick-room, and he could not therefore look to assistance from her. prissy made her appearance daily, but aaron dismissed her quickly, feeling the injustice of accepting services for which he could not pay. it was no easy matter to get rid of prissy, who was not only willing but anxious to remain, and she feebly protested against being turned away so unceremoniously. her protests would have been more vigorous had she not entertained a certain awe of aaron's strength of character, before which she, as it were, was compelled to prostrate herself. thus aaron, from force of circumstance and from his inherent sense of justice, was thrown entirely upon his own resources. counting the money in his purse he calculated that it was sufficient to last for nine or ten days. in four days the nurse would take her departure, and then he and rachel and their babe would be left alone in the house. at the expiration of less than a week after that he must be prepared to face the most serious difficulties. he had friends in london, to whom he had already written, and had received replies of regret that they were unable to assist him. mr. moss had been so good a friend that he hardly dared appeal again to him, and he resolved to leave it to the last moment. with a troubled heart, and hardly having the strength to hope against hope, he went about the house and attended to his duties. the four days passed, the nurse, having taken her leave of rachel, came down to aaron to receive her wages, and bid him good-bye. he paid her with a sad smile, and thanked her for her services. the "good-day" exchanged, she lingered a moment. with quick apprehension he divined why she delayed. "you have something to say to me, nurse, about my wife." "yes, mr. cohen, i have," she replied; "and i am glad you have mentioned it, as i did not know how to bring it out." she paused again. "well, nurse?" "i think you ought to know, mr. cohen, that your wife is not so well as you suppose." "nurse!" "she keeps it from you, sir, and has begged me not to alarm you, but it is my duty. i should never forgive myself if i went away without speaking. no, sir, she is far from well, and is not getting on as she ought. she grows weaker and weaker--and baby, too, is not thriving. it is that which keeps mrs. cohen back." "what can be done, nurse?" asked aaron, the agony of his feelings depicted on his countenance. "tell me--only tell me!" "it isn't for me to say, mr. cohen. if i were you i would ask the doctor to speak plainly." "i will, i will. nurse, does she suffer?" "she's just the one to suffer, sir, and to say nothing. it would be a dreadful thing for you, sir, if----" but here the woman stopped suddenly and bit her lip. she had said more than she intended. "good-day, sir, and i hope we may all be wrong." he caught her arm. "no, no, nurse. i will beg the doctor to speak plainly to me; but he will not be here till to-morrow, and i cannot go to him and leave my wife and child alone in the house. finish what you were about to say. 'it would be a dreadful thing if----'" "well, sir, it is best to face the truth. if your poor lady was to die." "great god! there is danger, then?" "i am afraid there is, sir. don't take on so, sir, don't! i am sorry i spoke." "you have done what is right," aaron groaned. "we must all of us be prepared, sir; trouble comes to all of us." "alas, it is a human heritage! but you do not know what this means to me--you do not know what it means to me." "perhaps i have made things out worse than they are; i hope so, i am sure. but you ask the doctor, sir, and don't give way. i shall think of your lady a good deal when i'm gone." with that, and with a sympathetic look at him, the woman departed. at length, at length, the truth had been spoken; at length, at length, he knew the worst. it was as if a sentence of death had been pronounced. his rachel, his beloved wife, the tenderest, the truest that man had ever been blessed with, was to be taken from him. his child, also, perhaps; but that was a lesser grief, upon which he had no heart to brood. his one overwhelming anxiety was for rachel, who, as it now seemed to him, was lying at death's door in the room above. he had some soup ready, and he took a basin up to her. "can you drink this, dear?" "i will try." he assisted her to rise, and put a pillow at her back. as he fed her he watched her face, and he saw that it had grown wan and thin. it was well for both of them that she could not see him; the sight of his agony would have deepened her sufferings and added to his own. with wonderful control he spoke to her with some semblance of cheerfulness, and his voice and words brought a smile to her lips. so through the day he ministered to her, and every time he left her room his fears grew stronger. he did not expect the doctor till the following day, and he was startled and alarmed when he made his appearance at nightfall. "i happened to be passing," he said to aaron, "and i thought i would drop in to see how we are getting along." when they came down from the sick-room aaron observed a graver expression on his face. "it is unfortunate that you have no nurse, mr. cohen," he said; "your wife needs constant care and watchfulness." "she will have it, doctor. is she any better, sir? how is she progressing?" "she is still the same, still the same, no better and no worse." "it is not in her favour, doctor, that she remains the same?" "no, i cannot conscientiously say it is. at this stage a little additional strength would be of great assistance to her. nature's forces require rallying; but we will hope for the best, mr. cohen." "we will, doctor, but will hope avail?" his sad voice struck significantly upon the doctor's ears. "perhaps not, but it is a consolation." "there are griefs, sir, for which there is no consolation. i cannot wrest my thoughts from the selfish view. there are sorrows that come so close home as to take complete possession of us." "it is human, mr. cohen, it is natural; but we must not shut out resignation, fortitude, submission." "doctor, i implore you to conceal nothing from me. it will be merciful." "what is it you wish to know?" "tell me exactly how my wife and child are, so that i may be prepared"--his voice faltered--"for the worst." "you do not know, then?" "i fear--but i do not know." "we doctors have frequently hard duties to perform, mr. cohen, duties which to others appear cruel. i will speak plainly; it will be best. it is due to your wife's gentle and loving nature that i have not done so before, and i yielded to her imploring solicitations, deeming it likely that you would discover the state of the case from your own powers of observation. mr. cohen, i have rarely had so sad and affecting an experience as i find here. it would be wrong for me to say that your wife is not in danger; she has been in danger for some days past, and it is only an inward moral strength that has supported her through the crisis. physically she is very weak, spiritually she is very strong. she has still a vital power which, under certain conditions, will be of immense assistance to her, which will enable her--so far as it is in human power to judge--to pull through. you will gather from my words that her safety, nay, her life, depends not so much upon herself as upon others; upon you to some extent, but to a much greater extent upon her babe. it is her deep love for you both that has sustained her, that still sustains her. were anything to happen to either of you i should fear the gravest results. it would react upon her, and in her delicate state there would be no hope." "i am strong and well bodily, doctor; nothing is likely to happen to me. her danger, then, lies in our child?" "you have clearly expressed it. her life hangs upon the life of her child. so fine and delicate are her susceptibilities, so profound is her love for those who are dear to her, that i, a doctor, who is supposed to be nothing if he is not scientific, am compelled to confess that here my learned theories are at fault. i will no longer disguise from you that her life hangs upon the balance." "and our child, doctor, how is it with her?" "i can answer you with less certainty. something of the delicate susceptibilities of the mother has in the course of nature entered her child's being. the baby is not strong, but she may grow into strength; it is as yet a problem to be solved, and a physician's skill is almost powerless to help to a happy issue. hope, mr. cohen, hope; and in bidding you hope, and in explaining matters to you, i have not said all that it is necessary for me to say. there remains something more." "one question first, doctor," said aaron, in a hushed voice; "if our child lives, there is hope that my wife will live?" "a strong hope; i speak with confidence." "and if our child dies?" "the mother will die. forgive me for my cruel frankness." "it is the best kindness you can show me. you have something more to tell me." "something almost as cruel, but it must be spoken. mr. cohen, your wife has been severely tried; the shock of the fire, the shock of her sudden blindness, both coming so close upon her expected confinement, have left their effects upon her. if things take a favourable turn with her it will be imperative, in the course of the next three or four weeks--earlier if possible, and if she can be removed with safety--that you take her to a milder climate, where she can be nursed into permanent' strength. we are going to have a severe winter, and i will not answer for its effects upon her. from three or four weeks hence till the spring in a warmer atmosphere, where there are no fogs or east winds, will be of invaluable service to her, will set her up probably for many years to come. you must recognise this yourself, and if by any possibility or sacrifice you can manage it, you must do so." "is it vitally necessary, doctor?" "you have used the right word--it is vitally necessary. and now, good-night, mr. cohen. i leave my best wishes behind me." chapter xx. a momentous night. each day, each hour, aaron became more anxious and troubled. in the doctor's plain speaking there was no reading between the lines, and no possible mistaking of his meaning. the stern truth had been revealed, and there was no arguing it away. aaron saw clearly what was before him, but he could not see a way out of his difficulties, nor to doing what he was warned it was imperative upon him that he should do, in the happy event of rachel's coming safely through her present crisis. there was no apparent change in her; she lay weak and powerless in her bed, receiving aaron always with sweet and patient words, and nursing her child as well as her feeble state would allow her. the condition of the babe pained and troubled him. he observed no indication of suffering, no querulousness in the child; it was simply that she lay supine, as though life were flowing quietly out of her. every time aaron crept up to the bedside and found the babe asleep, he leant anxiously over her to catch the sound of her breathing; and so faint and low was her respiration that again and again he was smitten with a fear that she had passed away. acutely sensitive and sensible now of every sign in his wife, it became with him an absolute conviction that the doctor was not mistaken when he declared that her life and the life of her babe were inseparable, that if one lived the other would live, that if one died the other would die. during this torturing time strange thoughts oppressed him, and oppressed him more powerfully because he scarcely understood them. the tenor of these thoughts resolved itself into the one passionate desire to do something--he knew not what--to keep his wife with him even if she should lose her babe, and towards the accomplishment of which he felt that a power outside the sphere of human influence was necessary. normally he was a man of sound understanding, not given to mysticism nor to a belief in the effects of supernatural power upon mundane affairs; but during these agitating days there was a danger of his healthy mind becoming unbalanced. human resource had failed him; he must seek elsewhere for aid; if he were to be successful in steering his beloved to a haven of peace and health it must be through outside influences which had not yet made themselves visible to him. "show me the way, o gracious lord, show me the way!" this was his constant prayer, and although in less agitated times he would have blamed himself for praying for a seeming impossibility, he encouraged himself in it now, in the dim and despairing hope that some miracle would occur to further his agonising desire. meanwhile his funds had run completely out, and he saw with terror the wolf approaching the door. he had not the means to pay for the necessaries of the next twenty-four hours. then it was that he resolved to make an urgent appeal to mr. moss. he would tell him everything, he would reveal his hapless position in the plainest terms, and he would beg for an immediate temporary loan of money, which he would promise to faithfully repay when the cloud was lifted from his house. it was a cold and bitter evening. the snow had been falling heavily; a fierce wind was raging. he thought of poor people he had seen in such inclement weather as this walking along with sad faces, homeless and hungry; he recalled the picture of a young good-looking woman whom he had seen years ago in a london park during a heavy snow-storm; she was thinly clad, want was in her face, she pressed a babe to her bosom. shivering with cold she walked slowly onward, and looked around with despairing eyes for succour. he slipped a shilling into her hand, and as he hurried away, he heard, with a feeling of remonstrant shame, her gratitude expressed in the words "god almighty bless you, sir!" as though he had performed an act of extraordinary generosity. between this wretched woman and his beloved rachel there seemed to be an affinity, and his heart was torn with woe. he was the breadwinner; to him she looked for food, for warmth, for shelter; he was her shield. could he not keep desolation and despair from her? could he not keep death from her? he did not know that the angel was already in his house. the doctor had paid a visit early in the morning, and had spoken even more gravely of rachel. "much depends," he said, "upon the next day or two. for some days past she has been silently suffering, and i have succeeded in piercing the veil of sorrow which hangs upon her soul. she fears that her child will not live, and if unhappily her fears are confirmed----" he did not finish the sentence; there was no need for further words to convey his meaning. "this harrowing thought," he continued, "keeps her from rest, prevents her sleeping. there are periods of sickness when sleep means life. i will send round a sleeping draught, which you will give her at eight o'clock to-night; it will ensure her oblivion for a good twelve hours, and if when she wakes all is well with the child, all will be well with her." "can you tell me, doctor, why this fear has grown stronger within these last few days?" "the babe lies quietly in her arms; she does not hear its voice, and only by its soft breathing can she convince herself that it lives. tender accents from the child she has brought into the world would fall as a blessing upon her sorrowing heart. at any moment the child may find its voice; let us hope that it will very soon." the sleeping draught was sent to aaron, and it was now on the table. the hour was six--in a couple of hours he would give it to her; and while he waited he sat down to write his letter to mr. moss. it was a long letter, for he had much to say, and he was but half way through when a postman's knock summoned him to the street door. he hurried there quickly, so that the knock should not be repeated, and to his surprise received a telegram. it was from mr. moss, and it informed him that that gentleman was coming to see him upon a very important matter, and that he was to be sure not to leave home that night. aaron wondered what this important matter could be, and there was a joyful feeling in his heart that the telegram might be the presage of good fortune. he knew enough of mr. moss's kindly nature to be convinced that he would not be the herald of bad news. "there is a rift in the clouds," he murmured, as he pondered over the message; "i see the light, i see the light!" would mr. moss's errand open up a means of giving rachel the benefit of soft air and sunshine in a more genial clime? he prayed that it might, and he had never prayed more fervently. but the night was inclement, and mr. moss might not be able in consequence to pay the promised visit. time pressed; the necessity was imminent, and would brook no delay; therefore he determined to finish his letter and to post it this night, in the event of mr. moss not making his appearance. it wanted a few minutes to eight when his task was completed. he read the letter over, and addressed an envelope, but did not stamp it; he had but one stamp, and every penny was of importance. he looked at the clock; eight o'clock. with gentle steps he went up to rachel. "it is time for the draught, my love," he said. "i will take it, dear." he poured it into a glass, and she drank it reclining in his arms. "if our dear one lives, aaron," said rachel, "we will call her ruth, after your mother." "it shall be so, love," answered aaron, laying her head upon the pillow. "god will vouchsafe the mercy to us. she will live, rachel, she will live!" desirous that she should not talk now that she had taken the sleeping draught, he kissed her tenderly and would have left her, but she held him by the hand. "has the doctor told you that i am in sorrow, aaron?" "you have the gift of divinity, love. yes, he has told me, and he said that to-morrow, perhaps, please god, you will hear our darling's voice." "did he say so? heaven bless him! she is sleeping?" "yes, beloved." "i pray that the good doctor may be right. i shall dream of it. to-morrow--perhaps to-morrow! ah, what happiness! it needs but that, dear husband, it needs but that! how tired you must be with all that you are doing for me! kiss me again. god guard you!" and so she fell asleep. the small fire in the room required attention, and aaron arranged each piece of coal and cinder with scrupulous care; never had there been so much need for thrift as now. in all his movements there was not the least sound; so softly did he step that his feet might have been shod with velvet pile. one of rachel's arms was lying exposed on the counterpane; he gently shifted it beneath the warm coverings; then he quitted the apartment and closed the door upon his wife and child, and upon the angel of death, who was standing by the bedside to receive a departing soul. aaron did not return to his room below; he stood by the open street door, looking anxiously up and down for mr. moss, and thinking with sadness that if that gentleman delayed his visit he would be compelled in the morning to part with his silver-mounted pipe, which was the only article of any value that was left to him. of all his personal belongings he cherished this pipe the most; so often had she filled it for him that he regarded it almost as part of herself. it was not between his lips at the present moment; he had no heart to smoke. for nearly an hour he stood upon the watch, interrupting it only for the purpose of creeping upstairs to see if rachel were still sleeping. at nine o'clock mr. moss made his welcome appearance in the street; even as he turned the corner at a distance of many yards aaron recognised him. he was enveloped in his great fur coat, which was pulled up close to his ears; he was puffing at one of his large cigars, and between the puffs was humming a celebrated air from the latest operatic success-- "toreador attento, toreador, toreador, non obliarche un occhio tutt' ardor adammirarti è intento, e che t' aspett' amor, toreador t' aspett' aspetta amor." he scorned the english tongue in operas, and though by no means a well-educated man, never sang but in italian. the last flourish brought him close to aaron. "why, cohen" he said, in a hearty tone, "what are you standing at the door for on such a cold night?" "i have been expecting you," aaron answered, "and i did not wish you to knock. rachel has taken a sleeping draught, and must not be disturbed." "yes, yes, i understand," said mr. moss, accompanying his friend into the house. "how is she?" "not well, not at all well, i am grieved to say. mr. moss, my heart is almost broken." he turned aside with a sob. "no, no, no!" exclaimed mr. moss. "that will never do, cohen. you mustn't give way--a strong, clever man like you. look on the best side. things will right themselves; they will, mark my words. i am here to set them right." "to set them right!" exclaimed aaron, all his pulses throbbing. "yes, to set them right. what is this?--an envelope addressed to me?" "i was writing you a letter when your telegram arrived." "and then you did not stop to finish it?" "i did finish it, mr. moss, in case you did not come." "may i read it?" "yes; it will explain matters; you will learn from it what it would pain me to tell you in any other way." "smoke a cigar while i read." aaron took the cigar, and laid it aside, and then mr. moss, who had taken off his thick coat, sat down and perused the letter. "i have come in the nick of time, cohen," he said. "there is a silver lining to every cloud; i have brought it with me." "i felt," said aaron, his hopes rising, "that you could not be the bearer of bad news." "not likely, friend cohen. i am the bearer of good news, of the best of news. don't be led away; it isn't a legacy--no, no, it isn't a legacy, but something almost as good, and i hope you will not throw away the chance." "if it is anything that will relieve me from my terrible embarrassments it is not likely that i shall throw it away." "it will do that for a certainty, and there is money attaching to it which i have in my pocket, and which i can pay over to you this very night." "how can i thank you? how can i thank you?" "don't try to, and don't be surprised at what you hear. it is a strange piece of business, and i should have refused to undertake it if i had not said to myself, 'this will suit my friend cohen; it will lift him out of his trouble.' but upon my word, now that i'm here i don't know how to commence. i never met with anything like it in all my life, and if you were well off you would be the last man in the world i should have dreamt of coming to. but you are not well off, cohen; you have lost everything; rachel is ill, and the doctor says she must be taken out of this cold and dismal climate to a place where she can see the sun, and where the air is mild and warm. i dare say you're thinking, 'moss is speaking in a strange way,' and so i am; but it's nothing to what i've got to tell you. cohen, what will happen if you can't afford to do as the doctor advises you?" "do not ask me," groaned aaron. "i dare not think of it--i dare not, i dare not!" "i don't say it unkindly, cohen, but it seems to me to be a matter of life and death." aaron clasped his forehead. "very well, then; and don't forget that it is in your own hands. before i commence i must say a word about myself. i can't do all you ask me in this letter; as i'm a living man i should be glad to assist you, but i have entered into a large speculation which has taken all my spare cash, and all i could afford would be eight or ten pounds. how long would that last you? in two or three weeks it would be gone, and you would be no better off than you were before; and as to taking rachel to the south of france, that would be quite out of the question." "but you held out hope to me," said the trembling aaron, "you said you were the bearer of good news!" "i said what is true, cohen, but it is not my money that i have to deal with. i have brought fifty pounds with me; another man's money, entrusted to me for a special purpose, and which you can have at once if you will undertake a certain task and accept a certain responsibility. it is only out of my friendship for you, it is only because i know you to be so badly off that you hardly know which way to turn, it is only because rachel is ill and requires what you can't afford to pay for, that it entered my mind to offer you the chance." "fifty pounds would be the saving of me, mr. moss," said aaron, in an agony of suspense. "it would restore my rachel to health, it would bring happiness into my life. surely heaven has directed you to come to my assistance!" "you shall judge for yourself. listen patiently to what i am going to tell you; it will startle you, but don't decide hastily or rashly. and bear in mind that what passes between us is not to be disclosed to another person on earth." chapter xxi. over a bright cloud a black shadow falls. mr. moss then proceeded to unfold the nature of the mission he had undertaken for mr. gordon, with the particulars of which the reader has been made acquainted in the earlier chapters of this story. aaron listened with attention and astonishment: with attention because of his anxiety to ascertain whether the proposal was likely to extricate him from his cruel position, with astonishment because the wildest stretch of his imagination would not have enabled him to guess the purport of the singular disclosure. when mr. moss ceased speaking the afflicted man rose and paced the room in distress and disappointment. "i told you i should startle you," said mr. moss, with a shrewd observance of his friend's demeanour, and, for the good of that friend, preparing for a battle. "what do you say to it?" "it is impossible--impossible!" muttered aaron. "i told you also," continued mr. moss, calmly, "not to decide hastily or rashly. in the way of ordinary business i should not, as i have said, have dreamt of coming to you, and i should not have undertaken the mission. but the position in which you are placed is not ordinary, and you are bound to consider the matter not upon its merits alone, but in relation to your circumstances. i need not say i shall make nothing out of it myself." "indeed you need not," said aaron, pressing mr. moss's hand. "pure friendship has brought you here, i know, i know; but surely you must see that it is impossible for me to assume the responsibility." "i see nothing of the kind. honestly and truly, cohen, i look upon it as a windfall, and if you turn your back upon it you will repent it all your life. what is it i urge you to do? a crime?" "no, no, i do not say that. heaven forbid!" "you are naturally startled and agitated. cohen, you are a man of intelligence and discernment. my wife has often said, 'if mr. cohen were a rich man he would be one of the heads of our people.' she is right; she always is. but there are times when a man cannot exercise his judgment, when he is so upset that his mind gets off its balance. it has happened to me, and i have said afterwards, 'moss, you are a fool': it happens to all of us. let me put the matter clearly before you. have you ever been in such trouble as you are in now?" "never in my life." "misfortune after misfortune has fallen upon you. all your money is gone; everything is gone; you can't get through this week without assistance. you have tried all your friends, and they cannot help you; you have tried me, and i can only offer you what will meet the necessities of the next few days. it is known that you are badly off, and you cannot get credit; if you could it would cut you to the soul, because you know you would be owing money that there was no expectation of your being able to pay. you would be ashamed to look people in the face; you would lose your sense of self-respect, and every fresh step you take would be a step down instead of up. poor rachel is lying sick almost to death; she has a stronger claim than ever upon your love, upon your wisdom. the doctor has told you what she requires, and of the possible consequences if you are unable to carry out his directions. cohen, not one of these things must be lost sight of in the answer you give to what i propose." great beads of perspiration were on aaron's forehead as he murmured, "i do not lose sight of them. they are like daggers in my heart." "strangely and unexpectedly," pursued mr. moss, "a chance offers itself that will extricate you out of all your difficulties. you will not only receive immediately a large sum of money, but you will be in receipt of a hundred a year, sufficient to keep your family in a modest way. what are you asked to do in return for this good fortune? to take care of an innocent child, who has no one to look after her, who will never be claimed, and about whom you will never be troubled. you can engage a servant to attend to her, and when you explain everything to rachel she will approve of what you have done. before i came to you, cohen, i consulted a gentleman--dr. spenlove--who has a kind heart and correct principles, and he agreed with me that the transaction was perfectly honourable. i have no doubt of it myself, or i should not be here. be persuaded, cohen; it will be a benevolent, as well as a wise, act, and all your difficulties will be at an end. what is it shakespeare says? 'there is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood,----' you know the rest. why, there are thousands who would jump at the opportunity. come, now, for rachel's sake!" mr. moss was genuinely sincere in his advice, and he spoke with earnestness and feeling. "the child is a girl, mr. moss?" "a dear little girl, of the same age as your own." "hush! you forget. this little stranger is born of christian parents." "that is no crime, cohen." "do i say it is? but we are jews. the stipulation is that she should be brought up as one of our family; and, indeed, it could scarcely be otherwise. she would live her life in a jewish household. it is that i am thinking of mr. moss, i am at war with my conscience." "she will be none the worse off for living with you and rachel. your character is well known, and rachel is the soul of kindness. you would be committing no sin, cohen." "i am not so sure." "then who is to know? you and rachel are alone, and when she is able to be moved you will take her for a time to another place. you need not return here. rachel's health restored, you should go to london, or liverpool, or manchester, where your talents would have a larger field. i always thought it wrong for you to bury yourself in so small a town as this. there is no scope for you in it; you would never make your fortune here." "if i go from this place i shall not return to it. you ask who is to know. mr. moss, god would know; rachel and i would know. how can i reconcile it with my conscience to bring up a child in a faith in which she is not born? it would weigh heavily upon me." "that is because your views are so strict. i do not see why it should weigh heavily upon you. if it were a boy i should not press it upon you; but girls are different. there is very little for them to learn. to pray--there is only one god. to be good and virtuous--there is only one code of morality. you know that well enough." "i do know it, but still i cannot reconcile it with my conscience." "in your position," continued mr. moss, perceiving that aaron was wavering, "i should not hesitate; i should thank god that such a chance fell in my way. even as it is, if i did not have eleven children, and expecting the twelfth, i would take this lamb into my fold--i would indeed, cohen. but my hands are full. cohen, let me imagine a case. it is a cold and bitter night, and the world is filled with poor struggling creatures, with little children who are being brought up the wrong way. rachel is asleep upstairs. you are here alone. suddenly you fancy you hear a cry in the street, the cry of a babe. you go to the door, and upon the step you see an infant lying, unsheltered, without a protector. what would you do?" "i should bring it into my house." "with pity in your heart, cohen." "i hope so. with pity in my heart." "poor as you are, you would share what you have with the deserted babe; you would nourish it, you would cherish it. you would say to rachel, 'i heard a cry outside the house on this bitter night, and upon the doorstep i discovered this poor babe; i brought it in, and gave it shelter.' what would rachel answer?" "she is a tender-hearted woman; she would answer that i did what was right." "look upon it in that light, and i will continue the case. in the child's clothes you find a fifty-pound note, and a letter unsigned, to the effect that the little one has no protector, is alone in the world, and beseeching you to take charge of it and save it from destitution and degradation. no scruples as to the child being a christian would disturb you then; you would act as humanity dictated. in the case i have imagined you would not be at war with your conscience; why should you be at war with it now?" "still i must reflect; and i have a question or two to ask. the name of the mother?" "not to be divulged." "the name of the father?" "the same answer. indeed, i do not know it myself." "where is the child?" "at the salutation hotel, in the charge of a woman i brought with me." "my decision must be made to-night?" "to-night." "supposing it to be in the affirmative, what position do you occupy in the matter in the future?" "none whatever. the task i undertook executed, i retire, and have nothing further to do with it. anything you chose to communicate to me would be entirely at your discretion. voluntarily i should never make reference to it." "what has passed between us, you informed me, is not to be disclosed to any other person?" "to no other person whatever." "am i to understand that it has been disclosed to no other?" "you are. only dr. spenlove and the gentleman who entrusted me with the commission have any knowledge of it." "how about the woman who is now taking care of the child at the salutation hotel?" "she is in entire ignorance of the whole proceeding." "is she not aware that you have come to my house?" "she is not. in the event of your deciding to undertake the charge i myself will bring the child here." "is the mother to be made acquainted with my name?" "it is an express stipulation that she is to be kept in ignorance of it." "and to this she consented willingly?" "willingly, for her child's good and her own." "is dr. spenlove to be made acquainted with it?" "he is not." "and the gentleman whose commission you are executing?" "neither is he to know. it is his own wish." "the liberal allowance for the rearing of the child, by whom will it be paid?" "by a firm of respectable london lawyers, whose name and address i will give you, and to whom i shall communicate by telegram to-night. all the future business will be solely between you and them, without interference from any living being." "mr. moss, i thank you; you have performed the office of a friend." "it was my desire, cohen. then you consent?" "no. i must have time for reflection. in an hour from now you shall have my answer." "don't throw away the chance," said mr. moss, very earnestly. "remember it is for rachel's sake." "i will remember it; but i must commune with myself. if before one hour has passed you do not see me at the salutation hotel, you will understand that i refuse." "what will you do then, cohen? how will you manage?" "god knows. perhaps he will direct me." mr. moss considered a moment, then took ten five-pound banknotes from his pocket, and laid them on the table. "i will leave this money with you," he said. "no, no!" cried aaron. "why not? it will do no harm. you are to be trusted, cohen. in case you refuse i will take it back. if you do not come for me, i will come for you, so i will not wish you good-night. don't trouble to come to the door; i can find my way out." aaron was alone, fully conscious that this hour was, perhaps, the most momentous in his life. the money was before him, and he could not keep his eyes from it. it meant so much. it seemed to speak to him, to say, "life or death to your beloved wife. reject me, and you know what will follow." all his efforts to bring himself to a calm reflection of the position were unavailing. he could not reason, he could not argue with himself. the question to be answered was not whether it would be right to take a child born of christian parents into his house, to bring her up as one of a jewish family, but whether his dear wife was to live or die; and he was the judge, and if he bade his friend take the money back, he would be the executioner. of what value then would life be to him? devout and full of faith as he was, he still, in this dread crisis, was of the earth earthy. his heart was torn with love's agony. the means of redemption were within his reach: why should he not avail himself of them? rachel enjoyed life for the pleasure it gave her. stricken with blindness as she was, he knew that she would still enjoy it, and that she would shed comfort and happiness upon all who came in contact with her. was it for him to snap the cord, to say, "you shall no longer enjoy, you shall no longer bestow happiness upon others; you shall no longer live to lighten the trouble of many suffering mortals, to shed light and sweetness in many homes"? was this the way to prove his love for her? no, he would not shut the door of earthly salvation which had been so providentially opened to him, he would not pronounce a sentence of death against the dear woman he had sworn to love and cherish. aaron was not aware that in the view he was taking he was calling to his aid only those personal and sympathetic affections which bound him and rachel together, and that, out of a common human selfishness, he was thrusting from the scale the purely moral and religious obligations which usually played so large a part in his conduct of life. in this dark hour love was supreme, and held him in its thrall; in this dark hour he was intensely and completely human; in this dark hour the soft breathing of a feeble woman was more potent than the sound of angels' trumpets from the throne of grace, the sight of a white, worn face more powerful than that of a flaming sword of justice in the skies. he had arrived at a decision; he would receive the child of strangers into his home. before going to the salutation hotel to make the announcement to mr. moss he would see that his wife was sleeping, and not likely to awake during his brief absence from the house. the doctor had assured him that she would sleep for twelve hours, and he had full confidence in the assurance; but he must look upon her face once more before he left her even for a few minutes. he stood at her bedside. she was sleeping peacefully and soundly; her countenance was now calm and untroubled, and aaron believed that he saw in it an indication of returning health. certainly the rest she was enjoying was doing her good. he stooped and kissed her, and she did not stir; her sweet breath fanned his cheeks. then he turned his eyes upon his child; and as he gazed upon the infant, in its white dress, a terror for which there is no name stole into his heart. why was the babe so still and white? like a marble statue she lay, bereft of life and motion. he put his ear to her lips--not a breath escaped them; he laid his hand upon her heart--not the faintest flutter of a pulse was there. with feverish haste he lifted the little hand, the head, the body, and for all the response he received he might have been handling an image of stone. gradually the truth forced itself upon him. the young soul had gone to its maker. his child was dead! chapter xxii. the living and the dead. "if our child lives, there is hope that my wife will live?" "a strong hope. i speak with confidence." "and if our child dies?" "the mother will die." no voice was speaking in the chamber of death, but aaron heard again these words, which had passed between the doctor and himself. if the child lived, the mother would live; if the child died, the mother would die. a black darkness fell upon his soul. his mind, his soul, every principle of his being, was engulfed in the one despairing thought that rachel was doomed, that, although she was sleeping peacefully before his eyes, death would be her portion when she awoke to the fact that her babe had been taken from her. "if, when she wakes, all is well with the child, all will be well with her." the spiritual echo of the doctor's words uttered but a few hours ago. he heard them as clearly as he had heard the others. how to avert the threatened doom? how to save his rachel's life? prayer would not avail, or he would have flown to it instinctively. it was not that he asked himself the question, or that in his agony he doubted or believed in the efficacy of prayer. it may be, indeed, that he evaded it, for already a strange and terrible temptation was invading the fortress of his soul. to save the life of his beloved was he ready to commit a sin? what was the true interpretation of sin? a perpetrated act which would benefit one human being to the injury of another. then, if an act were perpetrated which would ensure the happiness and well-doing not of one human creature, but of three, and would inflict injury upon no living soul, that act was not a sin--unmistakably not a sin. but if this were really so, wherefore the necessity for impressing it upon himself? the conviction that he was acting justly in an hour of woe, that the contemplated act was not open to doubt in a moral or religious sense, was in itself sufficient. wherefore, then, the iteration that it was not a sin? he could not think the matter out in the presence of rachel and of his dead child. he stole down to his room, and gave himself up to reflection. he turned down the gas almost to vanishing point, and stood in the dark, now thinking in silence, now uttering his thoughts aloud. a friend had come to him and begged him to receive into his household a babe, a girl, of the same age as his own babe lying dead in the room above. she was deserted, friendless, alone. all natural claims had been abandoned, and the infant was thrown upon the world, without parents, without kith or kin. even while he believed his own child to be alive he had decided to accept the trust. why should he hesitate now that his child was dead? it was almost like a miraculous interposition, or so he chose to present it to himself. "even as we spoke together," he said aloud, "my child had passed away. even as i hesitated the messenger was urging me to accept the trust. it was as if an angel had presented himself, and said, 'the life of your beloved hangs upon the life of a babe, and the eternal has called her child to him. here is another to take her place. the mother will not know; she is blind, and has never seen the face of her babe, has scarcely heard its voice. to-morrow she lives or dies--it is the critical day in her existence--and whether she lives or dies rests with you, and with you alone. science is powerless to help her in her hour of trial; love alone will lift her into life, into joy, into happiness; and upon you lies the responsibility. it is for you to pronounce the sentence--life or death for your beloved, life or death for a good woman who, if you do not harden your heart, will shed peace and blessings upon all around her. embrace the gift that god has offered you. allow no small scruples to drive you from the duty of love.' yes," cried aaron in a louder tone, "it was as if an angel spoke. rachel shall live!" if there was sophistry in this reasoning he did not see it; but the still small voice whispered,-- "it is a deception, you are about to practise. you are about to place in your wife's arms a child that is not of her blood or yours. you are about to take a christian babe to your heart, to rear and instruct her as if she were born in the old and sacred faith that has survived long centuries of suffering and oppression. can you justify it?" "love justifies it," he answered. "the good that will spring from it justifies it. a sweet and ennobling life will be saved. my own life will be made the better for it, for without my beloved i should be lost, i should be lost!" again the voice: "it is of yourself you are thinking." "and if i am," he answered, "if our lives are so interwoven that one would be useless and broken without the other, where is the sin?" again the voice: "ah, the sin! you have pronounced the word. remember, it is a sin of commission." "i know it," he said, "and i can justify it--and can i not atone for it in the future? i will atone for it, if the power is given me, by charity, by good deeds. in atonement, yes, in atonement. if i can relieve some human misery, if i can lift a weight from suffering hearts, surely that will be reckoned to my account. i record here a solemn vow to make this a purpose of my life. and the child!--she will be reared in a virtuous home, she will have a good woman for a mother. with such an example before her she cannot fail to grow into a bright and useful womanhood. that will be a good work done. i pluck her from the doubtful possibilities which might otherwise attend her; no word of reproach will ever reach her ears; she will live in ignorance of the sad circumstances of her birth. is all this nothing? will it not weigh in the balance?" again the voice: "it is much, and the child is fortunate to fall into the hands of such protectors. but i repeat, in using these arguments you are not thinking of the child; you think only of yourself." "it is not so," he said; "not alone of myself am i thinking. i am the arbiter of my wife's earthly destiny. having the opportunity of rescuing her from death, what would my future life be if i stand idly by and see her die before my eyes? do you ask of me that i shall be her executioner? the heart of the eternal is filled with love; he bestows upon us the gift of love as our divinest consolation. he has bestowed it upon me in its sublimest form. shall i lightly throw away the gift, and do a double wrong--to the child that needs a home, to the woman whose fate is in my hands? afflict me no longer; i am resolved, and am doing what i believe to be right in the sight of the most high." the voice was silent, and spake no more. aaron turned up the gas, took the money which mr. moss had left upon the table, and quietly left the house. as he approached the salutation hotel, which was situated at but a short distance, he saw the light of mr. moss's cigar in the street. that gentleman was walking to and fro, anxiously awaiting the arrival of his friend. "you are here, cohen," he cried, "and the hour has barely passed. that is a good omen. how pale you are, and you are out of breath. in order that absolute secrecy should be preserved i thought it best to wait outside for you. you have decided?" "i have decided," said aaron, in a husky voice. "i will receive the child." "good, good, good," said mr. moss, his eyes beaming with satisfaction. "you are acting like a sensible man, and you have lifted yourself out of your difficulties. i cannot tell you how glad you make me, for i take a real interest in you, a real interest. remain here; i will bring the babe, and we will go together to your house. it is well wrapped up, and we will walk quickly to protect it from the night air. i shall not be a minute." he darted into the hotel, and soon returned, with the babe in his arms. upon aaron's offering to take the child from him, he said, gaily, "no, no, cohen'; i am more used to carrying babies than you. when you have a dozen of them, like me, i will admit that we are equal; but not till then, not till then." although his joyous tones jarred upon aaron he made no remark, and they proceeded to aaron's house, mr. moss being the loquacious one on the road. "the woman i brought with me does not know, does not suspect, where the child is going to, so we are safe. she goes back to portsmouth to-night; i shall remain till the morning. the baby is fast asleep. what would the world be without children? did you ever think of that, cohen? it would not be worth living in. a home without children--i cannot imagine it. when i see a childless woman i pity her from my heart. they try to make up for it with a cat or a dog, but it's a poor substitute, a poor substitute. if i had no children i would adopt one or two--yes, indeed. there is a happy future before this child; if she but knew, if she could speak, her voice would ring out a song of praise." when they arrived at the house aaron left mr. moss in the room below, and ran up to ascertain if rachel had been disturbed. she had not moved since he last quitted the room, and an expression of profound peace was settling on her face. his own child lay white and still. a heavy sigh escaped him as he gazed upon the inanimate tiny form. he closed the door softly, and rejoined his friend. "i will not stay with you, cohen," said mr. moss; "you will have enough to do. to-morrow you must get a woman to assist in the house. you have the fifty pounds safe?" aaron nodded. "i have some more money to give you, twenty-five pounds, three months' payment in advance of the allowance to be made to you for the rearing of the child. here it is, and here, also, is the address of the london lawyers, who will remit to you regularly at the commencement of every quarter. you have only to give them your address, and they will send the money to you. i shall not leave gosport till eleven in the morning, and if you have anything to say to me i shall be at the salutation till that hour. good-night, cohen; i wish you happiness and good fortune." alone with the babe, who lay on the sofa, which had been drawn up to the fire, aaron stood face to face with the solemn responsibility he had taken upon himself, and with the still more solemn deception to which he was pledged. for awhile he hardly dared to uncover the face of the sleeping child, but time was precious, and he nerved himself to the necessity. he sat on the sofa, and gently removed the wrappings which had protected the child from the cold night, but had not impeded its powers of respiration. a feeling of awe stole upon him; the child he was gazing on might have been his own dead child, so strong was the resemblance between them. there was a little hair upon the pretty head, as there was upon the head of his dead babe; it was dark, as hers was; there was a singular resemblance in the features of the children; the limbs, the feet, the little baby hands, the pouting mouth, might have been cast in the same mould. the subtle instinct of a mother's love would have enabled her to know instinctively which of the two was her own babe, but it would be necessary for that mother to be blessed with sight before she could arrive at her unerring conclusion. a father could be easily deceived, and the tender age of the children would have been an important--perhaps the chief--factor in the unconscious error. "surely," aaron thought, as he contemplated the sleeping babe, "this is a sign that i am acting rightly." men less devout than he might have regarded it as a divine interposition. but though he strove still to justify his act, doubt followed every argument he used in his defence. the next hour was occupied in necessary details which had not hitherto occurred to him. the clothing of the children had to be exchanged. it was done; the dead was arrayed as the living, the living as the dead. mere words are powerless to express aaron's feelings as he performed this task, and when he placed the living, breathing babe in the bed in which rachel lay, and took his own dead child to an adjoining room, and laid it in his own bed, scalding tears ran down his cheeks. "god forgive me, god forgive me!" he murmured, again and again. he knelt by rachel's bed, and buried his face in his hands. he had committed himself to the deception; there was no retreat now. for weal or woe, the deed was done. and there was so much yet to do, so much that he had not thought of! each false step he was taking was leading to another as false as that which had preceded it. but if the end justified the means--if he did not betray himself--if rachel, awaking, suspected nothing, and heard the voice of the babe by her side, without suspecting that it was not her own, why, then, all would be well. and all through his life, to his last hour, he would endeavour to make atonement for his sin. he inwardly acknowledged it now, without attempting to gloss it over. it _was_ a sin; though good would spring from it, though a blessing might attend it, the act was sinful. his painful musings were arrested by a knock at the street door. with a guilty start he rose to his feet, and gazed around with fear in his eyes. what did the knock portend? was it in some dread way connected with his doings? the thought was harrowing. but presently he straightened himself, set his lips firmly, and went downstairs to attend to the summons. chapter xxiii. plucked from the jaws of death. mr. moss stood at the street door, bearing in his arms the little iron casket which dr. spenlove, at the intercession of the mother who had consented to part with her child, had entrusted to him. "in my excitement, cohen," he commenced, before aaron could speak, "something slipped my memory when we were talking together. i rapped softly at first, fearing to disturb rachel, but no one answering, i had to use the knocker. i hope i have not disturbed her." "she is sleeping peacefully," replied aaron, "and is taking a turn for the better, i am thankful to say. to-morrow, i trust, all danger will be over. come in." he closed the door gently, and they entered the parlour. "i have come back about this little box," said mr. moss, depositing it on the table; "it belongs to the task i undertook. the mother of the babe made it a stipulation that whoever had the care of the child should receive the box, and hold it in trust for her until she claimed it." "but i understood," said aaron, in apprehension, "that the mother had no intention of claiming her child." "in a certain sense that is true. don't look worried; there is no fear of any trouble in the future; only she made it a condition that the box should go with the child, and that, when the girl was twenty-one years of age, it should be given to her, in case the mother did not make her appearance and claim the property. it stands this way, cohen. the mother took into consideration the chance that the gentleman she is marrying may die before her, in which event she stipulated that she should be free to seek her daughter. that is reasonable, is it not?" "quite reasonable." "and natural?" "quite natural. but i should have been informed of it." "it escaped me, it really escaped me, cohen; and what difference can it make? it is only a mother's fancy." "yes, only a mother's fancy." "i'll lay a thousand to one you never hear anything more about it. put the box away, and don't give it another thought." aaron lifted it from the table. "it is heavy, mr. moss." "yes, it is heavy." "do you know what it contains?" "i haven't the slightest idea." "it must be something that the mother sets store on--jewels, perhaps." "nothing more unlikely. the poor woman didn't have a shilling to bless herself with. i shouldn't trouble about it if i were you." "i have gone too far," said aaron, sighing; "i cannot retreat." "it would be madness to dream of such a thing. remember what depends upon it. cohen, in case anything occurs, i think i ought to tell you what has been passing in my mind." "in case anything occurs!" repeated aaron, in a hollow tone, and with a startled look. "what can occur?" "the poor child," continued mr. moss, "has had a hard time of it. we almost dug her out of the snow last night; the exposure was enough to kill an infant of tender years, and there's no saying what effect it may have upon her. if it had been a child of my own i should be alarmed for the consequences, and i should scarcely expect her to live through it." aaron gasped. "the idea distresses you, but we must always take the human view. should she not survive no one can be blamed for it. how is your own dear little girl?" "she is well," replied aaron, mechanically. he passed his hand across his eyes despairingly. the duplicity he was compelled to practise was hateful to him, and he despised himself for it. "good-night again," said mr. moss. "i have sent my telegram to the london lawyers. don't forget that i shall be at the salutation till eleven in the morning. i should like to hear how mrs. cohen is before i leave." it was not only the incident of the iron safe that mr. moss, in the first instance, had omitted to impart to aaron. in the agreement formulated by mr. gordon there was an undertaking that in the event of the child's death, or of her marriage if she grew to womanhood, the lawyers were to pay the sum of five hundred pounds to the person into whose home the child was received. mr. moss had not mentioned this, and aaron was in consequence ignorant of the fact. had he been aware of it, is it likely that he would have shrunk from carrying out the scheme inspired by his agony? it is hard to say. during these pregnant and eventful hours he was dominated by the one overpowering, passionate desire to save the life of his beloved; during these hours all that was highest and noblest in his nature was deadened by human love. there was no rest for him on this night; he did not dare to undress and seek repose. the moments were too precious; some action had to be taken, and to be taken soon, and, his mind torn with agony and remorse, he devoted himself to the consideration of it. in the course of this mental debate he was plunged at times into the lowest depths of self-abasement; but the strength of his character and the serious issues at stake lifted him out of these depths. ever and anon he crept into rachel's room and derived consolation from the calm sleep she was enjoying. the doctor's prognostications of returning health seemed to be on the point of realisation; when she awoke in the morning and clasped her child to her bosom, and heard its sweet voice, all would be well with her. what need, then, for further justification? but his further action must be decided upon and carried out before rachel awoke. and it was imperative that she should be kept in ignorance of what had taken place. on no account must it be revealed to her that he had taken a strange child into the house, and that it had died there within a few hours. in her delicate state the news might be fatal. gradually all that it was necessary for him to do unfolded itself, and was mentally arranged in consecutive order. he waited till three o'clock, and then he went from his house to the salutation hotel. the night porter, half asleep, was in attendance, and after some demur he conducted aaron to mr. moss's sleeping apartment. "who is there?" cried mr. moss, aroused by the knocking at his door. "it is i," replied aaron; "i must speak to you at once." mr. moss jumped from bed. "is it all right, sir?" asked the night porter. "of course it is all right," said mr. moss, opening the door, and admitting his visitor. the night porter returned to his duties, and fell into a doze. "what brings you here at this time of night?" exclaimed mr. moss; and then, seeing the distress in aaron's face, "good god! it is not about rachel?" "no, it is not about rachel; it is bad enough, but not so bad as that. how shall i tell you--how shall i tell you?" "stop a moment," said mr. moss. "i ordered half a bottle of port before i went, and there is a glass or two left. drink this." the wine gave aaron courage to proceed with his task. "i have dreadful news to tell you," he said, putting down the glass. "i guess it," interrupted mr. moss. "the child!" "yes," answered aaron, with averted eyes, "the child." "is she very ill?" "mr. moss, the child is dead." "heavens!" cried mr. moss, slipping into his clothes as fast as he could. "what a calamity! but at the same time, cohen, what a release! tell me all about it. does rachel know?" "rachel does not know. she is still sleeping, and she must not know. it would kill her--it would kill her!' "i see the necessity, cohen; it must be kept from her, and i think i see how it can be managed. it is a fortunate thing that the woman who accompanied me here with the poor child has not returned to portsmouth, as i bade her. she met with some friends in gosport who persuaded her to stop the night, and she was going back with me in the morning. i promised to call for her, but she will have to remain here now till the child is buried. she will not mind, because it will be something in her pocket. a sad ending, cohen, a sad ending, but i feared it. did i not prophesy it? what else was to be expected after last night's adventure? a child of such a tender age!' the wonder is it did not die in my arms. but you have not told me how it occurred." "it is very simple," said aaron, in a low tone. "i laid the babe in my own bed, intending to call in a woman as soon after daylight as possible to attend it till rachel was well and able to get about. she seemed to be asleep, and was in no pain. i determined not to go to bed, but to keep up all night, to attend to the little one, and to rachel and my own child---- bear with me, mr. moss, i am unstrung." "no wonder. take time, aaron, take time." "now and again i went up to look at the babe, and observed nothing to alarm me. an hour ago i closed my eyes, and must have slept; i was tired out. when i awoke i went upstairs, and was startled by a strange stillness in the child. i lifted her in my arms. mr. moss, she was dead. i came to you at once, to advise me what to do. you must help me, mr. moss; my dear rachel's life hangs upon it. you know how sensitive she is; and the doctor has warned me that a sudden shock might be fatal." "i will help you, cohen, of course i will help you; it is my duty, because it is i who have brought this trouble upon you. but i did it with the best intentions. i see a way out of the difficulty. the woman i employed--how fortunate, how fortunate that she is still here!--is a god-send to us. she is a kind-hearted creature, and she will be sorry to hear of the child's death, but at the same time she is poor, and will be glad to earn a sovereign. a doctor must see the child, to testify that she died a natural death. she must have passed away in her sleep." "she did. is it necessary that the doctor should visit my house in order to see the child?" "not at all. i have everything planned in my mind. now i am ready to go out. first to the telegraph office--it is open all night here--to despatch a telegram to the london lawyers to send a representative down immediately, who, when he comes, will take the affair out of our hands, i expect. afterwards to the house of the woman's friends; she must accompany us to your house, and we will take the child away before daylight. then we will call in a doctor, and nothing need reach rachel's ears. don't take it to heart, cohen; you have troubles enough of your own. the news you give me of rachel is the best of news. joy and sorrow, cohen--how close they are together!" in the telegraph office mr. moss wrote a long message to mr. gordon's lawyers, impressing upon them the necessity of sending a representative without delay to take charge of the body, and to attend to the funeral arrangements. "between ourselves, cohen," he said, as they walked to the house of the woman's friends, "the lawyers will be rather glad of the news than otherwise; and so will mr. gordon, when it reaches him. i am not sure whether i made the matter clear to you, but there is no doubt whatever that, so far as mr. gordon is concerned, the child was an encumbrance--to say nothing of the expense, which perhaps he would not have minded, being almost a millionaire. but still, as it has turned out, he has got rid of a difficulty, and he will not be sorry when he hears of it." "and the mother," said aaron, "how will she take it?" "i will not pretend to say. _we_ know, cohen, what we think of our own children, but there are people in the world with different ideas from ours. the mother of this little one will feel grieved at first, no doubt, but i dare say she will soon get over it. then, perhaps her husband will not tell her. here we are at the woman's house." they halted before a small cottage, inhabited by people in humble circumstances. before he aroused the inmates, mr. moss said,-- "i shall keep your name out of the affair, cohen; but to a certain extent the woman must be taken into our confidence. secrecy will be imposed upon her, and she will be paid for it. remain in the background; i will speak to her alone." the woman herself came to the door, and when she was dressed mr. moss had a conversation with her, the result of which was that she and the two men walked to aaron's house, where she took charge of the dead child, and carried it to the cottage. then she went for a doctor--to aaron's relief not the doctor who attended his wife--and as there was no doubt that the child had died a natural death, a certificate to that effect was given. at six in the morning aaron returned to rachel, and sitting by her bedside, waited for her awakening. the potion she had taken was to ensure sleep for twelve hours; in two hours he would hear her voice; in two hours she would be caressing a babe to which she had not given birth. it seemed to aaron as though months had passed since mr. moss had presented himself at his house last night, and for a while it almost seemed as though, in that brief time, it was not himself who had played the principal part in this strange human drama, but another being who had acted for him, and who had made him responsible for an act which was to colour all his future life. but he did not permit himself to indulge long in this view of what had transpired; he knew and felt that he, and he alone, was responsible, and that to his dying day he would be accountable for it. well, he would bear the burden, and would, every by means within his power, endeavour to atone for it. he would keep strict watch over himself; he would never give way to temptation; he would act justly and honourably; he would check the hasty word; he would make no enemies; he would be kind and considerate to all around him. he did not lay the flattering unction to his soul that in thus sketching his future rule of life he was merely committing himself to that which he had always followed in the past. this one act seemed to cast a shadow over all that had gone before; he had to commence anew. a strange and agonising fancy haunted him. the child of his blood, rachel's child, was lying dead in the house of a stranger. the customary observances of his religion could not be held over it; christians had charge of the lifeless clay. with his mind's eye he saw his dead child lying in the distant chamber, alone and unattended, with no sympathising heart near to shed tears over it, with no mourner near to offer up a prayer in its behalf. the child opened its eyes and gazed reproachfully upon its father; then it rose from the couch, and in its white dress went out of the house and walked through the snow to its father's dwelling. the little bare feet left traces of blood in the snow, and at the door of its father's house it paused and stood there crying, "mother, mother!" so strong was this fancy that aaron went to the street door, and, opening it, gazed up and down the street. the snow was still falling; no signs of life were visible, and no movement except the light flakes fluttering down. a mantle of spotless white was spread over roads and roofs, and there was silence all around. but in aaron's eyes there was a vision, and in his heart a dead voice calling. his babe was there before him, and its voice was crying, "mother, mother! why am i deserted? why am i banished from my father's house?" when he drew back into the passage he hardly dared shut the street door upon the piteous figure his conscience had conjured up. at eight o'clock in the morning rachel stirred; she raised her arm and put her hand to her eyes, blind to all the world, blind to her husband's sin, blind to everything but love. then instinctively she drew the babe nearer to her. a faint cooing issued from the infant's lips, and an expression of joy overspread the mother's features. this joy found its reflex in aaron's heart, but the torturing anxiety under which he laboured was not yet dispelled. it was an awful moment. was there some subtle instinct in a mother's love which would convey to rachel's sense the agonising truth that the child she held in her arms was not her own? there was no indication of it. she fondled the child, she suckled it, the light of heaven shone in her face. "aaron!" "my beloved!" "do you hear our child, our dear one? ah, what happiness!" "thank god!" said aaron, inly. "oh, god be thanked!" "is it early or late, dear love?" asked rachel. "it is morning, i know, for i see the light; i feel it here"--with her hand pressing the infant's head to her heart. "it is eight o'clock, beloved," said aaron. "i have had a long and beautiful sleep. i do not think i have dreamt, but i have been so happy, so happy! my strength seems to be returning; i have not felt so well since the night of the fire. our darling seems stronger, too; it is because i am so much better. i must think of that; it is a mother's duty to keep well, for her child's sake--and, dear husband, for your sake also. i do not love you less because i love our child so dearly." "i am sure of that. should i be jealous of our child? that would be as foolish as it would be unwise." "you speak more cheerfully, aaron. is that because of me?" "it is because of you, beloved. we both draw life and happiness from you. therefore, get strong soon." "i shall; i feel i shall. my mind is clear, there is no weight on my heart. before many days have passed i shall be out of bed, learning my new duties. aaron, our child will live." "she will live to bless and comfort us, beloved." she passed her hand over his face. "you are crying, aaron." "they are tears of joy, rachel, at seeing you so much better. a terrible fear has weighed me down; it is removed, thanks be to the eternal. the world was dark till now; i dared not think of the future; now all is well." "am i, indeed, so much to you, dear husband?" "you are my life. as the sun is to the earth, so are you to me." the wife, the husband, and the child lay in each other's embrace. "god is good," murmured rachel. "i did so want to live for you and for our child! but i feared, i feared; strength seemed to be departing from me. what will they do, i thought, when i am gone? but god has laid his hand upon us and blessed us. praised be his name for ever and ever!" "amen, amen! i have not yet said my morning prayers. it is time." she sank back in bed, and he put on his taleth and phylacteries, and prayed fervently. he did not confine himself to his usual morning devotions, but sought his book for propitiatory supplications for forgiveness for transgressions. "forgive us, oh, our father! for we have sinned; pardon us, oh, our king! for we have transgressed; for thou art ever ready to pardon and forgive. blessed art thou, the eternal, who is gracious and doth abundantly pardon." and while he supplicated forgiveness, rachel lay and sang a song of love. his prayers ended, aaron folded his taleth and wound up his phylacteries, and resumed his seat by rachel's bed. "while you slept last night, dear love," he said, "a piece of good fortune fell to my share, through our friend mr. moss. i shall be able to take a servant in the house." "how glad i am!" she answered. "it distressed me greatly to know that you had everything to attend to yourself. a woman, or a girl, is so necessary!" "there is altogether a brighter outlook for us, rachel. do you think prissy would do?" "she is very handy, and very willing. if you could manage till i can get up i could soon teach her." "i will go, then, and see if she is able to come. you must not mind being alone a little while." "i shall not be alone, dear," said rachel, with a bright smile at the child. he prepared breakfast for her before he left, and she partook of it with a keen appetite. then he went on his mission, and met mr. moss coming to the house. "i have received a telegram," said that gentleman, "in reply to mine. a gentleman will arrive from london this afternoon to attend to matters. you look brighter." "rachel is much better," said aaron. "you are in luck all round, cohen. there are men who always fall on their feet. i'm one of them; you're another. this time yesterday you were in despair; now you're in clover. upon my word, i am as glad as if it had happened to myself. you know one of our sayings--'next to me, my wife; next to my wife, my child; next to my child, my friend.' my good old father told me it was one of the wise sayings of rabbi ben--i forget who he was the son of. a friend of ours who used to come to our house said to my father that there was no wisdom and no goodness in the saying, because the rabbi put himself first, as being of more consequence than wife, and child, and friend. my father answered, 'you are wrong; there is wisdom, there is goodness, there is sense in it. self is the greatest of earthly kings. put yourself in one scale, and pile up all the world in the other, and you will weigh it down.' he was right. what comes so close home to us as our own troubles and sorrows?" "nothing," said aaron, rather sadly; "they outweigh all the rest. we are human, and being human, fallible. can you imagine an instance, mr. moss, where love may lead to crime?" "i can, and what is more, i would undertake to justify it. who is this little girl?" the diversion in the conversation was caused by prissy, who had run to aaron, and was plucking at his coat. "a good girl who attends to our sabbath lights." "'ow's missis, please, sir?" inquired prissy, anxiously. "much better this morning, thank you." "and the babby, sir?" "also better and stronger, prissy." prissy jumped up and down in delight. "i was coming to see you. do you think your aunt would let you come to us as a regular servant, to live, and eat, and sleep in the house?" this vision of happiness almost took prissy's breath away; but she managed to reply, "if yer'd make it worth 'er while, she would, mr. cohen. she's allus telling me i'm taking the bread out of 'er mouth, and ain't worth my salt. oh, mr. cohen, _will_ yer take me, _will_ yer? i don't care where i sleep, i don't care wot yer give me to eat, i'll work for yer day and night, i will! aunty makes my life a misery, she does, and i've lost wictoria rejiner, sir. she's got another nuss, and i ain't got nobody to care for now. aunty sed this morning i was a reg'lar pest, and she wished she could sell me at so much a pound." "you don't weigh a great deal," said aaron, gazing at prissy in pity; and then, with a sad touch of his old humour, "how much a pound do you think she would take?" "come and arks 'er, mr. cohen, come and arks er," cried prissy, running before aaron, and looking back imploringly at him. he and mr. moss followed the girl into the presence of prissy's aunt, and, although he did not buy prissy by the pound weight, he made a bargain with the woman, and by the outlay of five shillings secured the girl's permanent services, it being understood that she was not to take her niece away without prissy's consent. as they walked back to aaron's house he spoke to prissy about wages; but the girl, who felt as if heaven's gates had opened for her to enter, interrupted him by saying,-- "don't talk about wages, sir, please don't. i don't want no wages. give me a frock and a bone, and i'll work the skin off my fingers for yer, i will!" extravagant as were her professions, never was a poor girl more in earnest than prissy. blithe and happy she set to work, and never did valiant soldier polish up his arms with keener zest than did prissy her pots and pans. the kitchen was her battleground, and she surveyed it with the air of a conqueror. there was joy in rachel's heart in the room above, there was joy in prissy's heart in the room below. chapter xxiv. the curtain falls awhile. mr. moss and aaron spent the greater part of the day together, awaiting the arrival of mr. gordon's legal representative. the doctor who attended rachel called only once, and gave a good report of her condition. "the crisis is over," he said to aaron. "your wife and child will live. in a few days mrs. cohen will be strong enough to be removed, and i advise you to take her without delay to the south of france, where before spring her health will be completely re-established." it was not until the doctor had departed that the question presented itself to aaron whether he had any right to the fifty pounds he had received from mr. moss. he was clear as to the second sum of twenty-five pounds--that must be returned. he wished mr. moss to take it back; but that gentleman would have nothing to do with it, and as to aaron's right to retain the fifty pounds he entertained no doubt. "it is undisputably yours," he said. "it was handed to me by mr. gordon himself for a specific purpose, and i look upon it as a retaining fee. no lawyer returns such a fee when the case breaks down--trust them for that. understand, please, cohen, that i am no longer acting in the affair: it rests now between you and the lawyers." late in the afternoon mr. moss went to the railway station to meet the lawyer, and the two proceeded together to the house where the dead child lay. arrangements for the funeral were made, and then mr. moss conducted the lawyer, whose name was chesterman, to aaron's house. "mr. chesterman has something to say to you, cohen," he said. "i will leave you together." he took aaron aside. "it is something of great importance--a wonderful stroke of fortune. don't throw it away; it will be the making of you; and remember rachel." "mr. moss," commenced mr. chesterman, when he and aaron were alone, "has related to me all that has occurred. in a general sense the death of the child is to be regretted, as would be the death of any person, old or young; but there are peculiar circumstances in this case which render this visitation of god a relief to certain parties. it removes all difficulties from the future, and there is now no likelihood of our client's plans being hampered or interfered with. you are aware that he is a gentleman of fortune?" "i have been so informed." "you may not be aware, however, that he is a gentleman of very decided views, and that he is not to be turned from any resolution he may have formed. we lawyers have to deal with clients of different temperaments, and when a case is submitted to us by a strong-minded gentleman, we may advise, but, if we find our client determined, we do not waste time in arguing. i understand from mr. moss that you have some scruples with respect to the money you have received from him." "i wish to know whether i may consider the first sum of fifty pounds mine; i have my doubts about it. as to the second sum of twenty-five pounds, paid in advance for the rearing of the child, i have no doubts whatever." "we have nothing to do with either of those sums; they did not come from us, but from our client to mr. moss, and from mr. moss to you. without being consulted professionally, i agree with mr. moss that the fifty pounds is yours. i offer no opinion upon the second sum." "if you will give me your client's address, i will communicate with him." "we cannot disclose it to you. it is confided to us professionally, and our instructions are to keep it secret." "you can give him my name and address?" "no. his stipulation is that it is not to be made known to him. if at any time he asks us voluntarily for it, that is another matter, and i will make a note of it. the special purpose of my visit is to complete and carry out to the last letter our client's instructions. the conditions to which he bound himself were very liberal. with a generous desire for the child's welfare, in the event of her living and marrying, he placed in our hands the sum of five hundred pounds as a marriage dowry, to be paid over to her on her wedding-day." "a noble-minded gentleman," said aaron. mr. chesterman smiled, and continued,-- "in the event of the child's death this five hundred pounds was to be paid over to the party or parties who undertook the charge of her. the child is dead; the five hundred pounds is to be paid over to you." "but, sir," said aaron, in astonishment, "do you not understand that i cannot accept this money?" "it is not for us to consider any scruples you may have; it is for us to carry out our instructions. it does not come within our province to argue with you. i have brought the cheque with me, and all i have to do is to hand it over to you, and to take your receipt for it. mr. moss hinted to me that you might raise objections; my reply was, 'nonsense.' the money belongs to you by legal and moral right, and i decline to listen to objections. if it is any satisfaction to you, i may tell you that our client can well afford to pay it, and that by its early payment he is a considerable gainer, for he is no longer under the obligation to pay a hundred a year for the child's maintenance. here is the receipt, legally drawn out; oblige me by signing it." it was in vain for aaron to protest; the lawyer insisted, and at length, fearing the consequences of a decided refusal, aaron put his name to the paper. "our business being concluded," said mr. chesterman, rising, "i have the pleasure of wishing you good-day. should in the future any necessity for the statement arise, i shall not hesitate to declare that the child was placed in the care of an honourable gentleman, who would have faithfully performed his duty towards her." "god forgive me," said aaron, when his visitor was gone, "for the sin i have committed! god help me to atone for it!" but he would have been less than human had he not felt grateful that the means were placed in his hands to restore his beloved wife to health and strength. before a week had passed he and rachel and the child, accompanied by prissy, were travelling to a milder clime. book the fourth. _honour and progress_. chapter xxv. after many years. a man upon whose face all that is noble and steadfast seems to have set its seal, to give the world assurance that here was one who, had his lot been so cast, would have ruled over men with justice, truth, and honour. he is of a goodly height, and his features are large and clearly defined. a sensitive, resolute mouth; calm, well-proportioned lips, which close without restraint and are eloquent even when the tongue is silent; a nose gently arched, with curved indented nostrils; a massive forehead, almost oval at the top, and with projecting lower arches, the eyebrows near to the large brown eyes; the chin and cheeks clothed in a handsome beard, in which grey hairs are making themselves manifest. powerful, benignant, and self-possessed as is his appearance, there is an underlying sadness in his eyes which could be variously construed--as born of a large experience of human ways and of the errors into which mortals are liable to fall, or, maybe, of an ever-abiding remembrance of one moment in his own life when he also was tempted and fell. but no such thought as the latter ever entered the minds of those who knew him personally and those who judged him by the repute he bore, which could only have been earned by a man who walked unflinchingly and unerringly in the straight path and was just and merciful to all who came in contact with him. there were instances when mercy so predominated that persons who had wronged him were allowed to go free, and when a helping hand was held out to men who had sinned against him. this is aaron cohen, now close upon his fiftieth year. a woman whose tranquil eyes never see the light of day, but in which, nevertheless, there is no sign of repining or regret. purity and sweetness dwell in her face, and as she stands motionless in a listening attitude, her white hand resting on the table, no more exquisite representation of peace and universal love and sympathy could be found in living form or marble statue. she is fair almost to whiteness, and although her figure is slight and there is no colour in her cheeks, she is in good health, only that sometimes during the day she closes her eyes and sleeps in her armchair for a few minutes. in those intervals of unconsciousness, and when she seeks her couch, she sees fairer pictures, perhaps, than if the wonders of the visible world were an open book to her. her dreams are inspired by a soul of goodness, and her husband's heart, as he gazes upon her in her unconscious hours, is always stirred to prayer and thankfulness that she is by his side to bless his days. not only in the house is her influence felt. she is indefatigable in her efforts to seek out deserving cases of distress and relieve them; and she does not confine her charity to those of her faith. in this regard jew and christian are alike to her, and not a week passes that she does not plant in some poor home a seed which grows into a flower to gladden and cheer the hearts of the unfortunate and suffering. grateful eyes follow her movements, and a blessing is shed upon her as she departs. a ministering angel is she, whose words are balm, whose presence brings sweet life into dark spaces. so might an invisible herald of the lord walk the earth, healing the sick, lifting up the fallen, laying his hand upon the wounded breast, and whispering to all, "be comforted. god has heard your prayers, and has sent me to relieve you." this is rachel cohen, aaron's wife, in her forty-fourth year. a younger woman, in her springtime, with life's fairest pages spread before her. darker than rachel is she, with darker hair and eyes and complexion, slim, graceful, and beautiful. it is impossible that she should not have felt the influence of the home in which she has been reared, and that she should not be the better for it, for it is a home in which the domestic affections unceasingly display themselves in their tenderest aspect, in which the purest and most ennobling lessons of life are inculcated by precept and practice; but a profound student of human nature, whose keen insight would enable him to plumb the depths of passion, to detect what lay beneath the surface, to trace the probable course of the psychological inheritance which all parents transmit to their children, would have come to the conclusion that in this fair young creature were instincts and promptings which were likely one day to give forth a discordant note in this abode of peace and love, and to break into rebellion. there is no outward indication of such possible rebellion. to the friends and acquaintances of the household she is a lovely and gracious jewish maiden, who shall in time become a mother in judah. this is ruth cohen, in the eyes of all the world the daughter of aaron and rachel. a young man, ruth's junior by a year, with his father's strength of character and his mother's sweetness of disposition. he is as yet too young for the full development of this rare combination of qualities, the outcome of which is to be made manifest in the future, but he is not too young to win love and respect. his love for his parents is ardent, his faith in them indestructible. to him his mother is a saint, his father a man without blemish. were he asked, to express his most earnest wishes, he would have answered, "when i am my father's age may i be honoured as he is: when i marry may my wife be as my mother is." this is joseph cohen, the one other child of aaron and rachel. a tall, ungainly woman of thirty, working like a willing slave from morning to night, taking pride and pleasure in the home, and metaphorically prostrating herself before every one who lives beneath its roof. esteemed and valued by her master and mistress, for whom she is ready to sacrifice herself and to undergo any privation; especially watchful of her mistress, and tender towards her; jealous of the good name of those whom she serves with devotion. of aaron cohen she stands somewhat in awe, he is so far above her in wisdom. she does not trouble herself about religious matters; questions of theology come not within her domain, her waking hours being entirely filled and occupied with the performance of her domestic duties. she listens devoutly to the chanting of hebrew prayers, not one word of which does she understand, and is none the worse for them. her master and mistress are the representatives of a race for which through them she entertains the profoundest respect; it is more than likely, if the choice had been hers and if she had deemed herself worthy of the distinction, that she would have elected to be born in the jewish faith. she carries her allegiance even to the extent of fasting with the household on the day of atonement, and of not allowing bread to pass her lips during the passover week. this is prissy, the ever true, the ever faithful. chapter xxvi. the foundation of aaron's fortune. eventful indeed to aaron cohen had been the twenty years since he left gosport. in the south of france, where they remained for a much longer time than he intended, rachel was restored to health, and aaron had the joy of seeing her move happily about the house and garden, and of hearing her sing to her babe the songs and lullabies which, from a mother's lips, are so fraught with melodious and tender meaning. it almost seemed as if she had inward cause for thankfulness that blindness had fallen upon her, for aaron had never known her to be so blithe and light-hearted as during those weeks of returning health. prissy was invaluable to them, and proved to be a veritable treasure. the short time it took her to learn her duties, the swiftness and neatness with which they were performed, the delight she took in the babe, who soon replaced victoria regina in her affections, and the care and skill with which she guided her mistress's movements, amazed aaron. he had divined from the first that she was a shrewd, clever girl, and he had the satisfaction of discovering that she was much cleverer than he would have ventured to give her credit for. she was tidier in her dress, too, and never presented herself unless she was clean and neat. she became, in a sense, her mistress's teacher, and rachel was so apt a pupil that aaron's apprehensions that she would meet with an accident if she moved too freely about were soon dispelled. "is it not wonderful, love?" she said. "i think i must have eyes at the tips of my fingers. but it is prissy i have to thank for it." she repaid the girl, be sure. gradually prissy's mode of expressing herself underwent improvement; she did not use so many negatives, she dropped fewer h's, she learned to distinguish between g's and k's; and aaron himself laid the first stone in her education by teaching her the a b c. one thing prissy would not learn; she obstinately refused to have anything to do with the french language. english was good enough for her, she declared, and to the english tongue she nailed her colours. fond as she was of babies, she would not countenance french babies, and said it was a shame to dress them so. "i'm a troo bloo, sir," she said to aaron; "please don't force me." and with a hearty laugh he desisted. he himself spoke french fluently, and to this may be ascribed the first change in his fortunes. easy in his mind respecting rachel, easy respecting money, he found himself at leisure to look about him and observe. he made friends, and among them a poor french engineer of great skill. in conversation one day this engineer mentioned that tenders were invited for the construction of a local bridge. it was not a very important matter; the lake it was to span was of no great dimensions, and the bridge required was by no means formidable. "there are only two contractors who will tender for it," said the engineer, "and they play into each other's hands. they will settle privately the amount of their separate tenders, and the lowest will obtain the contract. they will divide the profits between them. if i had a little money to commence with i would tender for the work, and my tender would be at least ten thousand francs below theirs. then it would be i who would construct the bridge, and public money would be saved." "what would be your profit?" asked aaron. "twenty thousand francs," was the reply; "perhaps more." "and the amount of your tender?" "eighty thousand francs. i have the plans and specifications, and every detail of expense for material and labour in my house. will you come and look over them?" aaron examined them, and submitting them to the test of inquiry as to the cost of labour and material, found them to be correct. a simple-minded man might have been taken in by a schemer who had prepared complicated figures for the purpose of trading with another person's money, and standing the chance of winning if the venture resulted in a profit, and of losing nothing if it resulted in a loss; but aaron was not simple-minded, the poor engineer was not a schemer, and the figures were honestly set down. "it would not need a great amount of money," said the engineer. "if a certain sum were deposited in the bank, a further sum could be raised by depositing the contract as security; and, moreover, as the work proceeds, specified payments will be made by the local authorities." "how much would be required to commence operations, and to make everything safe?" "ten thousand francs." roughly, that was four hundred pounds. the five hundred pounds he had received from the lawyers was as yet untouched, for they lived very economically and were in a part of the world where thrift was part of the people's education. aaron believed the project to be safe. "if i advanced it," he asked, "what proposition do you make?" "we would make it a partnership affair," replied the poor engineer, eagerly. upon that understanding the bridge was tendered for, and the tender accepted. in four months the work was executed and passed by the inspectors; the contractors received the balance due to them, and a division of the profits was made. after paying all his expenses aaron was the richer by three hundred pounds. he gave fifty pounds to the poor, which raised him in the estimation of the people among whom he was temporarily sojourning. he had not been idle during the four months occupied by the building of the bridge; under the guidance of his partner he had superintended the workmen and undertaken the correspondence and management of the accounts; and new as these duties were to him he had shown great intelligence and aptitude. "we met on a fortunate day," said the engineer. at about this time a new engineering project presented itself. it was on a larger scale than the first, and the two men, emboldened by success, tendered for it. again did fortune favour them; everybody, with the exception of rival contractors, was on their side. in the carrying out of their first contract there had not been a hitch; they had paid their workmen better wages, they had behaved honestly and liberally all round, and they had already achieved a reputation for liberal dealing with the working man. moreover, people were talking of rachel's kindness and of aaron's benevolence. hats were lifted to them, women and children left flowers at their door; rich was the harvest they gathered for their charity. when it was known that they had obtained another contract, the best workmen came to them for employment, and they learned what all employers of labour may learn, that it is wise policy to pay generously for bone and muscle. the hateful political economy of ricardo, which trades upon the necessities of the poor, and would grind labour down to starvation pittance, could never find lodgment in the mind of such a man as aaron cohen. the new venture was entirely successful, and being of greater magnitude than the first, the profits were larger. aaron was the possessor of two thousand pounds. he gave two hundred pounds to the poor. he did more than this. the doctor who had attended rachel in gosport had declined to accept a fee, and aaron now wrote him a grateful letter, enclosing in it a draft for five hundred pounds, which he asked the doctor to distribute among the local charities. this five hundred pounds he regarded as a return of the sum he had received from the london lawyers. that the receipt of this money afforded gratification to the doctor was evidenced by his reply. "every one here," he said, "has kind words for you and your estimable wife, and the general feeling is that if you had continued to reside in gosport it would have been a source of pleasure to all of us. when i speak of your good fortune all the townsfolk say, 'we are glad to hear it.'" thus did good spring out of evil. aaron felt that his foot was on the ladder. he entered into a regular partnership with his friend the engineer, and they executed many public works and never had a failure. the justness of their trading, their consideration for the toilers who were helping to build up a fortune for them, the honest wages they paid, earned for them an exceptional reputation for rectitude and fair dealing. in these matters and in this direction aaron was the guiding spirit. he left to his partner the technical working out of their operations, and took upon himself the control of wages and finance. occasionally there were arguments between him and his partner, the latter hinting perhaps that there was a cheaper market, and that money could be saved by employing middlemen who offered to supply labour and material at prices that were not equitable from the point of view of the toilers and producers. aaron would not entertain propositions of this kind. "we are doing well," he said, "we are making money, we are harvesting. be satisfied." his partner gave way. aaron's character was too strong for resistance. "clean and comfortable homes," said aaron, "a good education for their children, a modest enjoyment of the world's pleasures--these are the labourers' due." hearing of this some large employers called him quixotic, and said he was ruining trade; but he pursued the just and even tenor of his way, satisfied that he was a saviour and not a spoiler. upon the conclusion of each transaction, when the accounts were balanced, he devoted a portion of his profits to benevolent purposes, and he became renowned as a public benefactor. the thanks that were showered upon him did not please him, but tended rather to humiliate and humble him; he would not listen to expressions of gratitude; and it will be presently seen that when he returned to england he took steps to avoid the publicity which was distasteful to him. chapter xxvii. the feast of passover. a point of friendly contention between aaron cohen and the engineer was the observance of the sabbath day. from sunset on friday till sunset on saturday aaron would do no work and attend to no business. he paid the workmen their wages on friday, and made up the accounts on that day. they hailed the new arrangement with satisfaction, but the engineer was rather fretful over this departure from the usual custom. "what is your objection?" asked aaron. "it must confuse affairs," replied the engineer. "are not the accounts faithfully kept," said aaron, "and does not the work go on regularly?" "oh, i am not complaining," said the engineer, "only----" "only what?" said aaron, with a smile. the engineer could not explain; he was a skilful engineer, but a weak controversialist. the only answer he could make was,-- "you are living in a christian land, among christians." "i am none the less a jew. all over the world we live in christian lands, among christians; we are a nation without a country. you observe your sunday sabbath as a day of rest." "certainly i do." "allow me, also, to observe my sabbath on the day appointed by my faith." "what difference can it make to you," persisted the engineer, "saturday or sunday?" "if that is your view," said aaron, his eyes twinkling with amusement, "let us both keep our sabbath on the saturday." aaron conducted the argument with such perfect good temper that the engineer could not help laughing at the rebuff, and the subject was allowed to drop. nor was it revived on the subsequent occasions of the jewish holydays, which were zealously observed by aaron and his wife. they were both orthodox jews, and nothing could tempt them to neglect their religious obligations; neither of them had ever tasted shell-fish or touched fire on the sabbath. the festival of the new year in the autumn, with its penitential day of atonement and its joyful feast of tabernacles, the feast of lights (chanukah) in the winter, the festivals of purim and passover in the spring, the feast of pentecost in the early summer--not one of these days of memorial was disregarded. the m'zuzah was fastened on the doorposts, and regularly every morning did aaron put on his garment of fringes and phylacteries and say his morning prayers. thus was he ever in communion with his maker. he experienced at first great difficulty in conforming to jewish precepts. there was no synagogue in the village, and no killer of meat, according to the formula prescribed by the mosaic law. for several days his family lived upon fish and vegetables and eggs; then he succeeded in arranging with a jewish butcher in a town some fifty miles distant for a regular supply of meat and poultry. the only co-religionist with whom he came into close personal association was a man of the name of levi, who had no such scruples as he in regard to food. this man was married, and had three sons, the eldest of whom was approaching his thirteenth year, the age at which all jewish lads should be confirmed. in conversation with m. levi aaron learned that he had no intention of carrying out the ceremony of confirmation. yearning to bring the stray sheep back into the fold, aaron invited m. levi and his family to celebrate the passover with him, and there upon the table the levis saw the white napkins with the special passover cakes between the folds, the shankbone of a shoulder of lamb, the roasted egg, the lettuce, the chevril and parsley, the cup of salt and water, the savoury balls of almond, apple, and spice, and the raisin wine--all of which are symbols of the passover, the most joyous of the jewish festivals. in this year the first night of the holydays fell upon the sabbath, and the apartment presented a beautiful appearance, with the lighted candles, the bright glass, and the spotless purity of the linen. the house had been cleaned from top to bottom, all leaven had been removed, and every utensil and article that was used for the cooking and partaking of food was new. m. levi's eyes glistened as he entered the apartment and looked around; his wife's also, for she had been brought up in an orthodox jewish home. old memories were revived, and as they sat down at the table it was to them as if they had suddenly gone back to the days of their youth. love and self-reproach shone in their faces as they gazed upon their children, to whom this picture of home happiness was a delightful revelation. "blessed art thou, o lord, our god!" said aaron, in the ancient tongue, after the filling of the first glasses of wine. "king of the universe, who createst the fruit of the vine. blessed art thou, o lord, our god, king of the universe, who hath chosen us from among all people, and exalted us above all languages, and sanctified us with his commandments; and with love hast thou given us, o lord, our god, sabbaths for rest, and solemn days for joy, festivals and seasons of gladness, this day of rest, and this day of the feast of unleavened cakes, the season of our freedom; a holy convocation in love, a memorial of the departure from egypt. for thou hast chosen us and sanctified us above all people; and thy holy sabbaths and festivals hast thou caused us to inherit with love and favour, joy and gladness. blessed art thou, o lord, who sanctifiest the sabbath, and israel, and the seasons." after this prayer the first glass of wine was drank, and the children smacked their lips. rachel's blindness did not prevent her from superintending the kitchen, and under her direction everything was prepared for the table almost as skilfully and tastefully as if her own hands had done the work. her raisin wine was perfect, and aaron smacked his lips as well as the children: the finest vintage of champagne would not have been so palatable to him. rachel's face was turned towards him as he raised the glass to his lips; she was anxious for his approval of the wine, which he had always praised extravagantly, and when she heard him smack his lips she was satisfied. aaron proceeded with the ceremonies and prayers; he had purchased books of the "hagadah," the hebrew on the right-hand, and a translation in french on the left-hand pages, so that his guests, young and old, could understand what was being said and done. in silence they laved their hands, chevril was dipped into salt water and distributed around, and the middle cake in the napkins broken. then aaron held aloft the dish containing the roasted egg and the shankbone, and intoned, "this is the bread of affliction which our ancestors ate in the land of egypt. let all that are hungry enter and eat; let all that are in want come hither and observe the passover." the prayers were not uttered in a sing-song drawl; there was a joyous note in the chanting, which proclaimed that the hearts of the worshippers were glad. they heard from aaron's lips what was said by the wise son, the wicked son, and the simple son; how a handful of the children of israel went into egypt, and how they increased and multiplied till they became a mighty nation; how they were oppressed by the egyptians, and forced to build stone cities for pharaoh, pithom, and raamses; how they prayed unto the eternal, and he remembered his covenant with abraham, isaac, and jacob, and punished the oppressors with the ten plagues; how, under divine protection, israel went forth from egypt, and walked through the red sea. "the sea beheld, and fled; jordan was driven backward. the mountains skipped like rams, the hills like lambkins. what ailed thee, o sea, that thou fledst--thou, jordan, that thou wast driven backward--ye mountains, that ye skipped like rams--ye hills, like lambkins? tremble, o earth! in the presence of the god of jacob, who turned the rock into a pool of water, the flinty rock into a fountain of water." the first portion of the service ended, the books were laid aside, and the table spread for supper. while the preparations for the meal were being made by prissy, who wore a new frock for the holydays and was as clean as a new pin, an animated conversation went on. aaron was in the merriest of moods, and his witty sayings and jokes kept the company in a ripple of laughter. it is a special feature in the home worship of the jew that it promotes good fellowship, breeds good feeling, and draws closer the domestic ties which so strongly distinguish the race. innocent jest is encouraged, it is really as if it were a duty that every one shall be in a holiday humour. the subjects of conversation are of a cheerful nature, scandal is avoided, the tenderer feelings are brought into play. scrupulous attention is paid to cleanliness, young and old attire themselves in their best. when we appear before the sovereign we make ourselves resplendent; so does the jew when he appears before the king of heaven and earth. on such occasions slovenliness would be a crime. it is not only the outer man that is attended to; the choicest special jewish dishes are prepared; there is no stint, plenty abounds, and friends are gladly welcomed, and invited to partake; everything is done that can contribute to harmony and content. young people bill and coo, and their elders look on with approving eyes. these are the golden hours of love's young dream. "it does my heart good," said madame levi, laughing heartily at one of aaron's jokes, "to be among our own people again." "come often, come often," said aaron cohen. "you and yours will always be welcome." the meal consisted of coffee, passover cakes, fresh butter, and fried and stewed fish. nothing could be more tempting to the eye than the large dish of stewed fish, with its thick yellow sauce of egg and lemon, and nothing more tempting to the palate, unless it were the fried fish, with its skin nicely browned, and cooked in such a way as to bring out the full sweetness of the flesh. "we have the advantage of the gentile," chuckled aaron, who always took fried fish for his first course, and stewed for his second. "we know how to fry fish. it is strange that in all these thousands of years he has not discovered the simple secret." "i have not tasted such stewed fish for i don't know how many years," observed madame levi, who had just been assisted to a second helping. "mrs. cohen fries fish beautifully," said aaron, "but her stewed fish is a marvel." "that is the way my husband always speaks of me," said rachel, with an affectionate smile. "he does not believe i have a fault." "a woman who cooks fish as she does," said aaron, oracularly, "cannot have a fault; she is a perfect woman. she is a glory and an honour to her sex. again i assert, her stewed fish is a marvel." "he forgets," said rachel sweetly, to her guests, "that i have to trust others." "my dear," persisted aaron, "you stand by and direct. a victorious general does not rush into the battle; he stands aside, and gives his orders. with my own eyes i saw you squeeze the lemons; with my own eyes i saw you mix the batter; each slice of fish passed through your hands before it was put into the pan and saucepan. you know, madame levi, how important it is that the fish should be properly dried before it goes through the ordeal of fire." "you bring it to my mind," said madame levi, speaking in a pensive tone; "my mother could fry and stew fish beautifully." "but not like rachel," rejoined aaron. "i will give way on every other point, but not on this. if i were a plaice or a halibut i should be proud to be treated so; it would be a worthy ending of me, and i should bless the hand that cut me up. i should feel that i had not lived in vain. there is a spiritual touch," he continued, waiting until the laughter had subsided, "in these things. half a lemon more or less makes all the difference in stewed fish; an egg more or less, the consistency of the batter, and the quality of the oil, make all the difference when you are frying. in england the poor and middle-class christians are shocking cooks; the moment they touch it half the goodness of the food is gone. it is a melancholy fact, and it is the cause of innumerable domestic grievances. it drives away cheerfulness, it breeds sulks and bad temper, and yet the women will not learn--no, they will not learn. when you see a well-ordered household and a peaceful home, the children happy and contented, the husband and wife affectionate to each other, you know at once that the mistress is a good cook. you laugh; but it is really a very serious matter. it goes straight to the root of things." grace was said after supper, and the reading of the passover prayers continued. aaron had a fine baritone voice, and he did full justice to the ancient psalmody, which has been transmitted through long ages, from generation to generation. "were our mouths filled with sacred song as the sea is with water, our tongue shouting loudly as its roaring billows, and our lips extended with praise like the widely spread firmament, and our eyes sparkling like the sun and the moon, and our hands extended like the eagle's wings in the skies, and our feet swift as the hind's, we should yet be deficient to render sufficient thanks unto thee, o lord our god, and the god of our fathers, or to bless thy name for even one of the innumerable benefits which thou hast conferred upon us and our ancestors." then followed "it was at midnight." "when the blaspheming sennacherib purposed to assail thine habitation, thou didst frustrate him through the dread carcases of his host in the night. bel and its image were hurled down in the darkness of the night. to daniel, the much beloved man, was the mysterious vision revealed in the night.... thou wilt tread the wine-press for them who anxiously ask, watchman, what of the night? let the eternal, the watchman of israel, cry out and say, the morning hath come as well as the night." nearly at the end of the service there was a merry chant, "oh, may he who is most mighty soon rebuild his house; speedily, speedily, soon, in our days." and the prayers ended with the curious poem, "one only kid, one only kid," supposed to be a parable illustrating the written and unwritten history of the jewish race. so conducive of cheerfulness and amiability had been the dedication of the passover that smiles were on every lip and good feeling in every eye; amiability and good nature shone on their countenances. an hour was devoted to a chat upon general subjects, and after accepting an invitation to come again upon the following night, the levis took their departure. on their way home they spoke freely of the hospitality and geniality of their host, of the sweet disposition of rachel, with whom they had all fallen in love, of the order and cleanliness of the house, of the salutary effects of an evening so spent. never had they been so deeply impressed with the beauty of the religion into which they had been born, the obligations of which they had thrust aside and neglected, principally, as m. levi would have advanced, on the score of convenience. had aaron cohen argued with m. levi upon this neglect it is likely he would have contributed to the defeat of the object he had in view; but he was far too astute to argue with a man who, being in the wrong, would have obstinately defended himself when thus attacked. he knew the value of the lesson the levis had received, and he was content to wait for the result. he would have been greatly gratified had he heard the whispered words addressed to her husband by madame levi. "cannot we do the same? cannot we live as they do?" m. levi, deep in thought, did not answer the question, but it was nevertheless treasured in his memory. treasured also in his memory were some words that passed between his eldest son and his wife. "mother, i am a jew?" "yes, my dear." "i am glad." "why, my child?" "because m. cohen is a jew. i want to be like him." m. levi looked at his son, a handsome lad, whose face was flushed with the pleasures of the most memorable evening in his young life. to deprive him of his confirmation would be robbing him of god's heritage. the father was at heart a jew, but, like many of his brethren residing in christian communities, had found it easier to neglect his religion than to conform to its precepts. putting it another way, he thought it would be to his worldly disadvantage. he had made his will, and therein was written his desire to be "buried among his people"--that controlling wish which, in their last moments, animates so many jews who through all their days have lived as christians. "let me be buried among my people," they groan; "let me be buried among my people!" that is their expiation, that is their charm for salvation, for though all their years have been passed in attending to their worldly pleasures and temporal interests, they believe in a future life. these men have been guided by no motives of sincerity, by no conscientious inquiry as to how far the tenets of an ancient creed--the principal parts of which were formulated while the race was in tribulation--are necessary and obligatory in the present age; they are palterers and cowards, and grossly deceive themselves if they believe that burial in jewish ground will atone for their backsliding. m. levi was not a coward, and now that his error was brought home to him he was strongly moved to take up the broken threads of a faith which, in its purity, offers so much of divine consolation. he himself broached the subject to aaron, and his resolve was strengthened by the subsequent conversations between them. "that man is to be honoured, not despised," said aaron, "who changes his opinions through conviction. he may be mistaken, but he is sincere, and sincerity is the test of faith. you believe in god, you acknowledge his works, you live in the hope of redemption. in religion you must be something or nothing. you deny that you are a christian. what, then, are you? a jew. what race can boast of a heritage so glorious? we have yet to work out our future. take your place in the ranks--ranks more illustrious than that which any general has ever led to victory--be once more a soldier of god." these words fired m. levi. the following saturday his place of business was closed; from a box in which it may be said they were hidden, he took out his garment of fringes, his prayer-books, his phylacteries, and worshipped as of yore. two vacancies occurring in his business, he filled them up with jews; aaron also induced a few jews to settle there, and in a short time they could reckon upon ten adults, the established number necessary for public worship. in the rear of his house aaron built a large room, which was used as a synagogue, and there m. levi's eldest son was confirmed. in the autumn, when the feast of tabernacles was celebrated, the little band of jews found a booth erected in aaron's garden; there was a roof of vines through which they saw the light of heaven. it was beautified with flowers, and numbers of persons came to see this pretty remembrance of a time when the children of israel dwelt in tents in the wilderness. the prayers in the synagogue over, the worshippers assembled in the booth, and ate and drank with aaron and his family. aaron had provided palms, citrons, myrtle, and willows for his co-religionists, and in an address he gave in the course of the service he told them how the citron was a symbol of innocent childhood, the myrtle a symbol of youth and of the purity that dwells on the brow of the bride and bridegroom, the firm and stately palm a symbol of upright manhood, and the drooping willow a symbol of old age. his discourses had always in them something new and attractive which had a special bearing upon the ancient faith in which he took so much pride. "we have you to thank for our happiness," said madame levi to him. "it is a good work done, my love," said aaron to his wife, rubbing his hands with satisfaction; "a good work done." chapter xxviii. rachel's life in the new land. meanwhile rachel throve. she walked with an elastic spring in her feet, as though in response to nature's greeting, and joy and happiness accompanied her everywhere. she was profoundly and devoutly grateful for her husband's better fortune, and daily rendered up thanks for it to the giver of all good. she took pleasure in everything; blind as she was, she enjoyed nature's gifts to the full. in winter it was extraordinary to hear her describe the aspect of woods and fields in their white feathery mantle; with deep-drawn breath she inhaled the fresh cold air, and a glory rested on her face as she trod the snow-clad paths. when she visited the poor on those cold days prissy accompanied her, carrying a well-filled basket on her arm. her sympathy with the sick and suffering was divine, and in the bleakest hours, when the sky was overcast and the light was hidden from shivering mortals, she was the herald of sunshine. a priest met her on one of these journeys, and gave her good-day. "good-day, father," she said. "you know me!" he exclaimed, surprised; for though his priestly calling was apparent from his attire, rachel could not see it. "i heard your voice a fortnight ago," she replied, "in the cottage i am going to now, and i never forget a voice. after you were gone the poor woman told me you were her priest. i heard so much of you that was beautiful." she put forth her hand; he hesitated a moment, then took it and pressed it. "how sad, how sad, my daughter, that you are a jewess!" "i am happily a jewess, father." "let me come and talk to you." "yes, father, come and talk to me of your poor, to whom you are so good. you do so much; i, being blind, can do so little. if you will allow me----" she offered him some gold pieces, and he accepted them. "the holy mother have you in her keeping," he said; and went his way. dogs and horses were her friends, and were instinctively conscious of her presence. she scattered food for the birds, and they soon grew to know her; some would even pick crumbs from her hand. "i do not think," she said, "they would trust me so if i were not blind. they know i cannot see, and cannot harm them." aaron thought differently; not a creature that drew breath could fail to trust and love this sweet woman whom god had spared to him. whom god had spared to him! when the thought thus expressed itself, he raised his eyes to heaven in supplication. she was the first to taste the sweet breath of spring. "spring is coming," she said; "the birds are trilling the joyful news. how busy they are over their nests, the little chatterers, telling one another the news as they work! in a little while we shall see the flowers." she invariably spoke of things as if she could see them, as doubtless she did with spiritual sight, investing them with a beauty which was not of this world. it was her delight in summer to sit beneath the branches of a favourite cherry tree, and to follow with her ears the gambols of her children. for she had two now. a year after they left gosport another child was born to them, joseph, to whom aaron clave with intense and passionate love. it was not that he was cold to ruth, that he was not unremitting in showing her affection, but in his love for his son there was a finer quality, of which no one but himself was conscious. he had prayed for another child, and his prayer was answered. in the first flush of his happiness he was tempted to regard this gift of god as a token that his sin was forgiven, but he soon thrust this reflection aside, refusing to accept his own interpretation of his sin as an atonement for its committal. it was presumptuous in man to set lines and boundaries to the judgment of the eternal. it was to rachel that this blessing was vouchsafed, for a time might come when she would find in it a consolation for a revelation that would embitter the sweet waters of life. both the children were pretty and engaging, and had winning and endearing ways, which, in the mother's sightless eyes, were magnified a thousandfold. in the following year a picture by a famous painter was exhibited in the paris _salon_; it was entitled "a jewish mother," and represented a woman sitting beneath a cherry tree in flower, with two young children gambolling on the turf at her feet. in the background were two men, the curé of the village and a jew, the latter being the woman's husband, and looking like a modern moses. the faces of the men--one full-fleshed, with massive features and a grand beard, the other spare and lean, with thin, clear-cut features and a close-shaven face--formed a fine contrast. but although the points of this contrast were brought out in masterly fashion, and although the rustic scene was full of beauty, the supreme attraction of the picture lay in the woman. in her sightless eyes dwelt the spirit of peace and purity, and there was an angelic sweetness and resignation in her face as, with head slightly inclined, she listened to the prattle of her children. you could almost hear a sigh of happiness issue from her lips. the woman's face photographed itself upon the minds of all who beheld it, and it is not too much to say that it carried with it an influence for good. years afterwards, when their visit to the _salon_ was forgotten, it made itself visible to their mind's eye, and always with beneficial suggestion. so it is also with a pure poem or story; the impression it leaves is an incentive to kindly act and tolerant judgment; it softens, it ameliorates, it brings into play the higher attributes of human nature, and in its practical results a benefit is conferred equally upon the sufferer by the wayside and the samaritan who pours oil upon his wounds. the critics were unanimous in their praises of the picture. "who is the woman?" they asked, and no one could answer the question except the painter, and he held his tongue. the secret was this. the famous painter, passing through the village with the subject of his next great picture in his mind, saw rachel, and was spellbound by the purity and grace of her face and figure. travelling under an assumed name, in order that he should not be disturbed by the trumpet blasts of fame--a proof (clear to few men) that there is pleasure in obscurity--he cast aside the subject of the great picture he had intended to paint, and determined to take his inspiration from rachel. he was assured from what he heard of her that he was in the presence of a good woman, and he was deeply impressed by her gentleness and grace. he did not find it difficult to obtain an introduction to aaron, who invited him home, where he made himself welcome--no difficult matter, for aaron was ever ready to appreciate intellect. many an evening did the painter pass with them, sometimes in company with the curé, and many a friendly argument did they have. the priest and the artist were surprised at the wide range of subjects with which aaron was familiar, and upon which he could converse with fluent ease. upon great themes he spoke with so much force and clearness that even when they differed from him he generally succeeded in weakening their convictions. it was not his early schooling that made him so comprehensive and clear-sighted; a man's education depends chiefly upon himself--teachers and masters play but a subsidiary part, and all the coaching in the world will not make a weak intellect strong. superficial knowledge may be gained; but it is as transient as a shadow, and in its effect is valueless in the business of life. aaron was not a classical scholar; he was something better--a painstaking student, who extracted from his extensive reading the essence of a subject, and took no heed of the husk and shell in which it was embedded. firm, perhaps to some extent dogmatic, in matters of religion, he was gifted with a large-hearted toleration which led him to look with a kindly eye upon men who did not think as he did; but his final judgment was the judgment of a well-balanced mind. the artist did not ask rachel and aaron to be his models, but he made innumerable sketches of them, and remained in the village long enough to accumulate all the principal points and accessories for his picture. then he departed and painted his masterpiece elsewhere. some time afterwards he revisited the village with the intention of making acknowledgment for the inspiration, but aaron and his family had departed, and the painter's secret was undivulged. as it was with rachel in winter and spring, so was it in summer and autumn. the flowers, the butterflies, the fragrant perfume of garden and hedgerow, all appealed powerfully to her, and all were in kinship with her. the village children would follow her in the gloaming, singing their simple songs; brawlers, ashamed, would cease contending when she came in sight; women would stand at their cottage doors and gaze reverently upon her as she passed. not a harsh thought was harboured against her and hers; her gentle spirit was an incentive to gentleness; she was a living, tender embodiment of peace on earth and goodwill to all. the whisper of the corn in the autumn, when the golden stalks bowed their heads to the passing breeze, conveyed a divine message to her soul; and, indeed, she said seriously to aaron that she sometimes fancied she heard voices in the air, and that they brought a sense of ineffable pleasure to her heart. in the ordinary course of events the partnership came to an end. the engineer was invited to russia to undertake an important work for the government, and aaron would not accompany him. "in the first place," he said, "i will not expose my wife and children to the rigours of such a climate. in the second place, i will not go because i am a jew, and because, being one, i should meet with no justice in that land. in the annals of history no greater infamy can be found than the persecution to which my brethren are subjected in that horrible country. in former ages, when the masses lived and died ignorant and unlettered, like the beasts of the field, one can understand how it was that the iron hand ruled and crushed common human rights out of existence; but in these days, when light is spreading all over the world except in such a den of hideous corruption and monstrous tyranny as russia, it is almost incredible that these cruelties are allowed to be practised." "how would you put a stop to them?" asked the engineer. "i will suppose a case," aaron answered. "you are the ruler of an estate, upon which reside a number of families, who respect the laws you make for them, who pay you tribute, and who lead reputable lives. you know that these families are not all of one opinion upon religious matters. some pray in churches, some in synagogues, some do not pray at all. you do not show favour to those with whose views you agree, and you do not oppress those from whom you differ. you say to them, 'you are all my subjects; so long as you obey my laws, so long as you conduct yourselves as good citizens, you shall live upon an equality, and shall have my protection. thought is free. worship god according to the dictates of your conscience, and be happy. for you the synagogue, for me the church. i am content.' what is the consequence? between you and your people exists a bond of allegiance and affection. they are true and loyal to you, and you really look upon them as children of one family. in times of national distress, when a cry for help is heard in any part of your estate, the bishop of your established church, the pope's cardinal, and the chief rabbi of the jews meet upon common ground, free one and all to act as priests of humanity, and eager to alleviate the suffering which has arisen among them. in your government councils all creeds are represented, and the voice that is heard in decisions of national importance is truly the national voice. you have your reward. order is preserved, property is safe, and you are respected everywhere. there are other estates in your neighbourhood which more or less resemble yours, and in which men of all creeds have equal rights. but there is one from which shrieks of agony issue daily and nightly, terrible cries of suffering, imploring appeals for help and mercy. they strike upon your ears; you cannot help hearing them. the brutal ruler of this estate has for his subjects a vast number of families, all of whom have been born on his land, all of whom recognise him as their king, and are ready and anxious to pay him respect, all of whom have a natural claim upon him for protection, all of whom work for him and contribute to the expenses of his household. to those whose religious views agree with his own he shows favour and gives protection; those who are born in a different faith he hates and tortures. from them proceed these shrieks of agony, these cries of suffering, these appeals for help. you see them torn and bleeding, their faces convulsed with anguish, their hearts racked with woe; they have no other home, and there is no escape for them. every step they take is dogged and watched; whichever way they turn the lash awaits them, and torture chambers to drive them to the last stage of despair. and their shrieks and supplications eternally pierce the air you breathe, while the oppressed ones stretch forth their hands for mercy to the monster who makes their lives a hell upon earth. what do they ask? that they should be allowed to live in peace. but this reasonable and natural request infuriates the tyrant. he flings them to the ground and grinds his iron heel into their bleeding flesh; he spits in their faces, and orders his torturers to draw the cords tighter around them. it is not for a day, it is not for a week, it is not for a year, it is for ever. they die, and leave children behind them, who are treated in the same fashion; and for them, as it was with their fathers, there is no hope. no attempt is made to hide these infamies, these cruelties, which would disgrace the lowest order of beasts; they are perpetrated in the light of day, and the monster who is responsible for them sneers at you, and says, 'if you were in their place, i would treat you the same.' he laughs at your remonstrances, and draws the cords still tighter, and tortures the quivering flesh still more mercilessly, and cries, 'it is my estate, they are my subjects, and i will do as i please with them. let them abjure their god, and i may show them mercy. their bodies are mine, they have no souls!' to argue with him is presumption; in his arrogant estimation of himself the 'divinity that doth hedge a king' places him above human conditions--this man, who comes of a family with a social history so degrading that, were it attached to one of low degree, he would not be admitted into decent society. talk to him of humanity, and he derides and defies you. you burn with indignation; but what action do you take?" "it is a strong illustration," said the engineer; "but it is not with nations as with families." "it is," said aaron, with passionate fervour. "there is no distinction in the eyes of god. we are all members of one family, and the world is our heritage. the world is divided into nations, nations into cities, towns, and villages, and these are subdivided into houses, each having its separate rulers; and, though physically and geographically wide apart, all are linked by the one common tie of our common humanity. the same emotions, the same passions, the same aspirations, run through all alike. does it make an innocent babe a malefactor because he is born in russia instead of france or england? but it is so considered, and his life is made a misery to him by monsters who, when they give bloody work to their armies to do, blasphemously declare that the lord of hosts is on their side, and call upon him to bless their infamous banners." it was seldom that aaron expressed himself so passionately, and, as the engineer made no reply, they did not pursue the discussion. chapter xxix. the farewell. when it became known that aaron was about to leave the quiet resting-place in which the last few years had been passed, and in which he had enjoyed peace and prosperity, a general feeling of regret was expressed, and efforts were made to induce him to change his resolution. coming among them a stranger, a foreigner, and an alien in religion, he had won for himself the lasting esteem of all classes of the community. the village was now an important centre, its trade was in a flourishing condition, and its population had largely increased; as a natural consequence, property had risen in value, and the old residents were growing rich. it was ungrudgingly acknowledged that all this was due to aaron cohen's enterprise and to the integrity of his character. the well-to-do and the poor alike deplored the impending loss, and united in their appeals to him to remain; but they were unsuccessful. there was in aaron a latent ambition, of which he himself was scarcely aware, to move in a larger sphere, and to play his part in life among his own people. his intention had been at first to remain in the pretty french village only long enough to benefit rachel's health, and had it not been for the chance that threw him and the engineer together, and which opened up enterprises which had led to such fortunate results, he would have fulfilled this intention and have selected some populous city in england to pursue his career. one venture had led to another, and the success which had attended them was a sufficient inducement to tarry. but now that the partnership was at an end the incentive was gone, and he was not sorry that he was in a certain sense compelled to return to his native land. one thing in his life in the village had weighed heavily upon him. there was no established synagogue in which he and his family could worship, and, as we have seen, it was in his own home that he carried out all the ceremonials of his religion. much as aaron had reason to be grateful for, he yearned to follow the practices of his religion among a larger body of his co-religionists, to have the honour of taking the sacred scroll from the ark, to hear the chazan's voice from the pulpit and the melodious chant of the choir, followed by the deep responses of the congregation. he had an instinctive leaning to movement and colour. he loved the peace of his home; it was his ark of rest; but he loved also the bustle and turmoil of life. he was essentially an administrator, and fitted by nature for the control and direction of large bodies of men. had he been single he would doubtless have migrated to one of the new colonies which perennially spring up under british rule, and have taken a prominent part in its growth and development. it is greatly due to jewish spirit and enterprise that these new countries thrive and flourish so rapidly. there was another consideration. aaron wished his son joseph to grow up amid his co-religionists, to mix with them, to become familiar with their ways, so that he might be fixed firmly in the faith of his forefathers. there was no jewish school in the village in which the lad could be educated. he looked forward to the future. joseph would become a man, and in this village there were limitations and restrictions which were not favourable to the formation of strong character. here was a young mind to be trained; the more comprehensive the surroundings the better the chance of worldly advancement. he discussed these matters with rachel. "yes," she said, "let us go. but i shall never forget the happy years we have passed here." "nor i," said aaron. "honour and good fortune have attended us. may a blessing rest upon the village and all the dwellers therein!" then rachel spoke of her poor and of her regret at leaving them. "we will bear them in remembrance," said aaron, "and before we bid them, farewell something can be done to place them in permanent comfort." much was done by rachel and himself. for some time past he had bestowed a great part of his benefactions in such a manner that those whom he befriended were ignorant of the source from which the good flowed. in order that this should be carried out as he wished he had to seek an agent; looking around he made his selection, and asked the curé of the village to be his almoner, explaining that he did not wish it to be known that the money came from him. the curé, much surprised, accepted the office; aaron was grievously disturbing his opinion of the heretic. after the meeting with rachel, which has been described in the previous chapter, he had visited her home with the laudable desire of converting the family to the true faith, and had found himself confronted with peculiar difficulties. he strove to draw them into argument, but in a theological sense they slipped through his fingers. aaron's course in this respect was premeditated, rachel's was unconsciously pursued. she listened to all he said, and smilingly acquiesced in his declaration that there was only one road open to heaven's gates. "it is the road of right-doing, father," she said, "the road of kindness, of doing unto others as you would they should do unto you, of dispensing out of your store, whether it be abundant or not, what you can spare to relieve the unfortunate. you are right, father; there is only one road." by her sweetness and charity, by her practical sympathy with the suffering, she cut the ground from under his feet. he spoke of the saints, and she said they were good men and women, and were receiving their reward. in a word, she took the strength and subtlety out of him, and he yielded with sighs of regret and admiration. with aaron he was more trenchant, and quite as unsuccessful. many of aaron's humorous observations made the good priest laugh in spite of himself, and the pearls of wisdom which fell from the jew's lips crumbled his arguments to dust. there was no scoffing or irreverence on aaron's part; he simply parried the thrusts with a wisdom and humanity deeper and truer than those of which his antagonist could boast. "my son," said the curé, "would you not make me a jew if it were in your power?" "no," replied aaron, "we do not proselytise, and even if we did you are too good a christian for me to wish to make you a jew." this was one of the puzzling remarks which caused the curé to ponder, and which dwelt long in his mind; sometimes he thought that aaron was a man of deep subtlety, sometimes that he was a man of great simplicity, but whether subtle or simple he felt it impossible to withhold a full measure of respect from one whose eternal lot he sighed to think was perdition and everlasting torment. that sincerity was the true test of faith, as aaron declared, he would not admit; there could be no sincerity in a faith that was false, there could be no sincerity if you did not believe as he believed. nevertheless, he had an uncomfortable impression that he was being continually worsted in the peaceful war of words in which they invariably engaged when they came together. as aaron was not to be turned from his resolution to leave the country, the villagers took steps to show their respect for him. public meetings were held, which were attended by many persons from surrounding districts, and there was a banquet, of which aaron did not partake, the food not being cooked according to the jewish formula. he contented himself with fruit and bread, and made a good and sufficient meal. speeches were made in his honour, and he was held up as an example to old and young. his response was in admirable taste. he said that the years he had spent among them were the happiest in his life, and that it was with true regret he found himself compelled to leave the village. he spoke of his first coming among them with a beloved wife in a delicate state of health, who had grown well and strong in the beautiful spot. it was not alone the sweet air, he said, which had brought the blessing of health to her; the bond of sympathy which had been established between her and her neighbours had been as a spiritual medicine to her, which had given life a value of which it would otherwise have been deprived. it was not so much the material reward of our labours that conferred happiness upon us as the feeling that we were passing our days among friends who always had a smile and a pleasant greeting for us. riches were perishable, kindly remembrances immortal. the lessons of life were to be learned from the performance of simple acts of duty; for he regarded it as a duty to so conduct ourselves as to make our presence welcome, and agreeable to those with whom we were in daily association. as to the kind things that had been said of him, he felt that he was scarcely worthy of them. "there is," he said, "a leaven of human selfishness in all that we do; and the little i have, with the blessing of god, been enabled to do has conferred upon me a much greater pleasure than it could possibly have conferred upon others. to you and to my residence among you i owe all my good fortune, to you and to my residence among you i owe my dear wife's restoration to health; and it would be ingratitude indeed did i not endeavour to make some return for the good you have showered upon me. i shall never forget you, nor will my wife forget you; in our native land we shall constantly recall the happy years we spent in this pleasant village, and we shall constantly pray that peace and prosperity may never desert you." the earnestness and feeling with which these sentiments were uttered were unmistakable and convincing, and when aaron resumed his seat the eyes of all who had assembled to do him honour were turned upon him approvingly and sympathisingly. "ah," groaned the good curé, "were he not a jew he would be a perfect man!" the flowers which graced the banqueting table were sent by special messenger to rachel, and the following day she pressed a few and kept them ever afterwards among her precious relics. aaron did not come home till late in the night, and he found rachel waiting up for him. he delighted her by describing the incidents and speeches of the memorable evening. aaron was a great smoker, and while they talked he smoked the silver-mounted pipe for which he had so great an affection. there are in the possession of many men dumb memorials of insignificant value which they would not part with for untold gold, and this silver-mounted pipe of aaron's was one of these. before rachel was blind she had been in the habit of filling it for him, and when she was deprived of sight he sorely missed the affectionate service. tears started to his eyes one night when, with a loving smile, she handed it to him, filled; and now she did it for him regularly. rachel had indulged in a piece of extravagance. she had a special case made for the pipe, adorned with the letters a. and r. outlined in brilliants, and aaron handled his treasure almost with the care and affection he bestowed upon his children. "your health was proposed," said aaron, "and the health of our little ones. what was said about you, my life, gave me much more pleasure than what was said about myself. it abashes one to have to sit and listen to extravagant praises far beyond one's merits, but it is the habit of men to run into extravagance." "they could say nothing, dear husband, that you do not deserve." "you too!" exclaimed aaron, gaily. "it is well for me that you were not there, for you might have been called upon to give your testimony." "i should not have had the courage." she fondly pressed his hand. "i am glad they spoke of me kindly." "they spoke of you truly, and my heart leaped up within me at what the good curé said of you, for it was he who proposed the toast. i appreciated it more from him than i should have done from any one else, and he was quite sincere for the moment in all the sentiments he expressed, whatever he may have thought of himself afterwards for asking his flock to drink the health of a jewess. well, well, it takes all sorts to make a world." "how much we have to be grateful for!" said rachel, with a happy sigh. "indeed, indeed, for boundless gratitude. think of what we passed through in gosport"--he paused suddenly; the one experience which weighed upon his conscience brought a dark and troubled shadow into his face. "why do you pause, dear? has not my blindness proved a blessing to us? do i miss my sight? nay, i think it has made life sweeter. but for that we should not have come to this place, but for that we should not have had the means to do something towards the relief of a few suffering and deserving people. nothing but good has sprung from it. our lord god be praised." aaron recovered himself. "there was mr. whimpole's visit to us before i commenced business, there were those stupid boys who distressed you so with their revilings, which i managed to turn against themselves. it was this pipe of yours, my life, that gave me the inspiration how to disarm them. it sharpens my faculties, it brings out my best points; it is really to me a friend and counsellor. and now i have smoked enough, and it is time to go to bed. i will join you presently." in solitude the one troubled memory of the past forced itself painfully upon him. did he deserve what had been said in his honour on this night? he valued men's good opinion, and of all the men he knew he valued most the good opinion of the curé. what would this single-minded, conscientious priest think of him if he were acquainted with the sin of which he had been guilty, the sin of bringing up an alien child in a religion in which she had not been born? he would look upon him with horror. and it was a bitter punishment that he was compelled to keep this secret locked in his own breast, that he dared not reveal it to a single human creature, that he dared not say openly, "i have sinned, i have sinned. have mercy upon me!" to his own beloved wife, dearer to him than life itself, he had behaved treacherously; even in her he dared not confide. it was not with rachel as it was with him; there was no difference in the love she bore her children; they were both equally precious to her. to fall upon his knees before her and make confession would be like striking a dagger into her heart; it almost drove him mad to think of the shock such a revelation would be to her. no, he must guard his secret and his sin jealously to the last hour of his life. so far as human discovery went he believed himself to be safe; the betrayal, if it ever came, lay with himself. true, he had in his possession testimony which might damn him were it to fall into other hands, the little iron safe which mr. moss had received from dr. spenlove, and at the mother's request had conveyed to him. in his reflections upon the matter lately the question had intruded itself, what did this little box contain? it was impossible for him to say, but he felt instinctively that there was evidence in it which would bring his sin home to him. he allowed his thoughts now to dwell upon the mother. from the day on which he received the five hundred pounds from mr. gordon's lawyers he had heard nothing from them, nothing from mr. moss or from anybody relating to the matter. between himself and mr. moss there had been a regular though not very frequent correspondence, but his friend had never written one word concerning it, and aaron, of course, had not referred to it. thus far, therefore, it was buried in a deep grave. but would this grave never be opened? if other hands were not responsible for the act would it not be his duty to cause the light of truth to shine upon it? the mother had stipulated that, in the event of her husband's death, she should be free to seek her child, should be free to claim the box. upon this contingency seemed to hang his fate; but there were arguments in his favour. mr. gordon might live, and the mother could do nothing. arguing that the man died, it was more than probable that his wife had borne other children who had a claim upon her love which she acknowledged. to seek then her child of shame would be the means of bringing disgrace upon these children of her marriage. would she deliberately do this? he answered the question immediately, no. in the consideration of these phases of the matter he bore in mind that, although the false news of the child's death must of necessity have been communicated to mr. gordon by his lawyers, it was likely that it had been kept from the knowledge of the mother. aaron had been made to understand that mr. gordon was a man of inflexible resolution, and that he had pledged himself never under any circumstances to make mention of the child to the woman he had married. even setting this aside, even going to the length of arguing that, hearing of the child's death, mr. gordon departed from the strict letter of his resolution, and said to his wife, "your child is dead," was it not likely that she would reply, "i do not believe it; you tell me so only to deceive me"? in that case, her husband dead and herself childless, would she not search the world over for her offspring? setting this all aside, however, the onus still devolved upon him to open the grave. one of the stipulations attached to his receipt of the box was that when ruth was twenty-one years of age it should be handed over to her. would he dare to violate this condition? would he so far tamper with his conscience as to neglect an obligation which might be deemed sacred? the question tortured him; he could not answer it. he heard rachel moving in the room above, and with a troubled heart he went up to her. thus this night, the events of which were intended to shed honour and glory upon him, ended in sadness, and thus was it proved that the burden of a new deceit may be as a feather-weight to the solemn and heavy consequences which follow in its train. everything was ready for the departure of the cohens, which was to take place at the end of the week. before the day arrived they received other tokens in proof of the appreciation in which they were held. a deputation of working men waited on aaron, and presented him with an address. the employers of labour themselves--secretly glad, perhaps, that he was going from among them--paid him a special honour. rachel's heart throbbed with gratitude and with pride in her husband. but her greatest pleasure, in which were mingled touches of deep sorrow, was derived from the affecting testimony of the poor she had befriended. old men and women witnessed their departure, and bidding farewell to rachel, prayed god's blessing upon her. children gave her flowers, and their childish voices were full of affection. the tears ran from her eyes; she could hardly tear herself away. at length it was over; they were gone; but it was long before her sweet face faded from their memory. chapter xxx. at the grave of his child. the years that followed until ruth was grown to womanhood and joseph was a young man were eventful years for aaron and his family. he returned to england the possessor of a few thousands of pounds, and was received with open arms by the jewish community. he found to his surprise that the story of his life in a foreign land was known to his co-religionists, who are ever eager to acknowledge the success of their brethren. with jews, as with christians, success is a power, an "open sesame;" they are proud of it as reflecting honour upon the race, and, as is the human fashion, are willing to overlook a retrograde step or two in matters of religious observance on the parts of those who have won their way into the front ranks. it is also human, perhaps, that they are less tolerant to those who have not been so successful. aaron cohen, as we know, had no need of such indulgence; by poor and rich, by the heterodox and the orthodox, he was hailed as a worthy upholder of the old faith which has survived the persecutions of thousands of years. before he went to gosport he had resided in the east end of london, and he derived pleasure from his visits to the old familiar ground and from the renewal of acquaintance with old friends who had not prospered in life's battle. that he should be asked to assist these was natural, and the practical aid he tendered brought its reward. in a certain sense he became suddenly famous. "that's aaron cohen," said the east end jews, pointing him out as he passed; "he used to live here, and he has made an enormous fortune"--multiplying his riches, of course, a hundredfold. but a man may be famous without being popular; aaron was both, and he was not allowed to remain in ignorance of the fact. he was offered an honourable office in his synagogue, and he gladly accepted it. he was asked to serve on the board of several of the jewish charities with which london abounds, and he did not refuse one of these requests. it was his earnest wish to make himself practically useful to the community, and also to do something towards the stemming of the tide of loose religious observance which was steadily rising among his brethren. upon this subject he had many conversations with the clerical leaders of the chosen people, who saw the inroads that were being made and seemed powerless to provide a remedy. it did not occur to them that by a bold grasp of the nettle danger they might pluck from it the flower safety. aaron cohen believed in the thirteen articles of the creed framed by maimonides, which are accepted as the fundamental articles of the jewish faith. he believed in following--so far as was practicable in the present age--the precepts which moses transmitted to his race, with which all faithful jews should be familiar. some, he knew, were obsolete; such as those affecting the nazarites, of whom not one disciple exists to-day among english-speaking communities: others were impracticable; such, for instance, as those relating to the burnt sacrifices, the redeeming of the male firstling of an ass, and the punishment of criminals by stoning and the sword. but in this code of six hundred and thirteen precepts are to be found many which breathe the pure essence of the faith in which he was born, and these he believed it incumbent upon him to obey. his lectures and addresses to jewish audiences in the east end of london were listened to with breathless interest; the halls were not large enough to accommodate those who thronged to hear him. he drew from history illustrations of their past grandeur which fired and thrilled them. sensible of the impression he made upon them, aaron cohen had reason to be proud of the part he was playing, but there was more room in his heart for humbleness than pride; the shadow of a committed sin for ever attended him. apart from these communal matters he had much to do. in business hours business claimed him, and he answered zealously to the call. to such a man idleness would have been little less than a living death, and, taking up his residence in london, he embarked very soon in enterprises of magnitude. the knowledge he had gained during his partnership in france was of immense value to him, and in conjunction with other men of technical resource, he contracted for public works in various parts of the country. his fortune grew, and he gradually became wealthy. he moved from one house to another, and each move was a step up the ladder. a house in prince's gate came into the market, and aaron purchased it, and furnished it with taste and elegance. there he entertained liberally but not lavishly, for his judgment led him always to the happy mean, and his house became the resort of men and women of intellect and culture. mr. moss, who was wedded to portsmouth, and continued to flourish there, paid periodical visits to london, and was always welcome in aaron's home. he was as musically inclined as ever; and opportunities were afforded him of hearing the finest singers and players at prince's gate. on occasions, aaron readily consented to give an introduction, through concerts held in his house, to young aspirants in whom mr. moss took an interest; and to other budding talent in the same direction aaron's rooms were always open. in relation to their intimacy in gosport a conversation took place between mr. moss and aaron some three years after the latter was settled in london. aaron had just completed a successful contract, and business had called mr. moss to the metropolis. "i heard to-day," said mr. moss, "that you had cleared six or seven thousand pounds by the contract." "the balance on the right side," replied aaron, "is a little over seven thousand." "i congratulate you. the gentleman i spoke with said that if he had had the contract he would have made a profit of three times as much." "it is likely." "then, why didn't you do it, cohen?" aaron smiled and shook his head. "let us speak of another subject." "but i want to get at the bottom of this. i should like you to know what the gentleman said about it." "very well. what did he say?" "that you are ruining the labour market." "ruin to some men may mean salvation to others. he doubtless gives an explanation. how am i ruining the labour market?" "by high wages and short hours." "that is a new view." "you do pay high wages, cohen, according to what everybody says." "oh, it's everybody now, as well as your gentleman friend. yes, i pay good wages, and i don't consider them high." "and the hours are not as long as they might be." "quite true. they might be twelve, fourteen, sixteen, out of the twenty-four. we read of such unfair strains upon human labour. my hours are reasonably long enough. if i am satisfied and my workmen are satisfied, i give offence to no man." "you are wrong, cohen; you give offence to the capitalist." "i regret to hear it." "he says you are ruining the capitalist." "oh, i am ruining the capitalist now. but if that is the case, he is no longer a capitalist." "you know what i mean. i don't pretend to understand these things as you do, because i have not studied political economy." "i have, and believe me it is a horse that has been ridden too hard. mischief will come of it. apply your common sense. in what way would your friend have made twenty-one thousand pounds out of the contract instead of seven thousand?" "by getting his labour cheaper and by making his men work longer hours." "exactly. and the difference of fourteen thousand pounds would have gone into his pocket instead of the pockets of his workmen." "yes, of course." "ask yourself if that is fair. the wages i pay my men are sufficient to enable them to maintain a home decently, to bring up their families decently, and perhaps, if they are wise and thrifty--only, mind you, if they are wise and thrifty--to make a small provision for old age, when they are no longer able to work. their hours are long enough to give them just a little leisure, which they can employ partly in reasonable amusement and partly in intellectual improvement. i have gone thoroughly into these matters, and i know what i am talking about. men who do their work honestly--and i employ and will keep no others--have a right to fair wages and a little leisure, and i decline to grind my men down after the fashion of the extreme political economist. the contract i have just completed was tendered for in an open market. my tender was the lowest, and was accepted. i make a considerable sum of money out of it, and each of my men contributes a mickle towards it. they believe i have treated them fairly, and i am certain they have treated me fairly. upon those lines i intend to make my way. your sweater is a political economist. i am not a sweater. it is the course i pursued in france, and by it i laid the foundation of what may prove to be a great fortune. i am tendering now for other contracts, and i shall obtain my share, and shall pursue precisely the same course. mr. moss, you and i are jews. at a great disadvantage because of the nature of your business, which i myself once intended to follow, you have made yourself respected in the town in which you reside. why? because you are a fair-dealing man. i, on my part, wish to make myself respected in whatever part of the world i live. to this end the conditions are somewhat harder for us than for our christian neighbours. they drive as hard bargains as we do, they are equally guilty of malpractices. when one is found out--a terrible crime, as we know--it is not said of him, 'what could you expect? he is a christian.' it is not so with us. when one of us is proved to be guilty of sharp dealing, it is said, 'what could you expect? he is a jew.' i will not go into the question whether we have justly earned the reproach; but it certainly lays upon us the obligation of being more careful than perhaps we might otherwise be, of even giving way a little, of being a trifle more liberal. it is a duty we owe to ourselves. surely there is no race to which it is a greater honour, and should be the greatest pride to belong, than the jewish race; and by my conduct through life i trust i shall do nothing to tarnish that honour or lower that pride. moreover, what i can do to weaken a prejudice shall be done to the last hour of my life. it may or may not be for that reason that i decline to follow the political economist to the depths into which he has fallen." mr. moss's eyes gleamed. aaron had touched a sympathetic cord; the men shook hands and smiled cordially at each other. "when you were in gosport," said mr. moss, "i ought to have asked you to go into partnership with me." "if you had made the offer," responded aaron, "i should have accepted it." "lucky for you that i missed my opportunity. it is a fortunate thing that you went to france when you did." "very fortunate. it opened up a new career for me; it restored my dear wife to health; my son was born there." "about the poor child i brought to you in gosport, cohen. we have never spoken of it." "that is true," said aaron, outwardly calm; but his heart beat more quickly. "did the lawyers ever write to you again?" "never." "and i have heard nothing. the iron box i gave you--you have it still, i suppose?" "i have it still." "i have often wondered what it contains, and whether the mother will ever call for it." "if she does it shall be handed to her in the same condition as you handed it to me. but she does not know in whose possession it is." "no, she does not know, and she can only obtain the information from mr. gordon's lawyers. my lips are sealed." aaron considered a moment. this opening up of the dreaded subject made him keenly sensible of the sword that was hanging over his head; but his sense of justice impelled him to say, "it may happen that the mother will wish to have the box restored to her, and that the lawyers may refuse to give her the information that it is in my possession. she may seek elsewhere for a clue, and may be directed to you." "who will direct her? nothing is more unlikely." "it is at least probable," said aaron. "well," mr. moss rejoined, "if she does apply to me, i shall not enlighten her. it is none of my business." "my desire is that you do enlighten her. the box is her property, and i have no right to retain it." "very well, cohen, if you wish it; but it is my opinion that you will never see her again. she has forgotten all about it long ago." "you are mistaken. a mother never forgets." "and now, cohen, i have a message for you from mrs. moss. she is burning to see you, and cannot come to london. we are about to have an addition to our family; that will be the sixteenth. upon my word, i don't know when we are going to stop. is it too much to ask you to pay us a visit?" "not at all; it will give me great pleasure. when?" "it will give mrs. moss greater pleasure," said mr. moss, rubbing his hands joyously at this answer. "she will be delighted, and so will all our friends in portsmouth. you have no idea how anxious she has been about it. she was afraid you would refuse because----" he paused rather awkwardly. "finish the sentence," urged aaron, in a kind tone. "to tell you the truth," said mr. moss, with a frank laugh, "she thought you might be too grand now to visit us. i told her she was mistaken. 'cohen is not the kind of man to forget the past,' i said to her." "no," said aaron; "i do not forget the past." the sad tone in which these words were spoken escaped mr. moss. with a beaming face, he continued,-- "'once a friend,' i said to mrs. moss, 'always a friend. it does not matter to him whether a man is up or down in the world, so long as he is honest and straightforward.' why, if business went wrong, and i was in trouble, i should come straight to you." aaron pressed the hand of this warm-hearted friend. "you would do right. i hope you may never need my services in that way; but if unhappily you should, do not hesitate to come to me." "i promise you, cohen, i promise you. not that there is any likelihood of it. to bring up such a family as ours is no light matter, keeps one's nose to the grindstone, as the saying is; but we're not at all badly off. i return to portsmouth on thursday. will that time suit you for the visit?" "yes; i will accompany you." and away went mr. moss, overjoyed, to write to his wife to make all needful preparations. not being acquainted with the secret which had become the torture of aaron cohen's life, he could have had no idea that the ready acceptance of the invitation sprang from a father's burning desire to stand by the grave of his child. aaron's visit lasted a week, and he spent one day and night in gosport. nothing was changed in the ancient town. the house he had occupied had been rebuilt; the streets were the same; the names over the shops were unaltered. his wish was to pass in and out of the town without being recognised; but the wish was not gratified. the portsmouth newspapers circulated in gosport, and aaron cohen's visit "to our esteemed neighbour, mr. moss," found its way into the local columns. it may be that mr. moss himself was the harbinger of this piece of news and that he was also responsible for certain creditable episodes in aaron's career which were duly recorded in print; but if the reporters were indebted to him for the particulars he made no mention of the fact. he was certainly proud of the paragraphs, and sent copies of the papers to all his friends. the gosport folk were therefore prepared for aaron's visit; old friends came forward to greet him; and the kind physician who had attended to rachel during her illness pressed him to be his guest, but aaron excused himself. when he left the doctor his road lay past mr. whimpole's shop, at the door of which the proprietor was standing. their eyes meeting, aaron courteously inclined his head. the corn-chandler, very red in the face, returned the salute, and, after a momentary hesitation, advanced towards aaron with outstretched hand. aaron stopped, and took the hand of his old enemy. "mr. cohen," said mr. whimpole, "i hope you do not bear animosity." "i do not, sir," replied aaron. "life is too full of anxieties for needless enmity." "i am glad to hear you say so, mr. cohen. i have often reproached myself for misjudging you; but the best of men may be mistaken." "they may, sir. i trust you have changed your opinion of those whose religious views differ from your own." "we speak as we find," said mr. whimpole; "and you have proved yourself to be a gentleman." "it is never too late to admit an error," said aaron; and, bowing again, he passed on, leaving mr. whimpole with an uncomfortable impression that he had once more been worsted by the man he despised. it was night when aaron stood by the grave of his child. light clouds floated before the moon, and the shifting shadows played upon the graves of those who lay in peace in that solemn sanctuary. for a long time he stood in silence, musing upon the sin he had committed, the full measure of which had not yet come home to him. he held a high place among men; his name was honoured; he had been spoken of as aaron cohen the upright jew; he had made himself a leader, and had but to speak to be obeyed; he had brought back strayed sheep to the fold. the chief rabbi had said to him, "the example of such a man as yourself is invaluable. inroads are being made in our ancient faith, and you stand like a valiant soldier in the breach. you exercise an influence for incalculable good." and then he had blessed the man who was hugging an awful secret close, and veiling it from the eyes of men. how would it be if his sin were laid bare? the spirit of his child seemed to rise from the grave. "why am i here?" it asked reproachfully. "why am i cut off from my race?" he beat his breast; the tears flowed down his beard. "forgive me, lord of hosts," he sobbed, "for laying my child to rest in a christian churchyard! it was to save my beloved! pardon my transgression! have mercy upon me!" book the fifth. _the gathering of the cloud_. chapter xxxi. aaron is asked for a subscription, and relates the story of a convert. the highest point in aaron cohen's prosperity was reached in . from the day of his return to england there had been no break in the onward march of his fortunes; every enterprise he undertook flourished, and the old saying was applied to him, "everything he touches turns to gold." a kind of superstition is associated with such men; people regard them as under the spell of some beneficent enchantment. aaron's reputation, however, was not due solely to the fact that he was uniformly fortunate in his ventures, but that he was a just and charitable man. no appeal for assistance in any worthy movement was made to him in vain; his purse was ever open, and he was ever ready to respond. among his co-religionists he was a power for good, and his advice was sought by high and low. the poorest jew, in a time of difficulty, did not hesitate to go to him for counsel, and only those held back whose conduct would not stand the searching light he threw upon all matters submitted to him. by the oppressor he was held in awe, by the oppressed he was worshipped. one of the former, who had grown rich by usury, came to him for advice. aaron listened in silence, and spoke no word of counsel to assist him out of his difficulty. "reform your life," he said; "give back to the poor what you have stolen from them; then come to me again." he did not confine his labours and charities to the jewish community; his name was to be found among the administrators of all their benevolent funds, and it was also to be found on the lists of numberless christian charities. in so generous a spirit did he meet the appeals that were made to him, and so devoid of narrowness were his benefactions, that he grew into the esteem of all classes of society. early in the year a public indignation meeting was held at the mansion house under the auspices of the lord mayor, to protest against the barbarous treatment of the jews in russia. church and synagogue joined hands in the common cause of human brotherhood. it was not a question of theology but of humanity, and catholic cardinal, protestant bishop, and jewish chief rabbi stood shoulder to shoulder in the indignant protest. aaron was requested to speak on the occasion, and his words went forth to the world, and were quoted far and wide. in the course of his speech he said: "we do not ask for favour, we scarcely dare ask for justice, though it is to be hoped that this will come by-and-by, when the eyes of the rulers of russia are open to the fact that in their oppression of the jew they are not only violating the laws of god and man, but are retarding their own prosperity. we ask merely for toleration, for permission to follow the faith in which we were born, to worship god according to our ancient usage. the history of nations furnishes the proof that the jew, fairly treated, is a good citizen, that he is obedient to the law, and loyal to the head of the state and in his support of lawful authority. in his love of family life, in the orderly regulation of his household, in the performance of his duty to wife and children, he is surely entitled to rank with his christian brother. he is, moreover, industrious and enterprising, he excites emulation and stimulates the commercial activity of his neighbour, by which the wealth of the general community is increased. these are distinct virtues, private and national, but russian rulers seem to account them crimes. when a tale of bodily slavery reaches a civilised country a thrill of horror runs through the land, and it is not the least of the glorious records of england that wherever the english-speaking race holds sway the shackles of the slave are removed, and he hears the blessed words, 'you are free!' but in russia they are not content to chain the body; they hold man's soul in bondage. not only do they say to the jew, 'your presence is a contamination; you shall not live in this or that town or city; you shall not engage in such or such pursuits; you shall wear badges of disgrace;' but they add, 'you shall not think; you shall not pray.' incredible are the instances of cruelty which are brought before us: of families torn asunder; of the deliberate wrecking of cherished hopes and worthy aspirations; of steady and honourable lives brought to ruin; of shameful robbery and pillage, and even of worse doings which i should blush to name. it is indeed time that the voice of humanity should be forced upon the ears of the oppressors who are making life horrible for millions of helpless human beings; and we, the jewish residents in this honoured land, render our grateful homage to this distinguished assembly, and our sincere thanks for its powerful assistance in the endeavour we are making to rescue our brethren from misery and despair." he was congratulated on all sides for these stirring words, which were recognised and acknowledged as a fitting tribute to the jewish character. some called it a vindication; he would not have it so. "we need no vindication now in this happy land," he said. "we have proved ourselves; the old prejudice is dying away." when the speech was read to rachel her eyes overflowed with tears of joy. aaron, coming in shortly afterwards, found her holding the newspaper to her heart. she took his hand, and raised it to her lips. "no, no," he said; "you humble me." he folded her in his arms, where she lay, contented and happy. as a matter of course he was sometimes beguiled into bestowing money upon unworthy objects or persons, but it did not affect him. "where lives the man who does not make mistakes?" he said. "if there is one deserving case in ten i am satisfied." in the wide scope of his charities he had some curious experiences, and one of these, becoming known, was the theme of much comment, both serious and humorous. a gentleman called upon him and solicited a contribution to an old-established society, the name of which he did not mention. he contented himself with saying that it was known all the world over, and that its objects were universally approved of. "you do not, i suppose," said aaron, "expect me to give in the dark. favour me with the name of the society." "you have doubtless heard of it," replied the gentleman. "it is the society for the promotion of christianity amongst the jews." aaron smiled as he said, "yes, i have heard of it. but, my dear sir, i am myself a jew." "i am aware of it," said the gentleman, "and the reason i make the appeal is that you have been described to me as a man who has no narrow prejudices, and who is in no sense dogmatic or bigoted." "it is, then, a compliment you are paying me when you ask me to contribute to a fund which is antagonistic to my race." "in your view antagonistic," observed the gentleman. "there are generally two sides to a question." "i see. meaning that my view is not necessarily the correct view." the gentleman nodded courteously. he was not a collector for the society, nor a paid officer, but a man of means who was also noted for his benevolence. "i have myself occasionally," he remarked, "given a donation to an object with which i was not in entire sympathy." "when you decided to pay me a visit had you any hope of converting me?" "your conversion would give our society an immense impetus, but i had no hope of it. but there are men whose views are not so firmly fixed as your own, and i thought you would not object to assist them in the praiseworthy task of examining their consciences." "through a lens made of gold. in other words, giving them mercenary assistance to a spiritual conclusion." "it is an original way of putting it," said the gentleman, greatly interested in the turn the conversation was taking. "i cannot but consider the matter seriously," said aaron, thoughtfully, "for there can be no doubt of your sincerity. still, it occurs to me that if we were both equally sincere in our advocacy of objects of a similar nature, it would be as well that we should pause and ask ourselves this question. instead of endeavouring to convert jews or christians to a faith in which they were not born, would it not be better to employ ourselves in the effort to make those who call themselves christians true christians, and those who call themselves jews true jews?" "there is force in your argument, but it is no answer to my appeal for a contribution to the objects of my society." "you can probably," aaron then said, "furnish me with particulars of the working of your society." "anticipating your request i have brought the papers with me." aaron looked through the printed books and papers handed to him, and made certain calculations. "i perceive," he said, "that you take credit to yourselves for making a stated number of conversions during the past five years, and that you have spent a stated sum of money during that period. the number of conversions is very small, the amount of money expended very large. i have worked out the sum, and according to my figures each convert has cost you nearly eleven thousand pounds. you find these wavering jews very expensive." "very expensive," assented the gentleman, with a half humorous sigh. "i cannot say i sympathise with you, but i will make a proposition to you. you are zealous in the furtherance of an object which you believe to be worthy, and i am zealous in the furtherance of an object which i know to be worthy. i will give you a cheque as a donation to your object if you will give me a cheque for half the amount as a donation to mine. do not be afraid; it is not for the promotion of judaism among the christians." the gentleman, who was rich and liberal-minded, laughed good-humouredly as he said, "i consent, on the further understanding that your cheque is for a reasonable amount." "will this do?" asked aaron, filling in a cheque for one hundred pounds. the gentleman made a wry face, but, without remark, he wrote a cheque for fifty pounds, and they exchanged documents. "my contribution," said aaron, "represents the one hundred and tenth part of a convert--the one hundred and tenth part of one transitory and, in all probability, worldly and insincere conversion. your contribution represents a sick bed for two years in a hospital for poor children. during those two years you will be engaged in converting the one hundred and tenth part of an apostate jew, and my hospital beds will be occupied by two poor christian children, who, by god's mercy, will, i trust, be restored to health. you will pardon me for saying that i think i have the best of the transaction." "you are a singular man," said the gentleman, "and i will not dispute with you. but i should like a few words with you upon what you say as to our converts being worldly and insincere. is that really your opinion?" "it is something more than an opinion. it is a conviction." "based upon some kind of proof, i presume?" "based upon proof and observation. once a jew, always a jew, whether he follows the mosaic laws or disregards them. so powerful is the seed of judaism that it can never be entirely destroyed in the heart of one born in the ancient faith. we who are jews know this to be incontrovertible; you who are christians may not be able to understand it. so much for observation; now for the proof. i observe on your list of converts the name of borlinski." "you know the name?" the gentleman interrupted, eagerly. "it is very familiar to me," replied aaron. "there are two borlinskis on the list," said the gentleman. "josef and izak." "i am acquainted with them both." "we are very proud of the borlinskis," said the gentleman, speaking with enthusiasm, "as the most important converts on our books. they are under engagement with us." "on a salary?" "yes, an insignificant salary; twenty-five shillings a week each." "employed by you to make other converts." "yes." "have they been successful?" "they have been with us for a few months only," said the gentleman. "these things take time." "truly, they take time--and money. would you mind relating to me how the borlinskis became associated with your society?" "not at all. it was a matter of conscience, purely a matter of conscience. that is why we are so proud of them. josef borlinski came first. he presented himself at our office; he had doubts; he had had doubts since childhood. in his country--poland--no such society as ours exists, where a man can obtain monition and teaching to confirm or dispel those doubts. there are in that country converted jews, but the conversion is sudden and effected by a kind of terrorism. josef borlinski is a reasonable being, and wished to be convinced through his reason. we cheerfully took up the task of convincing him of the error of his ways; we argued with him, we gave him books, he attended our meetings, we expounded the gospel to him. at length he was satisfied, and became a zealous and happy convert to christianity." "how many months or years did it take to convince josef borlinski of his error?" asked aaron. "nearly two years." "during which time you supported him." "we could do no less. he was desperately poor, almost starving when he came to us. then, he was a foreigner, and the only trade--if it can be called one--to which he could turn his hand was that of an itinerant glazier, at which he could not earn more than three or four shillings a week, sometimes not so much. in any circumstances, it would have been a dangerous occupation for him to follow; he would have had to be out the whole of the day exposed to the weather, and the poor fellow is consumptive." "so that you first adopted, and then converted him. how did you get hold of izak borlinski?" "he is josef's cousin, and josef brought him to us." "zealous josef! izak also had doubts, and wished to be convinced through his reason?" "that is so." "and you adopted and converted him as well as josef?" "yes." "clever josef! poor, consumptive josef! it would not surprise me if he presently introduces another of his countrymen to you who has had doubts since childhood, and wishes to be convinced--through his reason and your pocket. him, also, you can adopt and convert. ah, what a loss to the stage is josef borlinski! only that he lacks industry, for in him are united a fox's cunning and a sloth's love of idleness. the rogue! he imposed upon me for months, until at length, my suspicions aroused, i unmasked the rascal." "do you mean to say that we have been imposed upon?" asked the gentleman, in an excited tone. "judge for yourself. six years ago josef borlinski came to this country, and lived for some time upon charity. i am on the committees of several of our benevolent institutions, and at every meeting i attended, the name of josef borlinski cropped up. it was always josef borlinski, josef borlinski, destitute and starving. the continual recurrence of the name irritated me, and i went to see this josef borlinski, destitute and starving. i found him down whitechapel way playing draughts with his cousin, izak. i saw before me a young man with black eyes, black hair, and a general appearance of belonging to the lymphatic order of being. i questioned him. how long had he been in england? eighteen months. why had he lived upon charity all that time? he was unfortunate; he could not obtain work. was he willing to work? oh yes, yes, yes, several times repeated, his little cunning eyes watching me as we conversed. was he married? no. had he a trade? unfortunately no, he had no trade. then, what could he do, what did he feel himself fitted for? anything, everything. he is a man of professions this josef borlinski, glib of tongue, quick at response, supple as a reed, slippery as an eel. i reflected. he spoke english fairly well; he looked strong and healthy, not a symptom of consumption visible. how much a week could he, a single man, live upon? upon anything, nothing--a few shillings, a few pence. thus spoke josef borlinski, humbly and smoothly, interlarding his speech with hebrew exclamations and pious adjurations. i offered him a situation at twenty shillings a week, to be increased if he gave satisfaction, which required no special knowledge of a trade, and in which he would have to work five days out of the seven. boundless were his professions of gratitude. i was his benefactor; he would bless me all his life. he commenced work on the following monday, and on the tuesday he presented himself to me, with his coat rent, and black cloth round his hat. he had received a letter from poland; his father was dead; a week of mourning was incumbent upon him; could he be spared to fulfil this religious obligation? grief was in his countenance, tears in his eyes, his voice trembled. i sympathised with him; he could have his week's mourning. but he was destitute; he was starving; how was he to support himself during this week of enforced idleness? i gave him something more than a week's wages, and he departed, blessing me. his week of mourning over, it was reported to me that he had not returned to work. i sought him out, and found him playing draughts with his cousin izak. he made a thousand excuses; he was ill; he was overwhelmed with sorrow at the loss he had sustained; he did not understand english customs; he did not think it was lawful to resume work in the middle of the week; moreover, he was in rags. he obtained money from me for a new suit of clothes, and a further extension of leave till the end of the week. on the monday he duly presented himself, and in the afternoon fell down in a swoon, and had to be conveyed home in a cab, where he remained for three weeks, supported, as usual, by charity. my wife sent him wine and jelly, and the rascal was in clover. i visited him, and found him playing draughts with his cousin izak. 'the game requires no exertion,' he said languidly; 'it is my only amusement; it diverts my mind from the sorrow by which i am oppressed.' i thought it extremely curious. the effects of his swoon having passed away, he commenced work again, and on the second day i received a letter from him. he had been compelled, he wrote, to take to his bed; he had spasms; he was doubled up with pain; he hoped to be better soon; meanwhile, could i send him a few shillings for medicine and food? he obtained what he asked for, and i called to see how he was progressing. i found him playing draughts with his cousin izak. i was now thoroughly interested in josef borlinski. such a chapter of accidents--such a plausible speaker and writer--so regularly unfortunate when he went to work, and so fond of playing draughts with his cousin izak. i he was weeks getting rid of his spasms, but at length he recommenced work. would you believe it? on the evening of the first day i found him waiting for me in this house. his left hand was in bandages, and the linen was besmeared with blood. in heaven's name what had happened? he told me a lugubrious tale of having cut three of his fingers to the bone. the accident happening in my service made me responsible, and i felt myself bound to support him, especially as i discovered that he had related his woes to my wife, who was filled with pity for the rascal. 'you will look after the poor man,' she said to me; 'i promised him that you would.' 'i will look after him,' i replied. i did, and at every visit i paid him i found him playing draughts with his cousin izak. he was, however, so long getting well this time, that i sent my own doctor to him. i also employed an agent to make inquiries into the history of the borlinskis. my doctor reported that it was with great difficulty he had succeeded in obtaining a sight of josefs wounded fingers. he had him held fast while he took off the bandages, and then he discovered that the fingers were without a scar, no wound of any kind had been received. my agent reported that the borlinskis were well known in the village in poland from which they had emigrated. they had lived the lives of idle scamps there, and had never been known to do one day's honest work. they preferred to hang about the drinking shops, to beg, to pilfer on the sly, to impose on charitable strangers, to do anything but work. as liars they were pre-eminent. josef lost his father fourteen years before he came to england, therefore his statement that he had just received a letter from poland informing him of his father's death was an invention, a trick. his swoon was a trick; his spasms a trick; his cutting his fingers to the bone a trick. from the hairs of his head to the soles of his feet he is a knave and a trickster; through his blood runs the incorrigible vice of indolence, and rather than work he will resort to any subterfuge. only on one day in the whole year does his conscience disturb him, on the day of the white fast. to-day a jew, to-morrow a christian, the next day a mohammedan, the next a pagan--it matters not to him so long as he can make money out of it, and eat the bread of idleness. my dear sir, i wish you joy of your borlinskis." the gentleman rose to take his leave, his belief in the genuineness of the conversion of the borlinskis visibly shaken. he put but one question to aaron cohen. "josef borlinski being what you describe him to be, what becomes of your assertion, 'once a jew, always a jew'?" "i have spoken of the white fast," replied aaron, "as the only day upon which josef's conscience is awake. he believes, as we all do, in a future state, in the immortality of the soul. the white fast is the great day of atonement, when jews pray to be forgiven the sins they have committed during the past year. the most ignorant of them believe that if they pray and fast on the day of atonement their transgressions are atoned for. we have our black sheep, as you have; but the blackest of them observes this day with superstitious fear, and josef borlinski is not an exception. this year, on the day of atonement, i myself saw josef in synagogue, enveloped in the white shroud he brought from poland, beating his breast, and praying for forgiveness for his sins. from sunset to sunset food did not pass his lips; from sunset to sunset he prayed, and grovelled, and trembled. come to our synagogue next year, and you shall see him there, if before that time he is not called to his account. though he be converted to twenty different religions, and baptized twenty times over, josef borlinski is a jew, and will remain a jew to the last hour of his life." chapter xxxii. aaron cohen addresses a jewish audience. the world gave aaron cohen credit for being exceedingly wealthy, and fabulous tales of the success of his ventures obtained credence with the people. instead of the age of romance being over, there was never a time in the world's history which afforded so much material for romance as the present, and in which it was so eagerly sought after and believed in. imagination is more powerful than science, and this is the age of both. small wonder, therefore, for the current report that aaron cohen was a millionaire; but such was not the case. he had money and to spare, and his private establishment was conducted on a liberal scale. had he retired at this period he might have done so on an income of some five thousand pounds, which people's imagination would have multiplied by ten; and he might have justified this flight as to his means were it not that in addition to the charities to which he openly subscribed, a considerable portion of the profits of his enterprises was given anonymously to every public movement for the good of the people and for the relief of the poor. for several years past great curiosity had been evinced to learn the name of the anonymous donor of considerable sums of money sent through the post in bank-notes in response to every benevolent appeal to the public purse. a colliery disaster, a flood, an earthquake in a distant country, a case of national destitution--to one and all came large contributions from a singularly generous donor, who, in the place of his signature, accompanied the gift with the simple words, "in atonement." several well-known benefactors were credited with these liberal subscriptions, but so careful was the giver in the means he adopted to preserve his anonymity that they were not traced to the right source. they were strange words to use to such an end. in atonement of what? of an undiscovered crime, the committal of which had enriched the man who would not sign his name? a few ingenious writers argued the matter out in the lesser journals, and although specifically they were very far from the truth, they were in a general sense more often nearer to it than they suspected. these charitable donations were aaron's constant appeal to the divine throne for mercy and forgiveness for the one sin of his life, and thus did he effectually guard against becoming a millionaire. he was, indeed, unceasing in his secret charities to individuals as well as to public bodies. many a struggling man never discovered to whom he was indebted for the timely assistance which lifted him out of his troubles, and started him on the high road to prosperity; many a widow had cause to bless this mysterious dispenser of good. if upon his deathbed a life-long sinner, repenting, may be forgiven his numberless transgressions, surely a life-long record of noble deeds may atone for an error prompted by the purest feelings of love. such a thought did not enter aaron's mind; the flattering unction was not for him. he walked in sorrow and humility, wronging no man, doing good to many, and faithfully performing his duty to all. at the judgment seat he would know. perhaps of all the institutions in which he took a part, those which most deeply interested him were the jewish working men's clubs in the east end. he was one of their most liberal patrons; their library shelves were lined with the books he had presented, and he frequently took the chair at their sunday evening gatherings. the announcement of his name was sufficient to crowd the hall; to shake hands with aaron cohen was one of the ambitions of the younger members. when he made his appearance at these gatherings he felt that he was among friends; there was a freemasonry among them, as indeed there is among jews all the world over. aaron devoted particular attention to the young people. he knew that the hope of judaism lay in the new generation, and it was his aim to encourage in the minds of the young the pride of race which engenders self-respect and strengthens racial character. he regarded old customs as something more than landmarks in his religion; they were essentials, the keystones of the arch which kept the fabric together, and he was anxious that they should be preserved. symbols are unmeaning to the materialist; to those who have faith they convey a pregnant message, the origin of which can be traced back to the first days of creation, when god made man in his own image. they are the links which unite the past, full of glorious traditions, and the future, full of divine hope. of this past aaron spoke in words which stirred the sluggish fires in the hearts of the old, and made them leap into flame in the hearts of the young. "i have heard," he said, "of jews who were ashamed that it should be known that they were jews; of jews who, when jews were spoken of slightingly in christian society, have held their tongues in order that they might perchance escape from the implied disparagement. i will not stop to inquire whether this springs from cowardice or sensitiveness, for in either case it is both wrong and foolish. lives there any member of an old historic family who is not proud of the past which has been transmitted to him as a heritage, who is not conscious that his lineage sheds a lustre upon the name he bears? not one. he pores over the annals of his race, and, pausing at the record of a noble deed performed, thinks proudly, 'this deed was performed by my ancestor, and it lives in history.' he takes up a novel or a poem, and reads it with exultant feelings, as having been inspired by another ancestor who, mayhap, shed his blood in defence of king and country. let me remind you, if you have lost sight of the fact, that there is no historic family in england or elsewhere the record of whose deeds can vie in splendour with the record of the jew. his history is at once a triumph of brain power and spiritual vitality, and the proudest boast a jew can make is that he is a jew. it is not he who holds the lower ground; he stands on the heights, a noble among the men who presume to despise him. be true to yourselves, and it will not be long before this is made manifest and universally acknowledged. in personal as well as in racial history you stand pre-eminent. what greater schoolman than maimonides? what greater master of philosophy than spinoza? what poets more sublime than isaiah and ezekiel? in infamous russia jews who practised their religion in secret have been among its most eminent ministers of finance, and the glory of spain departed when it persecuted our brethren and drove them from the country. the disraelis, father and son, were jews; benary was a jew; neander, the founder of spiritual christianity, was a jew; in germany the most celebrated professors of divinity were jews; wehl, a jew, the famous arabic scholar, wrote the 'history of christianity'; the first jesuits were jews; soult and messina were jews; count arnim was a jew; auerbach, pasta, grisi, rachel, sara bernhardt, baron hirsch, the philanthropist, meyerbeer, mendelssohn--all jews. these are but a few of the names which occur to me; are you ashamed to be associated with them? in war, in politics, in philosophy, in finance, in philanthropy, in exploration and colonisation, in all the arts and professions, you stand in the front rank. i see in this audience many young men, some of whom, i believe, are by their talents destined to become famous, and some to grow rich by their shrewdness and industry. to them i say, work and prosper, and work in the right way. whatever be the channel they have chosen to the goal they wish to reach, let them work honestly towards it, and when they stand upon the fairer shore let them not forget their religion, let them not forget that they owe their advancement to the intelligent and intellectual forces which have been transmitted to them by their great ancestors through all the generations." this address was received with enthusiasm, and aaron's hearers went to their homes that night stirred to their inmost hearts, and proud of the faith of their forefathers. chapter xxxiii. what shall be done to the man whom the king delighteth to honour? on a bright morning in the autumn of the year a number of influential persons wended their way to aaron cohen's house to take part in a function of a peculiarly interesting nature. they comprised representatives of literature and the arts, of politics, science, and commerce, and among them were delegates of the press, who were deputed to report the proceedings for their respective journals. that the pen is mightier than the sword was open to dispute at an earlier period of the world's history, but the contention exists no longer, and though the day is far distant when the lion shall lie down with the lamb, the press is now a powerful factor in peace and war, and can effectually hasten or retard the conflict of nations. it is an open question whether its invasion of the arena of private life is a desirable feature in the power it wields; but it is useless to resist its march in this direction, and earnest as may be a man's desire to hide his light (or the reverse) under a bushel, he does not live to see it gratified. the up-to-date journalist, argus-eyed, overruns the earth; it is to be deplored that his quill is sometimes poison-tipped, but as a rule he sets about his work with good-humoured zest, and it is not to be denied that he prepares many a piquant dish for his omnivorous public. when a movement was set afoot to make some sort of semi-private, semi-public recognition of the remarkable position attained by the hero of this story, he made an effort to discourage it. the idea of any kind of publicity was distasteful to him, and he expressed an opinion to this effect. it was not heeded by the organisers of the testimonial, and he was thinking of remonstrating in stronger terms, when the matter was settled for him by a few simple words spoken by rachel. "why do you object?" she asked. "you did not seek the honour, and it will reflect honour upon us." "do you wish it, rachel?" "it will give me pleasure, dear," she replied. he did not argue with her, but yielded immediately, and allowed himself to be carried with the stream. never in the course of their happy married life had he failed to comply with her lightest wish; never had there been the least conflict between them; to each of them the word of the other was law, and it was love's cheerful duty to obey. the esteem in which he was held was to be demonstrated by two presentations, one a portrait of himself by a famous english artist, the other a picture also, the subject being withheld from his knowledge. this second painting was no other than the picture of rachel sitting beneath the cherry tree, which had created so much interest in the paris _salon_ more than a dozen years ago. it had originally been purchased by a collector, who had lately died. after his death his collection had been brought to the hammer, and this particular picture was purchased by a london dealer, who exhibited it in his shop. the first intention was to present a silver memorial with aaron's portrait, but a friend of his happened to see the french picture in london, and was struck by the wonderful resemblance of the principal figure to rachel. he made inquiries privately of aaron respecting his sojourn in the south of france, and learned that there was a picturesque cherry tree in the grounds at the back of the house, in the shadow of which rachel was in the habit of sitting in sunny weather, that he had a friend, the curé of the village, and that one summer a french painter had visited the village and had made a number of sketches of rachel and the garden. following up his inquiries, aaron's friend obtained from the london dealer some information of the history of the picture and of the year in which it was exhibited, and, putting this and that together, he came to the conclusion that rachel had unconsciously sat for the picture. it was an interesting discovery, and the first idea of a silver presentation was put aside, and the picture substituted in its place. mr. moss, of course, came from portsmouth to attend the function. our old friend was frequently in london now, to attend to certain complicated business matters. sad to say, of late years fortune had not smiled upon him; he had met with losses, but that did not prevent him from humming his operatic airs at every possible opportunity. he had himself to blame for this reverse of fortune; certainly he had a tremendously large family, sixteen children to rear and provide for, and eight of them girls--he used to say jocularly that it was difficult to find names for them; but he had a comfortable business, and should have been content. unhappily, one day he had a bright idea; he made a plunge in stocks, with disastrous results. had he consulted aaron cohen, as he afterwards confessed, it would never have happened; aaron would have shown him the folly of expecting to grow rich in a week. the consequence was that he found himself involved, and his frequent visits to london were necessitated by his personal endeavours to reduce his losses. it made no difference in aaron's friendship for him; it may be said, indeed, to have strengthened it. in a time of more than ordinary difficulty aaron came forward voluntarily, and afforded practical assistance to his old friend. "if you want to know the kind of metal aaron cohen is made of," he said to his wife, "go to him when you are in misfortune. that is the time to prove a man." another strengthening tie was to be forged in the firm friendship of these men. one at least of mr. moss's numerous daughters was always in london on a visit to rachel, and it was quite in the natural order of things that joseph cohen should fall in love with esther moss, the prettiest and sweetest of all the girls. rachel and her husband were very fond of esther, and regarded the attachment with favour. joseph was too young yet to marry, but with the consent of his parents an engagement was entered into between the young people, and there was joy in mr. moss's estimable family. it was a natural consequence of this family arrangement that esther was frequently invited to make her home for a time with the cohens in london, and she was in their house on the day of the presentations. her lover was absent, and had been out of england for some months past. young as he was, he already held a position of responsibility in an extensive firm, and had been sent to australia to attend to business of an important nature. he was expected home at the end of the week, but was then to remain in england only a few days, his passage to india being taken, his mission being to establish agencies in that land for the gentleman by whom he was employed. years ago the choice of a classical education had been offered him by his father; but his inclination was for commerce, and aaron cohen did not believe in forcing a lad into a career which was distasteful to him. upon his return from india eight or nine months hence the marriage between him and esther was to take place. needless to say how proud and happy the young maid was in the contemplation of the approaching union. neither was ruth cohen a witness of the honour which was paid to the man she believed to be her father. she had invited herself to portsmouth, to spend a week or two with mrs. moss. when she expressed the wish to go rachel cohen had remonstrated with her, and hinted that she should remain in london to attend the presentations; but ruth was restless and rebellious, and said she did not care to be present. rachel, inwardly grieved, did not press it upon her. "are you not happy at home?" she asked gently. ruth did not speak, and rachel continued, "you do not take pleasure in the society of our friends?" "i am not very fond of them," ruth replied. rachel said no more. ruth's dislike of jewish society was not new to her; it had caused her great pain, and she had striven in vain to combat it. the strength of rachel's character lay in her moral and sympathetic affections: with those who recognised the sweetness and unselfishness of these attributes her power was great; with those who failed to appreciate them she was powerless. this was the case with ruth, in whom, as she grew to womanhood, was gradually developed a stubbornness which boded ill for peace. frequently and anxiously did rachel ask herself, from whom could a daughter of her blood have inherited views and ideas so antagonistic and rebellious? aaron could have answered this question, had it been put to him, and had he dared to answer. ruth's instincts were in her blood, transmitted by parents whom he had never known, and of whose characters he was ignorant. heredity lay at the root of this domestic misery. as a rule, vices, virtues, and all classes of the affections are hereditary, and the religious sentiments are not an exception. aaron had studied the subject, and was conscious of the solemn issues dependent upon it. he had obtained possession of ruth's body, but not of her mind, and even of the former his guardianship would soon be at an end. although he could not fix the exact day of her birth, she would soon be twenty-one years of age, when the duty would devolve upon him of delivering to her the iron casket of which he had been made the custodian, and he was in an agony how he should act. every day that passed deepened his agony; he saw shadows gathering over his house which might wreck the happiness of his beloved wife. again and again had he debated the matter without being able to arrive at any comforting conclusion. undoubtedly the casket contained the secret of ruth's parentage; when that was revealed the sword would fall. however, he could not on this day give himself up to these disturbing reflections; he had consented to accept an honour of which he deemed himself unworthy, and it was incumbent upon him that he should not betray himself. there was still a little time left to him to decide upon his course of action. the man of upright mind was at this period laying himself open to dangerous casuistical temptations. even from such unselfish love as he entertained for the wife who was deserving of love in its sweetest and purest aspects may spring an upas tree to poison the air we breathe. among the company was an old friend of ours--dr. spenlove, who had attained an eminent position in london. his career from the time he left portsmouth had been a remarkable one. in the larger field of labour to which he had migrated his talents were soon recognised, and he began almost at once to mount the ladder of renown. success in the medical profession is seldom gained upon an insecure foundation; there must be some solid justification for it, and once secured it lasts a lifetime. dr. spenlove was no exception to the rule, and was not spoilt by prosperity. he was still distinguished by that kindliness of nature which had made his name a household word in the humble neighbourhood in portsmouth in which he had struggled and suffered. the poor never appealed to him in vain, and he was as attentive to those who could not afford to pay him as to those from whom he drew heavy fees. many a time did he step from his carriage to a garret in which lay a poor sufferer whose fortunes were at the lowest ebb, and many a trembling hand which held a few poor coins was gently put aside with tender and cheerful words which were never forgotten by those to whom they were spoken. a man so kindly-hearted was of necessity associated with the benevolent and public movements of the passing hour. aaron cohen, whom till this day he had not met, had subscribed to some of the charities in which he was interested, and he gladly availed himself of the opportunity of becoming acquainted with him. when the company were assembled in the reception room in aaron's house, dr. spenlove happened to be standing next to mr. moss, whom he had not seen since he left portsmouth. except for the wear and tear of time, which, however, did not sit heavily upon him, there was little alteration in mr. moss; his worldly anxieties had not dimmed the brightness of his eyes, nor robbed his countenance of its natural cheerful aspect. there was a greater alteration in dr. spenlove; the thoughtful lines in his face had deepened, there was an introspection in his eyes. mr. moss seemed to be for ever looking upon the outer world, dr. spenlove for ever looking upon his inner self. as an observer of character mr. moss was dr. spenlove's superior; as a student and searcher after truth dr. spenlove towered above mr. moss. the man of business never forgot a face; the man of science often did. the first sign of recognition, therefore, came from mr. moss. "good day, dr. spenlove." the physician looked up, and said, abstractedly, "good day." he frequently acknowledged a salute from persons whose names he could not at the moment recall. "you do not remember me," said mr. moss, with a smile. "you will pardon me," said dr. spenlove, searching his memory; "i have an unfortunate failing----" "of forgetting faces," said mr. moss, with a smile. "it is very stupid of me." "not at all; one can't help it. besides, it is so long since we met--over twenty years." "in london?" "no; in portsmouth, the night before you left. we had an adventure together----" "you quicken my memory. how do you do, mr. moss?" they shook hands. "very well, thank you, and happy to see you again. i have heard a great deal of you, doctor; you are at the top of the ladder now. it is strange, after the lapse of years, that we should meet in this house." "why is our meeting in this house strange?" inquired dr. spenlove. the question recalled mr. moss to himself. the one incident which formed a link between them was that connected with a wretched woman and her babe whom they had rescued from impending death on a snowy night long ago in the past. but he had not made dr. spenlove acquainted with the name of the man to whom he had entrusted the child, and upon this point his lips were sealed. "i mean," he said, "that the circumstances of our meeting here and in portsmouth are so different." "widely different. varied as have been my experiences, i have met with none more thrilling than that in which we were both engaged on that eventful night. i have not forgotten your kindness, mr. moss. i trust the world has prospered with you." "so-so. we all have our ups and downs. health is the main thing, and that we enjoy. doctors have a bad time with us." "i am glad to hear it. by the way, mr. moss, my part of the adventure came to an end on the day i left portsmouth; you had still something to do. did you succeed in finding a comfortable home for the child?" "yes." "did you lose sight of her after that?" "very soon. before she had been in her new home twenty-four hours the poor thing died." "dear, dear! but i am not surprised. it was hardly to be expected that the child would live long after the exposure on such a bitter night. she was almost buried in the snow. it was, most likely, a happy release. and the mother, mr. moss?" "i have heard nothing of her whatever." the conversation ceased here. the proceedings had commenced, and a gentleman was speaking. he was a man of discretion, which all orators are not. he touched lightly and pertinently upon the reputation which mr. aaron cohen had earned by his unremitting acts of benevolence and by the worthiness of his career. such a man deserved the good fortune which had attended him, and such a man's career could not fail to be an incentive to worthy endeavour. rachel, seated by her husband, turned her sightless eyes upon the audience and listened to the speaker with gratitude and delight. it was not that she had waited for this moment to learn that she was wedded to an upright and noble man, but it was an unspeakable happiness to her to hear from the lips of others that he was appreciated as he deserved, that he was understood as she understood him. it was natural, said the speaker, that the gentleman in whose honour they had that day assembled should be held in the highest esteem by his co-religionists, but it was a glory that in a christian country a jew should have won from all classes of a mixed community a name which would be enrolled upon those pages of our social history which most fitly represent the march of true civilisation and humanity. they were not there to glorify money; they were not there to glorify worldly prosperity; they were there to pay tribute to one whose example christians well might follow, to a man without stain, without reproach. the influence of such a man in removing--no, not in removing, but obliterating--the prejudices of caste was lasting and all-powerful. he regarded it as a privilege that he had been deputed to express the general sentiment with respect to mr. aaron cohen. this sentiment, he begged to add, was not confined to mr. cohen, but included his wife, whose charities and benevolence were perhaps even more widely known and recognised than those of the partner of her joys and sorrows. in the presence of this estimable couple it was difficult to speak as freely as he would wish, but he was sure they would understand that in wishing them long life and happiness he was wishing them much more than he dared to express in their hearing, and that there was but one feeling entertained towards them, a feeling not of mere respect and esteem, but of affection and love. in the name of the subscribers he offered for their acceptance two paintings, one a portrait of mr. cohen by an artist of renown, for which he had been good enough to sit, the other a painting which probably they would look upon now for the first time. the latter picture was an accidental discovery, but mr. cohen would tell them whether they were right in seizing the opportunity to obtain it, and whether they were right in their belief that his esteemed wife had unconsciously inspired the artist who had availed himself of a happy chance to immortalise himself. the pictures were then unveiled amid general acclamation, and if ever rachel wished for the blessing of sight to be restored to her it was at that moment; but it was only for a moment. the dependence she placed upon her husband, the trust she had in him, the pleasure she derived from his eloquent and sympathetic descriptions of what was hidden from her, were of such a nature that she sometimes said inly, "i am thankful i can see only through the eyes of my dear husband." the portrait of himself, from his frequent sittings, was familiar to aaron cohen, but the picture of his beloved sitting beneath the cherry tree was a delightful surprise to him. it was an exquisitely painted scene, and rachel's portrait was as faithful as if she had given months of her time towards its successful accomplishment. aaron's response was happy up to a certain point. except to pay a deserved compliment to the artist and to express his gratitude to the subscribers, he said little about the portrait of himself. the presentation of the second picture supplied the theme for the principal part of his speech. he said there was no doubt that it was a portrait of his dear wife, and he recalled the time they had passed in the south of france, and described all the circumstances of the intimacy with the artist which had led to the painting of the picture. he was grateful for that intimacy because of its result, which he saw before him, and because of the pleasure it would afford his beloved wife, who, until to-day, had been as ignorant as himself that such a painting was in existence. "i went to the south of france," he said, "in the hope that my wife, who was in a delicate state of health, would be benefited by a short stay there. my hope was more than realised; she grew strong there; my son, whose absence from england deprives him of the pleasure of being present on this interesting occasion, was born there, and there the foundation of my prosperity was laid. it might be inferred from this that i believe all the events of a man's life are ruled by chance, but such is not my belief. there is an all-seeing providence who shows us the right path; he speaks through our reason and our consciences, and except for the accident of birth, which lays a heavy burden upon many unfortunate beings, and which should render them not fully responsible for the evil they do, we ourselves are responsible for the consequences of our actions. we must accept the responsibility and the consequences." he paused a few moments before he continued. "when men of fair intelligence err they err consciously; it is idle for them to say that they erred in ignorance of the consequences. they must know, if they write with black ink, that their writing must be black." he paused again. "but it may be that a man commits a conscious error through his affections, and if that error inflicts injury upon no living being--if it even confer a benefit upon one or more--there may be some palliation of his error. in stating that you set for me a standard too high i am stating my firm belief. no man is stainless, no man is without reproach; the doctrine of infallibility applied to human affairs is monstrous and wicked; it is an arrogation of divine power. i am, as all men are, open to error; in my life, as in the lives of all men, there have been mistakes; but i may still take the credit to myself that if i have committed a conscious error it has harmed no living soul, and that it has sprung from those affections which sweeten and bless our lives. a reference has been made to my being a jew. i glory that i am one. the traditions and history of the race to which i am proud to belong have been of invaluable service to me, and to the circumstance of my being a jew i owe the incidents of this day, which will be ever a proud memory to me and to my family. in the name of my dear wife and my own i thank you cordially, sincerely and gratefully for the honour you have paid to us--an honour not beyond my wife's merits, but far beyond my own." other speeches followed, and when the proceedings were at an end dr. spenlove asked mr. moss to introduce him to mr. cohen. "cohen," said mr. moss, "dr. spenlove wishes to be introduced to you. he practised in portsmouth twenty years ago." aaron started. he never forgot a name or a face, and he recollected the mention of dr. spenlove's name when mr. moss came to him in gosport with the child. "without exactly knowing it, perhaps," said dr. spenlove, "you have been most kind in movements in which i have taken an interest. i am glad of the opportunity of making your acquaintance." nothing more; no reference to the private matter. aaron breathed more freely. he responded to dr. spenlove's advances, and the gentlemen parted friends. mr. moss had been somewhat puzzled by aaron's speech. it seemed to him that his friend did not place sufficient value on himself. "people are always ready to take you at your own price, so don't be too modest," was a favourite saying of his. then what did aaron mean by letting people suppose that he had done something wrong in his life? he spoke about it to aaron. "look back," said aaron, laying his hand kindly on mr. moss's shoulder, "and tell me if you do not recollect some action which you would gladly recall." "i daresay, i daresay," said mr. moss, restlessly, "but what's the use of confessing it when there's no occasion? it's letting yourself down." aaron turned to greet another friend, and the subject was dropped; but it remained, nevertheless, in mr. moss's mind. his daughter esther was in the room during the proceedings, and her fair young face beamed with pride; it was her lover's father who was thus honoured, and she felt that she had, through aaron cohen's son, a share in that honour. when the gratifying but fatiguing labours of the day were at an end, and aaron, rachel, and esther were alone, rachel said,-- "i am sorry, dear esther, that joseph was not here to hear what was said about his father." "it would not have made him love and honour him more," said esther. rachel pressed her hand and kissed her; she had grown to love this sweet and simple girl, who seemed to have but one thought in life--her lover. then the sightless woman asked them to describe the pictures to her, and she listened in an ecstasy of happiness to their words. "is it not wonderful?" she said to aaron. "a famous picture, they said, and i the principal figure. what can the painter have seen in me?" "what all men see, my life," replied aaron; "but what no one knows as i know." "it has been a happy day," sighed rachel; she sat between them, each holding a hand. "you did not hear from our dear ruth this morning?" "no, dear mother." for thus was esther already permitted to address rachel. "she will be home in two days, and our dear lad as well. i wish he were back from india, even before he has started, and so do you, my dear. but time soon passes. just now it seems but yesterday that we were in france." the day waned. rachel and esther were together; aaron was in his study writing, and preparing for an important meeting he had to attend that night. a servant entered. "a gentleman to see you, sir." aaron looked at the card, which bore the name of mr. richard dillworthy. "i am busy," said aaron. "does he wish to see me particularly? ask him if he can call again." "he said his business was pressing, sir." "show him in." the servant ushered the visitor into the room, a slightly-built, middle-aged man, with iron-grey hair and whiskers. aaron motioned him to a chair, and he placed a card on the table, bearing the name and address of a firm of lawyers. "i am mr. dillworthy, of dillworthy, maryx, and co.," he said. "yes?" "i have come to speak to you upon a family matter----" "a family matter!" exclaimed aaron, interrupting him. "does it concern me?" "it concerns you closely, and the client on whose behalf i am here." "what is its nature?" "allow me to disclose it in my own way. i shall take it as a favour if you will regard this interview as private." "certainly." "briefly, i may say, as an introduction, that it refers to your daughter, miss ruth cohen." chapter xxxiv. the honourable percy storndale. for the second time on this eventful day aaron felt as if his sin were about to be brought home to him, as if the temple which, by long years of honourable and upright conduct, he had built for himself, were about to crumble to dust. in that temple was enshrined not only his good name, but what was far more precious to him, his wife's happiness and peace of mind. he had not yet nerved himself to the effort to go to her frankly and say, "ruth is not our child." out of rachel's innate goodness and sweetness sprang the love she bore for the young girl. the suggestion of love may come from without, but the spirit of love is the offspring of one's own heart, and it is made enduring and ennobling by one's own higher qualities; and in a like manner it is one's lower passions which debase and degrade it. in whatever fashion rachel would receive her husband's confession, he knew full well that it would inflict upon her the most exquisite suffering; the cherished ideal of her life would be shattered, and she would sit for ever afterwards in sackcloth and ashes. this was his torturing belief; it was not that he dreaded exposure for his own sake; he had no wish to spare himself, but to spare rachel inevitable suffering. he knew that the truth could not be much longer hidden, and yet he was too weak to take the deciding step. he had sown a harvest of woe, and his constant fervent prayer was that he might not be compelled to reap it with his own hands. agitated as he was, he did not betray himself by word or sign, but by a courteous movement of his hand invited his visitor to proceed. "it is a family matter," said mr. dillworthy, "of a peculiarly delicate nature, and my client thought it could best be arranged in a private personal interview." "being of such a nature," observed aaron, "would it not have been better that it should be arranged privately between the parties interested instead of through an intermediary?" "possibly, possibly; but my client holds strong views, and feels he could scarcely trust himself." "favour me with the name of your client." "lord storndale." "lord storndale? i have not the pleasure of his acquaintance." "but you are familiar with his name." "not at all. it is the first time i have heard it." "you surprise me. lord storndale is a peer." "i know very few peers, and have had no occasion to study the peerage." "but, pardon me, storndale is the name; it may have escaped you." "i repeat, the name is strange to me." "i do not presume to doubt you, but it introduces a new element into the matter. your daughter, then, has never mentioned the honourable percy storndale to you?" "never, and i am at a loss to understand the association of their names." the lawyer paused. in this unexpected turn of affairs a deviation suggested itself to his legal mind which would be likely to assist him. "mr. cohen, you have the reputation of being an earnest and sincere jew." "i follow the precepts and the obligations of my faith," said aaron, with a searching glance at his visitor. "in this back-sliding and time-serving age orthodoxy--especially, i should say, in the jewish religion--has a hard time of it. the customs and duties of an enlightened civilisation must clash severely with the precepts and obligations you speak of. it is because of the difficulty--perhaps the impossibility--of following the hard and fast laws of the pentateuch that divisions have taken place, as in all religions, and that you have among you men who call themselves reformed jews." "surely it is not part of your mission to debate this matter with me," said aaron, who had no desire to discuss these questions with a stranger. "no, it is not, and i do not pretend to understand it; but in a general way the subject is interesting to me. if you will permit me, i should like to ask you one question." aaron signified assent. "what is your opinion of mixed marriages?" aaron did not answer immediately; he had a suspicion that there was something behind, but the subject was one regarding which both he and rachel held a strong view, and he felt he would be guilty of an unworthy evasion if he refused to reply. "i do not approve of them," he said. "you set me at ease," said the lawyer, "and it will gratify lord storndale to hear that you and he are in agreement upon the question. as our interview is private i may speak freely. unhappily, lord storndale is a poor peer. since he came into the title he has had great difficulties to contend with, and as his estates lay chiefly in ireland these difficulties have been of late years increased. happily or unhappily, also, he has a large family, two daughters and six sons. of these sons the honourable percy storndale is the youngest. i do not know who is more to be pitied, a poor peer struggling with mortgages, decreased rents, and the expenses of a large family, or a younger son who comes into the world with the expectation that he is to be provided for, and whose father can allow him at the utmost two hundred and fifty or three hundred a year. father and son have both to keep up appearances, and the son's allowance will scarcely pay his tailor's and his glover's bills. there are a thousand things he wants, and to which he believes himself entitled. flowers, horses, clubs, a stall at the theatre, and so on and so on, _ad infinitum_. the consequence is that the young gentleman gets into debt, which grows and grows. perhaps he thinks of a means of paying his creditors--he plunges on a horse, he plays for high stakes at his club. you know the result. into the mire, deeper and deeper. a sad picture, mr. cohen." "very sad," said aaron, who had listened patiently, and knew that the crucial part of the lawyer's mission--that which affected himself and ruth--had not yet been reached. "lord storndale," continued the lawyer, "is a gentleman of exclusive views, and is perhaps prouder in his poverty than he would be with a rent-roll of a hundred thousand a year. his son's extravagances and debts are not hidden from his knowledge--the moneylenders take care of that. from time to time, and at a great sacrifice, he extricates the young scapegrace from temporary difficulties, but at length he comes to a full stop. his own means are exhausted, and willing as he may be to keep putting his hand in his pocket, it is useless to do so, because the pocket is empty. but he has some influence in a small way, and he obtains for his son the offer of a post in the colonies; not very grand certainly, but affording an opening which may lead to something better, if the young gentleman will only condescend to look at life seriously--which, as a rule, such young fellows decline to do until it is too late. however, a father, whether he be a peer or a common labourer, can do no more than his duty. he informs his son of the appointment he has obtained for him, and the scapegrace--i am speaking quite openly, mr. cohen; the honourable percy storndale _is_ one--declines to accept it. 'why?' asks the astonished father. 'i cannot live on it,' replies the son. then the father points out how he can live on it by cutting down some of his extravagances, and that he may find opportunities in the colonies which he can never meet with here. the son remains obdurate. 'there is another reason for your refusal,' says the father. 'there is,' the son admits. 'i prefer to remain in london; it is the only city in the world worth living in.' 'and starving in,' suggests the father. the scapegrace shrugs his shoulders, and says something will turn up here, and that he will not submit to banishment because he happens to have been born a few years too late--a reflection upon his brother, the eldest son, who in course of time will inherit the family embarrassments and mortgages. the father remonstrates, argues, entreats, but the young man will not give way. meanwhile the appointment is bestowed upon another and a worthier gentleman, and the chance is lost. i trust i am not wearying you." "no. i am attending to all you say, and waiting to hear how my daughter's name comes to be mixed up with the family history you are giving me." "you will understand everything presently. my object is to make the matter perfectly clear, and to have no concealment. for this reason i wish you to be aware of the character of the young gentleman, and i am describing it carefully at the express wish of his father. at the same time i lay no positive charge against him; i am not saying he is a bad man, but an undesirable man. there are thousands of young fellows who are living just such a careless, irresponsible, reckless life, who get into debt, who gamble, and who ultimately find themselves passing through the bankruptcy court. young men without balance, mr. cohen, and who, in consequence, topple over. they sow trouble wherever they go, and they are always smiling, self-possessed, and pleasant-mannered. women especially are caught by these externals; but speaking myself as the father of grown-up daughters, i should be sorry to see one of that class visiting my house as a suitor to one of my girls." aaron started, but did not speak. "lord storndale suspected that there was another reason which his son had not mentioned for his refusal of the colonial appointment, and in a short time his suspicions were confirmed. it came to his knowledge that his son was paying attentions to a young lady whom he was in the habit of meeting at garden parties and tennis, and probably by arrangement in the parks, and he taxed the young gentleman with it. his son did not deny it; he said that he loved the lady, that her father was very wealthy, and that she was in every way presentable. 'i do not know,' said the young man, 'whether the circumstance of her father being a commoner will prejudice you against him.' lord storndale replied that he would have preferred his son had chosen from his own rank, but that marriages between rich commoners and members of the aristocracy were not unusual in these days, and that he would sanction the match if the lady's father were a gentleman. to be honest with you, mr. cohen, lord storndale has no liking for commoners who have made fortunes in trade or by speculating; but he did not allow these scruples to weigh with him, his hope being that the proposed union would be the means of extricating his son from his difficulties, and of steadying him. the young man said that the lady's father was a gentleman widely known for his benevolence and uprightness of character, and that he was held in universal esteem. up to this point the interview had been of an amicable nature, but then arose an insurmountable difficulty. 'who is the gentleman?' inquired lord storndale. 'mr. aaron cohen,' replied the young man." observing aaron's agitation the lawyer suspended his narration, and said,-- "pardon me; you were about to speak." aaron by a great effort controlled himself. "i will wait till you have quite finished, mr. dillworthy. before i commit myself it will be as well that i should be in possession of all the facts." "quite so. i have been explicit and circumstantial in order that there shall be no mistake. when i have finished you will have few, if any, questions to ask, because you will know everything it is in my power to tell. upon hearing your name, his lordship remarked that it was a jewish name. 'yes,' said the young man, 'mr. cohen is a jew.' lord storndale was angry and distressed. i admit that it is an unreasonable prejudice; but he has an invincible dislike to jews, and it shocked him to think that his son contemplated a marriage with a jewess. i need dwell no longer upon the interview, which now took a stormy turn, and it ended by the son abruptly leaving the room. on no account, whatever, mr. cohen, will lord storndale or any member of his family consent to such an alliance; if it is accomplished the young man will be thrown upon his own resources, and his wife will not be recognised by his kinsfolk. the trouble has already reached a climax. the young gentleman is hot-headed--a storndale failing--and he declines to listen to remonstrances; the consequence is, that he has been forbidden his father's home till he comes to reason. but despite his extravagances and the constant and perplexing involvements issuing therefrom, his father has an affection for him, and is bent upon saving his family from----" the lawyer pausing here, with an awkward cough, as though he was choking down a word, aaron quietly added it. "disgrace?" "well, yes," said mr. dillworthy, briskly; "we will not mince matters. it is not my word, but lord storndale's. he would account such an alliance a disgrace. i will say nothing in his excuse. in all civilised countries we have living evidences of happy unions between members of the aristocracy and wealthy daughters of israel, and also living evidences of happy mixed marriages between persons neither aristocratic nor wealthy; and these might be brought forward as powerful arguments against the view my client entertains. but they would have no weight with him. we must take into consideration the pride of race." "yes," said aaron, still speaking in a quiet tone, "we must take that into consideration. you have not quite finished, sir?" "not quite. as a last resource, lord storndale consulted me, and entrusted me with a painful task. he requested me to call upon you, and represent the matter in the plainest terms, which i have endeavoured to do, omitting or concealing no single incident of the unhappy affair. i am deputed to ask you to take a course with your daughter similar to that he has taken with his son--that is, to absolutely forbid the union. the young gentleman is in a state of extreme pecuniary embarrassment, and it is possible--i do not state it as a fact, but merely as a presumption--that he reckons upon your aid to settle with his creditors. when he finds that this aid will not be forthcoming, and that he cannot depend upon your making a suitable settlement upon your daughter, he is not unlikely, for prudential reasons, to beat a retreat." "what is the inference you wish me to draw from this expression of opinion?" "that mr. storndale is following your daughter for your money." "and that he has no love for her?" the lawyer shrugged his shoulders. the interview was taking a turn not exactly pleasing to him. "you are not flattering the young gentleman," aaron said. "i had no intention of doing so. of course, it is for you to consider the matter from your own point of view. first, as a father----" he paused. "yes, first as a father," repeated aaron. "next, as a jew." "yes, next as a jew," said aaron, again repeating the lawyer's words. he was agitated by conflicting emotions, which no man but he could have understood--and which, indeed, in the light of the revelation which had been made, he himself could scarcely grasp, so strongly did it affect the secret of his life. but that secret still was his, and he had still to play his part. "you are commissioned to take my answer to lord storndale?" "he is anxiously awaiting it." "i may trust you to convey that answer as nearly as possible in my own words?" "it shall be my endeavour." "you will tell him, then, that the mission with which he has entrusted you comes upon me as a surprise. as i have already informed you, i have never, until this day, heard his name or the name of his son. as to the character you give the young gentleman, it may or may not be correct, for you speak of him as an advocate on the other side----" "but surely," interrupted the lawyer, "that would not affect the religious aspect of the question." "no, it would not affect it. but whether correct or not, it seems clear that the young gentleman has not acted as a man of honour, although he is lord storndale's son. a young girl's trustfulness and innocence should be her safeguard; but here they have been basely used, according to your own statement, by a man whose external accomplishments have unhappily attracted her." "and from such a man," said the lawyer, rather too eagerly, "it is a fathers duty to protect his daughter." "undoubtedly," replied aaron, who could not dispute the lawyer's reasoning. "that my wife and i should have been kept in ignorance of mr. storndale's attentions is to be deplored; and it appears certain that he must have bound miss cohen by a promise to say nothing to us about them. you speak of the pride of race as affecting lord storndale. we have also that pride, and if any jewish parent were so far forgetful of the obligations of his faith as to admit your client's son into his family, it is upon him and upon lord storndale that honour would be conferred." "it is a fair retort," said the lawyer. "i beg you to believe that the views i have expressed are not mine, but lord storndale's, in whose interests i am acting. i am, as you say, an advocate--merely a mouthpiece, as it were--and i am bound to follow out my instructions. your disapproval of mixed marriages gives me confidence that my mission has not failed, and it will be a satisfaction to lord storndale. may i take it that you will pursue the course with your daughter that he has taken with his son, and that you will forbid the union?" "have i not made myself sufficiently clear?" asked aaron, with an inward rebellion against the evasion he felt himself compelled to practise. "yes, yes," said the lawyer, hastily, too astute to press for precise words. "and i may inform lord storndale that you distinctly disapprove of marriages between jews and christians?" "you may." mr. dillworthy, believing he had gained his point, wisely dropped the subject, and expressing his obligations to aaron, rose to take his departure. before he reached the door, however, he turned, and in a tone of courteous deference, asked if mr. cohen could spare him a few moments more. aaron assenting, the lawyer resumed his seat, and taking a pocket-book from his pocket searched in it for a letter. chapter xxxv. the spirit of the dead past. aaron observed him anxiously. the disclosure that had already been made had so agitated him that he was apprehensive of further trouble. "ah! here it is," said the lawyer, opening the letter for which he had been looking; "i was afraid i had left it behind me. excuse me a moment; i wish to refresh my memory." he ran his eye over the letter, and nodded as he went through its points of importance. "does it concern the unhappy affair we have discussed?" inquired aaron, unable to restrain his impatience. "no," replied the lawyer; "i take it that is settled, and i trust, for the sake of both the families, that it will not be re-opened." "i trust not." "this is quite a different matter, and i hardly know how to excuse myself for troubling you with it. it is a sudden thought, for i came here with no such intention. you must thank your own reputation for it, mr. cohen; it is well known that you have never neglected an opportunity to do an act of kindness, and though what i am about to speak of has come to me in the way of business, the story contains elements so romantic and peculiar that it has strangely attracted me. the reference in the letter which induces me to think that you may be able to help me is that you are a gentleman of influence in your community, and have a wide acquaintance with your co-religionists. perhaps i had better read the words. my correspondent says--'i know that there are peculiar difficulties in the search i intend to make upon my return home, but before my arrival you may be able to discover something which will be of assistance to me. probably if you consult some kind-hearted and influential member of the jewish race you may, through him, obtain a clue; or, failing this, you might employ a jewish agent to make inquiries.' it is a lady who writes to me, and her letter comes from australia. may i continue? thank you. let me tell you the story; it will interest you, and i will be as brief as possible. the letter is too long to read throughout." he handed it to aaron. "it occupies, you see, fourteen closely written pages, and it is somewhat in the nature of a confession. if you wish, i will have a copy of it made, and will send it on to you to-morrow." aaron, turning over the pages, came to the superscription: "i remain, "yours truly, "mary gordon." truly this was a day of startling surprises to him. he recollected the name as that of the gentleman for whom, twenty years ago, mr. moss had undertaken the commission which had lifted him from beggary by placing in his hands a large sum of money to which in strict justice he was not entitled, but which, from fear that the deception he had practised might otherwise be discovered, he was compelled to accept. he had, as an atonement, expended in secret charities a hundred times the sum; but this did not absolve him from the responsibility. the spirit of the dead past rose before him, and he was overwhelmed with the dread possibilities it brought with it. "i fear," said the lawyer, "that i have been inconsiderate in introducing the matter at the present moment. i will postpone it to a future occasion." "pray continue," said aaron, whose burning desire now was to know the worst. "i have had an exciting day, but i will pay due attention to what you wish to impart to me." "i appreciate your kindness. if you cannot assist me, you may recommend me to an agent whom i will employ. i noticed that you referred in the letter to the name of my correspondent, mrs. gordon; the inquiry is of a delicate nature, and it may be her wish that her name is not too freely mentioned--at all events, for the present. her story is not an uncommon one, but it takes an extraordinary and unusual turn. she is now, according to her own account, a lady of considerable means; her husband has lately died, and she has come into a fortune. some twenty odd years ago she was a young woman, and had two lovers, one of whom wooed her with dishonourable intentions, and by him she was betrayed. this occurred during the absence in australia of the gentleman who had proposed to her, and whom she had accepted. he was a resident in australia, and it was his intention to make his home there. while he was on his way to england, with the intention of making her his wife and returning with her to the colony, she discovered that she was about to become a mother. in despair she fled from london, where he expected to find her, and sought to hide her shame among strangers. the place she selected was portsmouth, and there she went through a series of harrowing trials, and was reduced to extreme poverty. in her letter to me she makes no effort to disguise the misery into which she was plunged, and she is frank and outspoken in order that i may properly understand how it was that she was forced to abandon the child that was born in portsmouth under most distressing circumstances. for it appears that when the suitor who wooed her honourably arrived in london and learned the story of her betrayal, he was still desirous to make her his wife. he traced her to portsmouth, and found her there with her babe, who was then but a few days old. this would have induced most men to forego their honourable intentions; but mr. gordon, whose name she now bears, was an exception to the rule, and, through a gentleman who acted as a go-between, he made a singular proposition to her. it was to the effect that she should consent to give up her child entirely, and during his lifetime to make no effort to recover it; he undertook to find a respectable and comfortable home for the babe, and to make a liberal provision for it. this is the bare outline of his proposition, and i need not go further into it. so desperate was her position that she and her child at the time were literally starving; she had not a friend but mr. gordon, who was stern in his resolve not to befriend her unless she accepted the conditions he dictated; the gentleman who acted as a go-between had behaved very kindly to her, but could not assist her further. in these circumstances she made the sacrifice, and parted with her child, who from that day to this she has never seen. mr. gordon honourably fulfilled the terms of the agreement; a home was found for the child, and he married the lady, and took her to australia, where she has resided for the last twenty years. it was part of the agreement that she should not be informed of the name of the people who adopted the child, and should not, directly or indirectly, make the least endeavour to obtain any information concerning it while her husband was alive. if he died before her she was free to act as she pleased in the matter. this has occurred, and the widow, who has had no children by her marriage, is bent upon recovering her child, who, i may mention, is a girl. the task is beset with difficulties, and may prove hopeless. shortly stated, mr. cohen, this is the case as it at present stands." "is there a special reason," inquired aaron, "for your applying to me for assistance?" "not exactly special; it is in a sense accidental, inspired by my visit this evening on the other matter we have spoken of. there are certain particulars in relation to mrs. gordon's search for her daughter which i have omitted. the arrangements for the future provision of the babe were carried out, i understand, by a firm of lawyers whose names mrs. gordon has been unable to ascertain; but she is acquainted with the name of the gentleman who in portsmouth conveyed mr. gordon's proposition to her. this gentleman is dr. spenlove, who, leaving portsmouth several years ago, has attained an eminent position in london. you may be acquainted with him." "he was at my house to-day." "then you are on terms of intimacy with him." "no. we met to-day for the first time." "in her letter mrs. gordon refers me to dr. spenlove, and i have not yet communicated with him. the letter only reached me this morning, and i have not had time to see him." "you have not explained why you apply to me." "the explanation is simple. during her husband's lifetime mrs. gordon faithfully carried out her obligation, and, as it appears to me, no words passed between them on the subject of the child. in his last moments, however, he must have relented; unfortunately, he left it too late to give his wife the information she so eagerly desired; he could scarcely articulate, and all she could gather from him was that he had employed an agent to look after the child, and that this agent was of the jewish persuasion. the conclusion is that he was a resident of portsmouth, but he may not be living; and it has occurred to me that you, who have friends of your persuasion everywhere, may expedite the discovery by giving me the name and address of some old inhabitant who can put us on the track of mr. gordon's agent. when the lady arrives in england she will naturally go to dr. spenlove, who will doubtless assist her in her natural endeavour to obtain intelligence of the fate of her child. if you can also assist us you will earn a mother's gratitude." "i will consider it," said aaron, and his voice was troubled; "that is all i can promise at present." "it is all we can expect of you. there is another peculiar feature in this strange case. mrs. gordon, before she left england, entrusted dr. spenlove with a metal casket in which she had deposited some memorials of interest; this casket was to be given to the man who undertook to bring up the child, on the understanding that it was to be handed to the young lady at the age of twenty-one (supposing, of course, that she lived to that age), or before that time to be returned to the mother if she came to claim it. the young lady, if she be living, is not yet twenty-one, and it is the mother's intention to recover this casket, if it be possible. it is to be hoped it fell into the hands of an honest man." "it is to be hoped so," said aaron, mechanically. mr. dillworthy said in a kind tone, "it is not an opportune time to seek your aid in a cause in which you are not personally interested, when another subject, the welfare of a dear daughter, engrosses your attention. pray forgive me, mr. cohen." aaron bent his head, and as the lawyer closed the door behind him, sank back in his chair with a heavy sigh. chapter xxxvi. before all, duty. he sat silent for many minutes, his mind in a state of chaos; but presently his native strength of character came to his aid, and he resumed the task which the entrance of mr. dillworthy had interrupted! in addition to the important meeting he had to attend that night, his presence was expected at the board of a jewish charity, of which he was the founder. this meeting came first, and his colleagues could not proceed to business without him; he must not disappoint them. before all, duty. the thought shaped itself in whispered words, which he repeated again and again, and their iteration brought to him a sense of their true significance. duty had been a leading principle of his life, and in the part he had taken in public matters he had never neglected it, and had never studied his personal convenience. but he had now to consider the principle in its most comprehensive aspect, and he felt that its application to his private affairs was imperative in the conflicting interests in which he was engaged. this being so, what was his duty here at home in respect of his wife and the girl he had brought up as their daughter, and how should he perform it? love played so vital a part in the consideration of this question that he could not thrust it aside. it was, indeed, its leading element. for years past he had lived in a fool's paradise, and time had crept on and on until suddenly he saw the flowers withering before him. he had been false to himself, he had worn a mask, and now it was to be torn aside; but this he could bear. how would rachel bear it? unconsciously he had risen from his chair, and was pacing to and fro while he reflected. pausing, he saw upon the table the papers he had been studying. the meeting of the jewish society was of minor consequence, and required but little thought; the second meeting, however, was of vast importance, for there a decision was to be arrived at which would affect thousands of poor families and have a direct bearing upon the question of capital and labour. there had been a great strike in the building trade, and thousands of men had deliberately thrown themselves out of employment, choosing, in their adherence to a principle, what was almost next door to starvation. the strike had been brought about by a rival contractor, a mr. poynter, an employer of labour on an extensive scale, and a man as well known as aaron himself. to say that these two were rivals does not necessarily imply that they were enemies, for that is a game that two must play at, and it was a game in which aaron played no part. he did not approve of mr. poynter's methods: he went no further than that; and if he was called upon to express his opinion upon the subject he did so in a manner which robbed it of any personal application. mr. poynter, on the other hand, was nothing if he was not personal, and he hated aaron with a very sincere and conscientious hate. he hated him because he had lost several profitable contracts, which aaron had obtained; and this hatred may be applied in a general sense, because he hated every successful rival, great or small. he hated him because aaron was genuinely respected by large bodies of working men, and had great influence with them; and this hatred may also be applied in a general sense, because he hated all employers of labour who were held by their workmen in higher respect than himself. he hated aaron because he was a jew; and this may certainly be applied in a general sense, because he had a bitter hatred of all jews, and would have willingly subscribed liberally and joined in a crusade to hunt them out of the country. he did not subscribe to the society for promoting christianity among the jews, because to christianise them would be to admit them upon terms of equality, and the idea was abhorrent to him. on no terms could a jew be made the equal of a christian. that a jew could be a good man, that he could be a just man, that he could do anything without an eye to profit or self-aggrandisement--these, in his belief, were monstrous propositions, and no man of sense, certainly no true christian, could seriously entertain them. mr. poynter was a christian, a true christian, regular in his attendance at church, and fairly liberal, also, in his charities, though his left hand always knew what his right hand did. and here he found another cause for hating aaron. he heard his name quoted as a man of large benevolence, and he went so far as to declare that aaron's charities were a means to an end. "he looks upon them as an investment," he said; "they bring him a good return. did you ever know a jew part with money without an eye to the main chance?" when he heard that it was generally reported that aaron gave away in secret much more than he gave away in public, his comment was, "what is easier than to set such a rumour afloat? any rich man can do it by an expenditure of ten pounds a year! if money is bestowed in secret, who is to know of it but the donor? if it becomes public, who could have spoken of it first but the donor? no one but a fool would be gulled by so transparent a trick!" these detractions were generally uttered to men who sympathised with the speaker, and they were not without effect. by which it will be seen that aaron had enemies, as all men have. mr. poynter posed as a moral man, and it is the very essence of these usurpers of morality that each of them must stand alone, and that upon the pedestal he sets up there shall be no room for any other braggart. he was a married man, with sons and daughters, and a wife, who all looked upon the husband and father as a pattern. whether his children followed the pattern or not does not concern this history, which has to do with the head of the family alone. whatever a man may be in the prime of life, the earlier adam, if it differ from the later, will very likely assert itself in the blood of his descendants, and this may have been the case with mr. poynter's children, despite the respect in which they held him. you come into contact with a sober-faced man whose distinguishing mark is one of intense respectability; you see him at home in the bosom of his family, whom he entertains with severely respectable platitudes; you hear his opinions on matters of current interest, a trial, a scandal in high life, tittle-tattle of the stage, the court, the church, and society in general. what an intensely respectable gentleman, what severely respectable views, what strict morality, what an estimable father of a family! ah, but draw the curtain of years aside, and we behold another man--another man, yet still the same, a man about town, philandering, deceiving, lying, and playing the base part to serve his selfish pleasures. where is the morality, where the respectability now--and which of the two is the true man? was this the case with mr. poynter? the course of events may possibly supply the answer to this question presently. meanwhile, nothing is more certain to-day than that he is accepted as he presents himself. but, if in the past life of such a man as aaron cohen may be found an episode of his own creating upon which he looks with dismay, why might it not be so with such a man as mr. poynter? in a country like england, where operations of magnitude are being continually undertaken, there is room for all who occupy the higher rungs of the ladder; it is only the lower rungs which are overcrowded, and which need clearing by means of emigration to lands where there is room for the toiling, suffering millions. but mr. poynter chose to believe that there was not room for aaron and himself, and he nursed and fostered a venomous desire to drag aaron down. this desire, indeed, had really become a disease with him, and had grown by what it fed on. he hunted about for the means, he asked questions. it was unquestionably true that there were jews who had grown rich through dishonesty and usury, and mr. poynter did not stop to consider that this applied equally to christians. perhaps it was the knowledge of his own early life that made him think, "if i could find something in his past that would bring shame upon him--if i could only rake up something that would show him in his true light! it would be the commercial and social ruin of him. he would never be able to hold up his head again." he would gladly have paid for some such discovery. at the present time he had special reasons for hate. one reason was that the strike in the building trade was affecting him seriously. he was engaged in large contracts, in the carrying out of which thousands of men were needed, and it was chiefly against himself that the strike was ordered by the unions. he was on the brink of great losses, and aaron had been called in as a mediator and arbitrator. the strike at an end, and the masters the victors, he was safe, and more prosperous than ever; but every day that it was prolonged meant so many hundreds of pounds out of his pocket. his fate seemed to hang upon the final advice to the men which aaron was to give, and his profits would be large or small according to the nature of that advice. he laid the credit of the strike at aaron's door; for in their enterprises he and aaron employed different methods. aaron had pursued in england the course he had pursued in france. he paid his men liberally, gave them bonuses, even to a certain extent acknowledged them as co-operators. in mr. poynter's eyes this was a crime, for it struck at the very root of his prosperity. "he is a rabid socialist," mr. poynter said; "men of his stamp are a danger to society." another reason was that tenders had lately been called for works of exceptional magnitude, and he had entertained hopes of obtaining the contract. again he was worsted by this insidious enemy. within the last few hours he had heard that aaron's tender had been accepted. he ground his teeth with rage. he could have undertaken the works in spite of the strike, for he had very nearly completed arrangements for the introduction of foreign workmen, whom he was determined to employ if the english workmen held out. there would be a row, of course, and the lower classes would cast obloquy upon him, for which he would have to thank his rival and enemy. when he heard that he had lost the contract he said to a friend, "i would give half i am worth to drag him down." and he meant what he said. the last meeting of the strikers was now being held. it had been called for seven o'clock, and it was known that the discussion would occupy several hours. aaron was not asked to attend this discussion, which was to be private, even the representatives of the press not being admitted. eleven o'clock was the hour at which he was expected, and it was understood that he would bring with him certain propositions from the masters, which, with the workmen's views, were to be discussed, and a decision arrived at. to-morrow morning's papers would announce whether the strike was to be continued or was at an end. he studied the papers before him--the arguments and statements of employers of labour, comparisons of wages here and in foreign countries, the comparative rates of living here and there, and the conflicting views of the living wage, documents of every description, among which were pathetic letters from wives of the strikers, imploring him to put an end to the strike. he had mastered them all, and was familiar with every detail, but he read them again in order to divert his attention for this night from his own private affairs. his mind must be free; he would think of them to-morrow. he had public duties to attend to. before all, duty. the words haunted him, and he was dismayed to find that all his efforts to concentrate his attention upon his public duties were vain. pictures of the past presented themselves: he saw his home in gosport; he saw rachel lying in bed with her dead babe by her side; he saw himself engaged in the task of completing the guilty deception, changing the clothing of the infants, and giving his own child to a strange woman,--every incident connected with his sin was stamped indelibly upon his brain, and now rose vividly before him. very well. he had half an hour to spare before he left his house for the jewish meeting; he would devote the time to a consideration of his private affairs. he gathered his papers, arranged them in order, and put them in his pocket. he dallied with them at first, but feeling that he was prolonging the simple task in order to shorten the time for serious thought, he smiled pitifully at his weakness, and completed it expeditiously. in admitting ruth into his household, in adopting her as a daughter he had undertaken a sacred responsibility. he was fully conscious of this twenty years ago in gosport, and what he had done had been done deliberately. it was a question then of the sacrifice of a precious life. the doctor had stated the case very clearly. the pregnant words they had exchanged were in his memory now, and might have been spoken only a few moments since. "her life," the doctor had said, "hangs upon the life of her child." "if our child lives," aaron had asked, "there is hope that my wife will live?" "a strong hope," the doctor had answered. "and if our child dies?" asked aaron. the doctor answered, "the mother will die." he recalled the agony of those hours, the sufferings through which rachel had passed with so much sweetness and patience, his poverty and helplessness, the dark future before him. then came the ray of light, mr. moss, with the strange commission of the deserted child. he had not courted it, had not invited it; he had had no hand in it. he had regarded it as a message from heaven. what followed? the death of his own babe, the calm and peaceful death, the young soul taken to heaven, his beloved wife in an untroubled sleep by the side of her dead babe. it was a visitation of god. could he be accused of having had a hand in it? heaven forbid! on the contrary, who could blame him for believing that it was a divine direction of the course he was to take? and who was wronged? surely not the mother who had deserted her babe. surely not the babe, who had found a happy home. the wrong--and herein was the sting--was to rachel, whose life had been saved by the deceit. so far, then, was he not justified? but if, before the committal of a sin, we could see the consequences of the sin--if he had seen the consequences of his, would he not have paused, and said, "it rests with god; let it be as he wills; i will be no party to the deceit"? in that case rachel's life would have been sacrificed. there was no human doubt of it. rachel would have died, and the blessings she had shed around her, the good she had been enabled to do, the suffering hearts she had relieved, the light she had brought into despairing homes, would never have been. against a little evil, so much good. against a slight error, so much that was sweet and beautiful. but in these reflections he had taken into account only rachel and himself--only their two lives. how about ruth herself? he had never disguised from himself that there was much in ruth's character which was not in accordance with rachel's views or his own, which she did not assimilate with either of their natures. being one of his family in the eyes of the world, he had brought her up as a jewess. she was born a christian. was this not a crime of which she had been made the victim? he had experienced great difficulties in her education. he wished to correct the defect which exists in ninety-nine english jewesses out of a hundred--he wished her to pray in the hebrew tongue, and to understand her prayers. to this end he himself had endeavoured to teach her to read and translate hebrew. she would not learn. even now as a woman she understood but a very few words, and this scanty knowledge was mechanical. a parrot might have learned as much. she had an aversion to jewish society. as a child, when she was necessarily in leading strings, she was taken by rachel to the synagogue on every sabbath day, but when she began to have intelligent ideas she rebelled; she would not go, and rachel walked to the house of god alone. it was a grief to her that ruth would not follow in her footsteps, and she and aaron had frequently conversed upon the subject. "it is so with many jewish women," aaron said. "it would be wrong to force her; she will find out her error by-and-by." but ruth never did, and rachel suffered in silence. there was another sorrow. between their son joseph and ruth did not exist that love which brother and sister should bear each other. joseph was ready with demonstrative affection, but ruth did not respond. aaron had taken note of this, but he was powerless to remedy it, and the lad, who was as solicitous as his father to spare the dear mother pain, made no trouble of it. ruth respected and admired her reputed father, and in the feelings she entertained towards him there was an element of fear, because of his strength of character, but she did not love him as a child should. he, knowing what he knew, found excuses for her. "it is in her blood," he said to himself. all this was hidden from rachel, to whom ruth was tender and kind. who could be otherwise to so sweet a woman? but rachel did not know of what she was deprived until esther moss began to make long visits to their home. "esther is like a daughter to me," she said, and only aaron was aware of the depth of meaning these simple words conveyed. in rachel's association with esther she had realised what a daughter might have been to her. but now he had to consider the matter, not from his or rachel's point of view, but from ruth's. she was a woman in her springtime, and love had come to her, and she had held out her arms to it. and the man she loved was a christian. it was not within his right to take into consideration that the man she loved was a spendthrift and a scapegrace. the question had often intruded itself since she was grown to womanhood, whether he would not be adding sin to sin by encouraging her to marry a jew. she had answered the question herself. what right had he to gainsay her? he might, as a true and sincere friend, say to her, "this man will not make you happy. he has vices and defects which will bring misery upon your home. you must not marry him." but he had no right to say to her "you must not marry this man because he is a christian." it would be a detestable argument for one in his position, and in hers, to advance. then mr. dillworthy might be wrong in his estimate of the young man's character. the only objection lord storndale had to the union was that ruth was a jewess. but she was not a jewess, and it was in his power to go to the young man's father and make the disclosure to him. lord storndale's natural reply would be, "let it be clearly understood. you have done this lady a grievous wrong. you are a wealthy man. repair the wrong by making a suitable settlement upon her. but it must be publicly done, and the injustice of which you have been guilty must be publicly acknowledged." the only answer he could make would be, "it is just. i will do as you dictate." what would be the effect as regarded himself? among his co-religionists he was held up as a pillar of the old jewish faith. his voice had been raised against apostasy; he had taken a decided stand against the more liberal ideas of civilised life which prevailed and were adopted by a large section of his race. even now he was pledged to deliver a public address against the backsliding of the modern jew, who was disposed to adapt his life to the altered circumstances of the times. he had written this address, and public attention had been drawn to the coming event. his arguments were to himself convincing, and by them he hoped to stem the tide. he had always been orthodox, and he hoped to prevail against the wave of heterodoxy which was sweeping over modern judaism. he had stepped forward as a champion. in the light of the domestic revelation which must presently be made, how dare he, himself a transgressor, presume to teach his brethren their religious duty? his sound judgment of things which interested or affected him was due to his common sense, which, he had been heard to say, was a rare quality. "you are always right," mr. moss once said to him. "how is it?" "if i form a correct opinion," he replied, with a smile, "it is because i exercise my common sense. i do not judge from my own standpoint." he did this now. he put himself in the place of other men. he listened to his own confession. he passed the verdict upon himself. "this man has been living the life of a hypocrite. he has accepted money for false service. not perhaps by word of mouth, but most assuredly by his acts, he has lied. he has violated the canons of his religion. he has deceived his wife--for money, which he pretends to despise. he has robbed a young girl of her birthright. and he dares to preach to us of duty!" who would believe him if he told the true story of his hard trial, if he described the bitter tribulation of his soul when his beloved wife was lying at death's door? he had counselled many men in their days of struggle and temptation to be brave and do their duty. how had he performed his in _his_ hour of temptation? no one would believe the only story he could plead in extenuation of his sin. he would be condemned by all. and he was in the zenith of his fame. on this very day, when exposure seemed to be approaching with, swift and certain steps, he had been honoured as few men live to be. if he felt pleasure in the position he had won, it was because it was a source of pride and pleasure to rachel. was he, with his own hand, to destroy the ideal he had created? was this the plain duty that lay now before him? "the carriage is at the door, sir." it was a servant who interrupted his tortured musings; he had given orders to be informed when his carriage was ready. with slow steps he left his study. book the sixth. _retribution_. chapter xxxvii. esther moss receives a letter. there was an apartment in aaron cohen's house which was called the cosy room, where the family were in the habit of sitting when they had no visitors, and it was here that their real domestic happiness reigned. here aaron used to smoke his old silver-mounted pipe, and chat with his wife, and indulge in his entertaining pleasantries when he was in the humour; and here the feeling used to steal over him that life would hold more joy for him and those dear to him if they dwelt in a smaller house and his doings were less under the public eye. "i am convinced," he would say, "that those who are in the lower middle class are the best off. they have fewer cares, they have more time for domestic enjoyment, they can attend without hindrance to their own affairs. their neighbours are not jealous of them; they are not high enough to be envied, nor low enough to be pitied. there is no happiness in riches. miserable man that i am! why do i continue to wish to accumulate more money?" "because," rachel would answer affectionately, "it enables you to contribute to the happiness of others. but i should be as contented if we were poor." on the occasion of mr. dillworthy's visit to aaron a scene of a different nature was being enacted in the cosy room. rachel was overpowered with languor, and she fell into a doze. the apartment was large; but an arrangement of screens, and the disposal of the furniture, made it look small; domestically speaking, there is no comfort in any but a small room. esther, during her present visit, had noticed with concern that mrs. cohen appeared weak, that her movements, which were always gentle, were more languid than usual, and that her quiet ways seemed to be the result of physical prostration. she spoke of it to rachel, who confessed that she had not felt strong lately, but cautioned the young girl to say nothing of it to aaron. "he is so easily alarmed about me," she said, "and he has great anxieties upon him." "but you should see the doctor," urged esther, solicitously. "i will wait a day or two," answered rachel, and again enjoined esther not to alarm her husband. on the evening of this exciting day she looked so pale and fatigued that she yielded to esther's solicitations, and, without aaron's knowledge, sent for the physician who was in the habit of attending her. while waiting for him she fell asleep in her armchair in the cosy room. at her request esther played softly some of rachel's favourite pieces; the piano was behind a screen at one end of the room, and esther did not know that she had fallen asleep. while thus employed prissy quietly entered the room. the faithful woman looked at her mistress, and stepped noiselessly to the screen. "miss esther," she whispered. the girl stopped playing immediately, and came from behind the screen. "is it the doctor, prissy?" she asked. "no, miss." prissy pointed to her mistress, and esther went to the armchair and adjusted a light shawl which was falling from the sleeping lady's shoulder. it was a slight action, but it was done with so much tenderness that prissy smiled approvingly. she liked esther much better than ruth, who did not hold in her affections the place the other members of the family did. humble as was her position in the household, she had observed things of which she disapproved. ruth was from home more frequently than she considered proper, and had often said to her, "you need not tell my mother that i have gone out unless she asks you." prissy had not disobeyed her, and the consequence was that ruth was sometimes absent from the house for hours without her mother or father being aware of it. prissy's idea was that her young mistress would bring trouble on the house; but she kept silence because she would otherwise have got into trouble herself with ruth, and would also have distressed her dear lady if she had made mention of her suspicions, for which she could have offered no reasonable explanation. prissy's distress of mind was not lessened because ruth, when she enjoined secrecy upon her, gave her money, as if to purchase her silence. she would have refused these bribes; but ruth forced them upon her, and she felt as if she were in a conspiracy to destroy the peace of the family. "i did not know she was asleep," said esther, coming back to prissy. "i'm sure you didn't, miss. she falls off, you know." "yes, i know," said esther, with affectionate solicitude. "as she used to do a good many years ago--long before you knew her, miss. she had gone through a severe illness, and was that delicate for months afterwards that you could almost blow her away. she never complained, and never did a cross word pass her lips. i'm glad you're with her, miss esther: you're a real comfort to her. i've got a letter for you, miss." "i didn't hear the postman." "the postman didn't bring it, miss," said prissy, giving her the letter. "a boy. said immejiet." "it must be from---- no." she was thinking of her lover as she looked at the letter, but she saw it was not his hand. she recognised the writing: it was ruth's. "the envelope is not very clean, prissy." "so i told the boy when he brought it to the back door." "the back door!" exclaimed esther, rather bewildered. "it's curious, isn't it, miss, that it wasn't sent by post?" "yes, it is. what did the boy say?" "it's what i said first, miss. 'you've been and dropped it in the gutter,' i said; but he only laughed, and said it was give to him this morning, and that he was to bring it to the servants' entrance and ask for prissy." "but why didn't he deliver it this morning?" asked esther, her bewilderment growing. "i don't know, miss. he's been playing in the streets all day, i expect. anyway, he said i was to give it to you when nobody was looking. it's miss ruth's writing, miss." esther made no remark upon this, but asked, "did he say who gave it to him?" "a young lady, he said, miss." "that will do, prissy." "can i do anything for you, miss?" "nothing, thank you." prissy gone, esther looked at the envelope, and saw written in one corner, "read this when you are alone." troubled and perplexed, she stood with the letter in her hand; but when the door was opened again and the doctor was announced, she put it hastily into her pocket, and went forward to meet him. dr. roberts had attended rachel for some years past, and took the deepest interest in her. "sleeping," he said, stepping to her side. he turned to esther, and, questioning her, learned why he had been sent for. "she falls asleep," he said, with his fingers on rachel's pulse. "ah, you are awake," as rachel sat upright. "now, let us see what is the matter. you are not in pain? no. that's good." "there is really nothing the matter with me, doctor," said rachel. "but you feel weak and drowsy at times. we will soon set that right." dr. roberts was one of those cheerful physicians whose bright ways always brighten their patients. "make the best of a case," was a favourite saying of his, "not the worst." he remained with rachel a quarter of an hour, advised her to get to bed, gave her instructions as to food, ordered her a tonic, and took his leave. esther went with him into the passage. "there is no danger, doctor?" "not the slightest, my dear," he answered, in a fatherly manner. "but i would advise perfect rest. don't tell her anything exciting. she must not be worried. get a humorous story and read it to her. make her laugh. let everything be bright and cheerful about her. but i need not say that: it always is--eh? if you have any troubles, keep them to yourself. but what troubles should a young girl like you have?" he met aaron at the street door. "ah, mr. cohen, i have been to see your wife--in a friendly way." "she is not ill?" asked aaron, in an anxious tone, stepping back. "no; a little weak, that is all. don't go up to see her; i have just left her, and she will think there is something the matter, when there's nothing that cannot be set right in a few days. she wants tone, that is all, and rest, and perfect freedom from excitement. that is essential. such a day as this, flattering and pleasant as it must have been, is not good for her. keep her mind at rest, let her hear nothing that is likely to disturb her, speak of none but cheerful subjects to her, and she will be herself again in a week. follow my advice, and there is not the least cause for alarm." chapter xxxviii. ruth's secret. dr. roberts spoke so heartily and confidently that aaron's anxiety was relieved, and the counsel that rachel should be told nothing that was likely to disturb her was something like a reprieve, as it prevented him from precipitating matters. a few days were still left for reflection, and he went forth to his public duties with a lighter heart. esther, meanwhile, was busy for some time attending to rachel, who wished the young girl to remain with her till she was asleep. with ruth's letter in her pocket, which had been delivered almost clandestinely at the house, and which she was enjoined to read when she was alone, she was compelled to bridle her impatience. she did not dare to speak of it to rachel, and the course the conversation took in the bedroom did not tend to compose her. rachel spoke only of family matters, of her husband and children, and presently the conversation drifted entirely to the subject of ruth. "young girls," said rachel, "confide in each other. there is a true affection between you, is there not, my dear?" "yes," replied esther, wondering what was coming, and dreading it. "it happens sometimes," continued rachel, with a sigh, "that parents do not entirely win their children's confidence. joseph has not a secret from me. do you think ruth is quite happy, my dear?" "i think so," said esther. "i am not asking you to break a confidence she may have reposed in you----" esther could not refrain from interrupting her. "but, dear mother, i know nothing." as she uttered the words a guilty feeling stole over her. what did the letter in her pocket contain? rachel drew the girl's face to hers, and caressed her. "now it is you," she said, "who are speaking as if you are in trouble. i am very inconsiderate; but love has its pains as well as its joys. you have no trouble, esther?" "none, dear mother. i am perfectly happy." "see how mistaken i am; and i hope i am mistaken also about ruth. i feared that she had some secret which she was concealing from me. blind people are suspicious, and breed trouble for themselves and others." "not you, dear mother," said esther, kissing her. "now you must go to sleep. this is quite against the doctor's orders." rachel smiled and yielded. she took pleasure in being led by those she loved. in the solitude of her chamber esther read the letter. "darling esther,-- "i am in great trouble, and you must help me. you are the only friend i have in the world----but no, i must not say that; it is not true. what i mean is, you are the only friend at home i can trust. "father and mother, and you, too, think i am in portsmouth with your family. dear esther, i am in london; i have been in london all the week. the happiness of my life is in your hands; remember that. "i went down to portsmouth, but i only stayed two days. i told your father i had to pay a visit to other friends, and he believed me. and now i hear he is in london, and of course will come to the house. he is the only person you may tell; you must beg him not to say a word about my going from portsmouth; you must make him promise; you don't know what depends upon it. speak to him quietly, and say he must not betray me; he will do anything for you. "dear, darling esther, i have a secret that i cannot disclose yet. i will soon--perhaps to-morrow, perhaps in a week; i cannot fix a time, because it does not depend upon me. but remember my happiness is in your hands. "your loving "ruth." the young girl was bewildered and distressed by this communication. they had all believed that ruth was on a visit to esther's family, and esther had received letters from her with the portsmouth postmark on them. it was true that ruth had asked her, as a particular favour, not to reply to the letters, and though esther considered it a strange request, she had complied with it. ruth's stronger will always prevailed with her. but what did it all mean? if ruth had been in london a week, where was she stopping? esther's character could hardly as yet be said to be formed: it was sweet, but it lacked decision, and now that she was called upon to act in a matter of importance she looked helplessly round, as if for guidance. she was glad when prissy knocked at her door and said that her father was downstairs. part of the responsibility seemed to be already lifted from her shoulders. "prissy," she said, before she went down, "you haven't spoken to anybody about the letter?" "no, miss." "don't say anything about it, please. mrs. cohen is not well, and the doctor is very particular that she shall not be bothered or worried." "i won't say anything, miss." she shook her head gravely as esther tripped downstairs, and muttered, "trouble's coming, or my name ain't what it is." "i am so glad you are here, father," said esther; "i have something to tell you." "i have something to tell _you_," said mr. moss. "such an odd impression! of course i must be mistaken. but first i want to know how mrs. cohen is. i thought she was not looking strong to-day." esther told him of the doctor's visit and the instructions he had given, and then handed him ruth's letter, which he read in silence. "i don't like the look of it," he said. "i hate mystery, and i cannot decide immediately whether it ought to be kept from mr. cohen." "oh, father," cried esther, "ruth will never forgive me if i betray her." "i don't think it is a question of betrayal," said mr. moss. "she tells you to speak to me, and you have done so. i take the blame on myself, whatever happens. my dear, you are not old enough to understand such matters, and you must leave this to me. the letter will be better in my keeping than in yours. just consider, esther; would you have behaved so?" "no, father, i could not." "there is the answer. the odd impression i spoke of was that i saw ruth to-night in a hansom cab. i thought i was mistaken, but now i am convinced it was she. if i had known what i know now i should have followed her. as to ruth never forgiving you, what will mr. cohen's feelings be towards you when he discovers that you have acted in a treacherous manner towards him and his wife? ruth is very little older than yourself, and i am afraid cannot discriminate between right and wrong; she must not be allowed to drag us into a conspiracy against the peace of the family." esther was dismayed; she had not looked upon it in this light. "was ruth alone?" she asked, in a faltering voice. "no, she had a gentleman with her. it is a bad business--a bad business. i intended to return to portsmouth to-morrow, but now i shall remain till the matter is cleared up." "shall you speak to mr. cohen to-night, father?" "no. i shall do nothing till the morning; i must have time to consider how to act. mr. cohen will not be home till past midnight, and he will be completely tired out with the fatigues of the day. to think that it should turn out so! good-night, my dear child. get to bed, and try to sleep. things may turn out better than we expect, after all." but despite that hope mr. moss, when he left aaron's house, could find nothing more cheerful to occupy his mind than the _miserere_ from "il trovatore," which he hummed dolefully as he trudged through the streets. there was very little sleep for his daughter on this night, and very little also for aaron cohen. the cloud that was gathering was too ominous for repose. chapter xxxix. the honourable percy storndale makes an appeal to aaron cohen. on the following morning aaron had a great deal of work before him which could not be neglected. he had returned home late on the previous night, after an exhausting interview with the strikers, in which he had won the battle. it is to be doubted whether any other man in london could have exercised so commanding an influence over men who were convinced that they had right on their side, and many of whom were still inclined to hold out for better terms than aaron was empowered to offer them; but his arguments prevailed in the end, and the men gave way. neither the masters nor the strikers obtained all they desired; each side had to concede something; though, in the main, the advantage lay with the men, whose delegates, in generous words, acknowledged the services which aaron had rendered to the cause they were fighting for. the newspapers, in recording that the strike was over, were no less generous in their acknowledgments. "it will be long remembered," said the editor of a leading journal, "that a grave danger has been averted chiefly through the influence and high character of one of the most esteemed of our jewish citizens. to mr. aaron cohen, and to him alone, may be said to be due the credit of terminating a strike which, had it been much longer continued, would have had a disastrous effect upon an important industry, and in the performance of a service which was as disinterested as it was arduous he has established his claim to be ranked among the public benefactors of the country. masters may well take a lesson from this gentleman, who, in the building up of his own fortunes, has been consistently mindful of the interests and well-being of his workmen. herein we see the value of character and its influence on the masses. were capital generally to follow the example of mr. cohen in its dealings with labour there would be less room for discontent. in another column will be found an account of the proceedings which took place at this gentleman's house yesterday, upon which occasion a deserved honour was paid to him. if he deserved, as he certainly did, such a tribute yesterday, he deserves it tenfold to-day when the thanks of the nation are due to him for his successful efforts in the builders' strike." at any other time aaron would have been proud to read these remarks, but now he put the newspaper aside with a heavy sigh. the higher the position the greater the fall. he alone knew that his fair reputation was in danger, and that the honourable edifice he had built for himself was tottering to the ground. from these matters, however, his attention was diverted by a visit from his wife's physician. dr. roberts had not been quite ingenuous in his report of rachel's condition: his ripe experience warned him that a crisis might occur, and that a few days must elapse before the extent of the danger, if any existed, could be ascertained. it was this that caused him to call early at the house to see rachel, and when he left her he sought aaron to confer with him. the moment the doctor entered the room aaron's thoughts flew to his beloved, and he started up in alarm. "doctor!" he cried. "now what do you see in my face," said dr. roberts, with a smile, "to cause you to start up so suddenly? sit down, sit down, and let me tell you at once that your wife is in no danger--only she requires a little care and attention. i have come to give you advice, if you will listen to it." "of course i will listen to it." "of course you will; and you will follow it." "to the letter." "that is right. my advice is that you send mrs. cohen at once to the seaside. she will be better out of london. i saw on her table a number of letters--begging letters, i was informed--which miss moss had been reading to her. just now she is not equal to the strain. she must be free from the emotions created by these appeals, and from anything of an agitating nature. perfect repose and rest--that is what she requires, with brighter sunshine and a balmier air, and in a week or two she will be well. i should recommend bournemouth, and if you wish i will run down and see her there. meanwhile, i will give you the name of a physician who will understand her case as well as i do. let miss moss go with her; your wife is fond of her, and she is a cheerful companion, though she seems to be rather depressed this morning. i have been lecturing the young lady, and she tells me she has had a bad night. it will do them both good." "i cannot accompany her to-day," said aaron. "i have so many important matters to attend to. we will go down to-morrow." "send her to-day," urged the physician, "and you can follow on to-morrow, or later. it is good weather for travelling; in a few hours it may change. to-day, by all means. we doctors are autocrats, you know, and will not listen to argument. to-day." had the business he had to attend to been of less importance, aaron would have put it aside, and travelled with his wife to the seaside; but it was business which imperatively demanded his personal attention, and he had no alternative but to send her with esther and the ever faithful prissy, in whom he had every confidence. he accompanied them as far as the railway station, and held rachel's hand in his as they drove to waterloo. it was not only that they were still lovers, but that he felt the need of the moral support which he derived from the tender hand-clasp. "do not be anxious about me, dear," said rachel, "and do not come down till friday. then you can stop till monday morning, and perhaps joseph will be home by then, and he can come with you. he will not be able to keep away from esther, and he has but a short time to remain in england. nothing really ails me except a little weakness which i shall soon overcome. if ruth is happy in portsmouth let her remain there if she wishes. we are growing old, love, you and i, and we must not tie our children too closely to our sides. they will fly away as the young birds do, and make nests of their own. may their homes be as happy as ours has been--may their lives be as happy as you have made mine!" in such-like tender converse the minutes flew by, and as the train steamed out of the station rachel's face, with a bright smile upon it, was turned towards her husband. on the road home aaron telegraphed to ruth in portsmouth, addressing his telegram to mr. moss's house; he desired her to return to london to-day or to-morrow. he felt that he must speak to her with as little delay as possible respecting the disclosure which mr. dillworthy had made to him; it would be playing the coward's part, indeed, if he did not immediately ascertain the nature of her feelings for the honourable percy storndale. thus far the first step of his duty; what steps were to follow he had not yet determined upon. arriving at his house, he found mr. moss waiting to see him. esther had left a letter for her father acquainting him with their departure for the seaside, and giving him their address in bournemouth, which she was enabled to do because aaron had made arrangements by telegraph for their reception in a jewish house there. after a few words of explanation of the cause of rachel and esther leaving so suddenly, aaron informed his friend that he had telegraphed to ruth to come home at once. mr. moss started. "you sent the telegram to my house?" he said. "certainly. i am sorry to break her visit, which she must have enjoyed, but there is a necessity for it. as my oldest friend you should not be kept in ignorance of this necessity, and we will agree that it is not to be spoken of outside ourselves without my consent." thereupon he related the part of his interview with mr. dillworthy that affected ruth and the son of lord storndale. "there is another matter," he said, "of great importance which was mentioned during the interview, and which we may speak of presently. you now know my reason for sending to ruth to come home. i must learn the truth from her own lips." "strangely enough," said mr. moss, nervously, "i have come to say something about ruth myself." "surely not in connection with this matter?" exclaimed aaron. "you must be the judge of that, cohen. did you notice whether esther was looking well?" "she looked tired. dr. roberts said she had passed a bad night, and that the change would do her good." "a bad night. no wonder, poor child! i scarcely slept an hour with what is on my mind. you will be surprised at what i have to tell you. but first--esther said nothing about ruth?" "nothing whatever." "you must not blame her; she acted by my directions, and her lips are sealed." "why should i blame her? she is a dear good child; i have implicit faith and confidence in her. you alarm me, mr. moss. speak plainly, i beg of you." "yes, i will do so, but i would have liked to break it gradually. cohen, ruth is not in portsmouth." "not in portsmouth! where, then?" "if what she writes and my eyes are to be believed, she is in london, and has been there all the week, she remained with us two days, and then left, saying she was going to pay a visit to some other friends. we naturally thought, though we expected her to make a longer stay, that you were aware of it, and that the plan of her visit had been altered with your concurrence. last night, as i passed through regent street, i saw a lady in a hansom in the company of a gentleman, and i could have sworn it was ruth; but the cab was driving at a quick pace, and i thought i must have been deceived. i came on here to esther, and the poor child was in deep distress. she had received a letter from ruth, which she gave me to read. i do not offer any excuse for taking the letter from her; she is but a child, and is quite unfit for a responsibility which, without her consent, was imposed upon her. here is the letter; it explains itself." aaron read it with conflicting feelings. his first thought was that ruth had taken her fate into her own hands. he had done his duty zealously by her in the past, whatever might be his duty in the present. if, as was his fervent hope, no dishonour to her was involved in her flight--for it was no less than flight, and desertion of the home in which she had been reared--if there had been a secret marriage, new contingencies of the future loomed dimly before him, contingencies in which the stern task it was his duty to perform was not so terrible in its import. the past could never be condoned, but in his consideration of the future one figure towered above all others, the figure of his wife. if for her the suffering could be made less--if the fact of ruth taking her course without his prompting, even in defiance of the lessons he had endeavoured to inculcate, would mitigate the severity of the blow, was it not something to be grateful for? if, he argued mentally, she and the son of lord storndale were married, they had little to hope for from the storndale family. their dependence, then, rested upon him, and he resolved that he would not fail the rash couple. his hope of an honourable, though secret, marriage was based upon his knowledge of ruth's character. she was not given to exaggerated sentiment, he had never known her to go into heroics, she possessed certain sterling qualities of strength and determination. granted that she was led away by the glamour of wedding the son of a peer, he was convinced she would not so far forget herself as to bring shame upon herself and her connections. she was christian born, and she had the right to marry a christian; by her own unprompted act she had cut the gordian knot. that the honourable percy storndale had a double motive in pursuing her was likely enough; love, aaron hoped, being one, the fact of her reputed father being a wealthy man the other. well, he would fulfil the young man's expectations; there was nothing in the shape of worldly atonement which he was not ready and anxious to make. in the midst of his musings a servant presented himself with a telegram and a card. the card bore the name of the hon. percy storndale, the telegram was from mrs. moss in portsmouth. "wait outside," aaron said to the servant, who left the room. the telegram was to the effect that ruth was not in portsmouth, and that mrs. moss, in her absence, had taken the liberty of reading the message, under the idea that it might contain something which required an immediate answer. "is ruth coming to us again?" mrs. moss asked. aaron passed the telegram and the card to mr. moss. "keep in the house," he said, "while i have an interview with this gentleman. wait in the library, and tell the servant to show mr. storndale into this room." in a few moments the young man was ushered in and aaron motioned him to a seat. it is a human failing to run into extremes. no man is quite so good or bad as he is represented to be by his admirers or detractors. in his anxiety to prejudice aaron against lord storndale's son mr. dillworthy had done the young man an injustice. a scapegrace he was, without doubt, but he had been educated into his vices and extravagances--it may be said with truth carefully reared into them--and he was certainly no worse than hundreds of other men who are brought up with no definite aim in life, and are educated without any sensible and serious effort being made to impress them with life's responsibilities. he had, indeed, the advantage of many, for although he considered it perfectly excusable to get into debt with tradesmen and to borrow from moneylenders without an expectation of being able to pay either one or the other, he would not have descended so low as to pick a pocket or to cheat at cards. more of the pigeon than the gull, he looked always to his family to get him out of his scrapes; he believed it to be their duty; and it was upon him, not upon them, that injustice was inflicted when he was thrown entirely upon his own resources and he was given to understand that for the future he would have to settle his own liabilities. he was fair-haired and blue-eyed, and passably good-looking; beyond this there was nothing remarkable in his appearance; but there was that air of good humour and careless ease about him which generally wins favour with women who do not look beneath the surface. just now he was manifestly ill at ease, for he had never before been engaged upon a mission so awkward and embarrassing. that he was impressed by aaron's dignified manner was evident; he had expected to meet a man of a different stamp. each waited for the other to speak, and aaron was not the first to break the silence. "i have taken the liberty of visiting you upon a rather delicate matter," said the young gentleman, "and it is more difficult than i anticipated." "yes?" said aaron, and said no more. the monosyllable was uttered in the form of a question, and did not lessen the difficulties in the young man's way. "yes," he replied, and was at a loss how to continue; but again aaron did not assist him. "upon my honour," he said at length, "i would not undertake to say whether i would rather be in this room than out of it, or out of it than in it." he gave a weak laugh here, with a half idea that he had said something rather clever; but still he met with no encouragement from aaron. "it is so difficult, you see," he added. "i do not suppose you know me." "no," said aaron; "i do not know you." "i thought it possible that your daughter, miss cohen, you know, might have mentioned me to you." "she has never done so." "it was my fault entirely. i said, on no account; and naturally she gave in." "did she wish to mention you to me?" "oh yes; but i insisted. i don't exactly know why, but i did, and she gave in. i daresay i was a blockhead, but i hope you will find excuses for me." "at present i can find none. we shall understand each other if you come to the point." "i will try to do so, but it is not easy, i assure you mr. cohen, after the way i have behaved. upon second thoughts i do not see, upon my honour i do not see, how you can be expected to find excuses for me. but it does happen sometimes that a fellow meets another fellow who helps a lame dog over the stile. i am the lame dog, you know." "it may assist you," said aaron, "if i ask you one question, and if you frankly answer it. are you a married man?" "upon my soul, sir," exclaimed the honourable percy storndale, "i cannot be sufficiently thankful to you. yes, sir, i am a married man." "long married?" "four days, mr. cohen." "can you show me proof of it?" "i thank you again, sir. but it wasn't my idea; it was my wife's. 'take the marriage certificate with you,' she said. she has wonderful ideas." "let me see the certificate." the young man instantly produced it, and aaron, with a deep-drawn breath of relief, saw recorded there the marriage of miss ruth cohen and the honourable percy storndale. "you married my--my daughter, i see," said aaron, "in a registrar's office." "i don't know how to apologise to you, sir," said the young man, as relieved by aaron's calm attitude as aaron was himself at this proof of an honourable union. "i can't conceive anything meaner; but what could i do? ruth--miss cohen, you know--being a jewess, could not well have been married in a church, and i, being a christian, could not well have been married in a synagogue. it was a very delicate point; i am not acquainted with the law on the subject, but no fellow can deny that it was a delicate point. then there was another difficulty. bridesmaids, bridesmaids' presents, and general expenses, to say nothing of the publicity when the parties principally concerned wanted to get it over quietly and quickly. ruth said you would never consent; i said my family would never consent; so what else was there for it? pray forgive me if i am expressing myself clumsily." "your family did not encourage the match?" "dead against it; from the first dead against it. bullied and threatened me. 'what!' they cried, 'marry a jewess!' 'as good as any christian,' i retorted. but did you ever know a storndale listen to reason, mr. cohen?" "you are a storndale," said aaron, quietly. "had me there," chuckled the young man. "'gad, sir, you had me there. well, sir, that is how it stands, and if you show me the door i'll not say i don't deserve it." "i will not show you the door, but it is not correct to say that is how it stands, as if there were nothing more to explain. mr. storndale, if the lady you have married were a christian, would your family have objected?" the young man laughed in a weak awkward way. "answer me frankly, this and other questions it is my duty to put." "my family would not have objected," said the honourable percy storndale, "if there had been settlements. you see, sir, we are not exactly rolling in money, and i am a younger son. no expectations, sir. a poor gentleman." "an imprudent marriage, mr. storndale." "no denying it, sir; and it has only come home to me the last day or two. marriage in such circumstances pulls a fellow up, you see, makes him reflect, you know. my wife's an angel, and that makes it cut deeper. a married fellow thinks of things. as a bachelor i never thought of to-morrow, i give you my word on it. so long as i had a five-pound note in my pocket i was happy. to-morrow! hang to-morrow! that was the way of it. i've only just woke up to the fact that there is a to-morrow." "was it a love match, mr. storndale?" "on both sides, sir. without vanity--and i don't deny i've got my share of that--i may speak for her as well as for myself." "from the first, a love match, mr. storndale? did it never occur to you that i was a rich man?" "you drive me hard, sir, but i'm not going to play fast and loose with you. 'be prepared, percy,' ruth says to me. 'my father is a wise as well as a just and kind man, and i don't know whether he will ever forgive me; but you will make a sad mistake if you don't speak the honest truth to him.' the truth it shall be, as i am a gentleman. i did think of ruth's father being a rich man, and seeing us through it. but after a little while i got so over head and heels that i thought only of her. i give you my word, sir, i never had the feelings for any woman that i have for ruth, and that, i think, is why i'm rather scared when i think of to-morrow. if i hadn't been afraid of losing her i might have come straight to you before we went to the registrar, but i didn't care to run the risk. what would you do, sir, for a woman you loved?" "everything--anything." "you would stake everything against nothing, with a certainty of losing, rather than give her up?" "i would make any earthly sacrifice for her." "well, sir, you know how i feel. i don't set myself up as a good man; i've done foolish things, and i dare say shall do more foolish things, but not half nor quarter as many with a clever woman by my side to keep me straight. what some of us want, sir, is ballast; i never had it till now, and even now perhaps it's of no use to me. until a week ago i had to think for one; now i have to think for two. but thinking won't help me through, i'm afraid." never before had the honourable percy storndale expressed himself in so manly a fashion; it was as though contact with aaron were bringing out his best qualities. "was it your intention, mr. storndale, to come to me so soon after your marriage?" "i had no settled intention when to come, sir, but i have been forced to it sooner than i expected." "what has forced you to it?" "writs. i give you my word they are flying about, and i am afraid i shall have to fly too. when needs must, you know, sir." "are you heavily in debt?" "to the tune of three thousand, sir." "when a question of this kind is asked, the answer is generally below the mark." "true enough, sir, but i am pretty close to it this time. ruth's an angel, but she's a sensible woman as well. she made me put everything down." "if i settle the claims against you"--the young man looked up with a flush on his face--"you will get into debt again." "i'll try not to, sir." "honestly, mr. storndale?" "honestly, mr. cohen. ruth will keep me straight." "leave me your address. i will come and see you to-night at eight o'clock. make out a clear and truthful list of your debts; omit nothing. meanwhile----" he wrote a cheque, and handed it to the young man, who received it in astonishment, which deepened when he saw the amount for which it was drawn. he was in no way prepared for such liberality and such a reception as he had met with. "i don't know how to thank you, sir." "take care of ruth. be kind and considerate to her." "i will do my best, sir." he shook hands gratefully with aaron, and with a light heart went to gladden his young wife with the good news. chapter xl. a duty performed. before mr. moss rejoined him, aaron had repented of his promise to call and see the young couple in the evening. this vacillation was a proof of the effect recent events had had upon his mind; it was really unbalanced; the prompt decision of all matters, whether great or small, which presented themselves for consideration, seemed to have deserted him. he felt that he could not depend upon himself in the promised interview with ruth, and that he might precipitate a discovery, the proper time for which, he believed, had not yet arrived. that it would have to be made eventually was certain; truth and justice demanded it, and the claim should be met, but not to-day, not until other plans with respect to his future were settled. for there had already grown in his mind a conviction that he was not worthy of the position he held among his co-religionists, that it was his duty to retire into obscurity, and not presume to teach what should be done in important issues where he himself had so signally failed. he mentally asked why had he not recognised this earlier; and the answer that trod upon the heels of the question brought a pitiful smile of self-despisal to his lips. he had been living deliberately in an atmosphere of deceit, trusting to chance to avoid detection and exposure. he could lay blame upon no other shoulders than his own; he, and he alone, was responsible for the consequences of his acts. well, he would not shrink from them, he would accept them humbly, and rest his hopes in the mercy of god. if, when the hour arrived for open confession--and arrive it must before many weeks were past--he could still retain the love of his wife, if she would forgive him for the deception he had practised, he would be content, he might even be happy again, fallen as he would be from his high estate. meanwhile there lay upon him the obligation of lifting ruth and her husband from poverty, of placing them in an honourable and independent position, and this task he would ask his friend mr. moss to undertake for him. "all is explained," he said, when that gentleman re-entered the room. "ruth has done what cannot be undone. she and mr. storndale are married." "married!" exclaimed mr. moss. he was startled at the news, but no less startled at the calm voice in which it was communicated to him. "what are you going to do about it?" "accept it," replied aaron; "there is no alternative." "it is an outrage. he should be made to suffer for it." "he must not be made to suffer for it, nor must ruth. apart from the personal consideration of the matter so far as it affects myself, and from another consideration which doubtless is in your mind, mr. storndale has acted as honourably as we could expect from one in his position. there has been concealment and deception, but it is not for me to cast a stone against him. the young man is in difficulties, and i have resolved to clear him from them, and to provide for ruth's future. they will expect to see me to-night; but i cannot trust myself. i wish you to undertake the task for me, and to carry the whole matter through. mr. moss, all through my life you have been my sincere friend, and i value your friendship; you will not fail me now?" "no, cohen, no; i will do whatever you wish me to do; but it is hardly what i expected of you." "you are surprised that i do not show anger at this marriage, that i do not express resentment against mr. storndale?" "i am." "before long," said aaron, placing his hand on his friend's shoulder, "you will understand why i am so calm. i can trust you, and when i confess that there was in my life an hour when temptation assailed me and i fell before it, i feel that my confidence will be respected until the time arrives when all the world will know what is hidden in my breast, what has been hidden for the last twenty years." "for the last twenty years! cohen, that takes us back to the old gosport days!" "it does. but ask me no questions now, for i am not prepared to answer them. great changes are coming in my life, and i must arm myself to meet them. if only rachel will forgive!" he covered his eyes with his hand, and turned away. "cohen," said mr. moss presently, "i see that you are unstrung, that you are suffering. you are doing yourself an injustice; i am sure of it, i am sure of it. i do not pretend to understand what it is that distresses you, but i would like to say that you may depend upon me in any difficulty. you may turn against yourself, but you are not going to turn an old friend like me against you." aaron pressed mr. moss's hand, and then explained the task he wished performed. mr. moss was to call upon ruth and her husband, and obtain from them an honest and faithful account of their position. this done, he was to pay every shilling the young man owed; after which a settlement of a thousand pounds a year was to be made upon ruth as a marriage portion, the money to be absolutely at her own disposal. "it is not a great deal," said aaron, "for a gentleman, the son of a peer, to live upon; but his family in a little while, when they learn the truth about ruth"--he paused, and mr. moss nodded gravely; a strange suspicion was beginning to haunt him--"may be disposed to forgive him, and through their influence he may obtain a lucrative appointment. from the way in which he spoke i am disposed to think that he may turn over a new leaf, and that an honourable future may lie before him and ruth. give her my love, and say that circumstances render it impossible for me to see her for a few days, and that when we meet i shall have something of great importance to disclose to her. be patient with me, mr. moss. my words point to a mystery which will soon be public property. what you are about to do for me can scarcely be finished before the end of the week, but i cannot rest until it is finished. my own affairs will entirely occupy me, and i must run down to bournemouth to see rachel." "i will not waste a moment," said mr. moss. "how about the money necessary for the settlement and the payment of mr. storndale's debts? have you calculated how much it will cost you? a large sum, cohen." "it will be forthcoming; the means will be placed in your hands to-morrow. do not return here tonight. come and breakfast with me at nine in the morning." aaron sat up till long past midnight, making calculations, and arranging his affairs. he was quite resolved to retire from public life, and altogether from business; and to effect this there was much to do. he had uncompleted contracts in hand which he would transfer to employers of whose methods he approved, and he had just obtained another which a dozen contractors would be eager to take off his hands. he thought of mr. poynter, and shook his head. to such a man he could not entrust any of his responsibilities. then he devoted himself to an examination of his private financial position. after providing for ruth he calculated that he could realise a sum of about ninety thousand pounds, in addition to which there were his house and furniture, which would realise another ten thousand. one third of this would be sufficient to provide for ruth and her husband, one third should be divided among the jewish charities, and one third should be invested for himself and rachel. this would produce an income of between eight and nine hundred pounds, amply sufficient for the maintenance of a comfortable home either in london or the country. "rachel will be content," he thought; "and the years that are left to us shall be passed in peace, away from the turmoil and fever of life. if she will but forgive me--if she will but forgive!" all depended upon that. he held offices of honour in the synagogue which he would immediately resign; there and then he wrote his letters of resignation. there had been a time when he was called upon to support a movement in respect of these honourable offices. a man who had grown rich by usury and fraud had succeeded in getting himself nominated for a high position in the synagogue, and this had aroused the displeasure of the more respectable members of the community, who had enlisted aaron on their side. his all-powerful influence had settled the question, and the usurer was taught a salutary lesson. from that time a strict watch was kept upon these dignities, which were conferred upon none whose past lives would not bear strict scrutiny. aaron thought of this as he drew forth the address upon modern judaism he had undertaken to deliver, hoping thereby to counteract the loose views of religious obligations which threatened to sap the foundations of the old faith. he read the powerful arguments he had written to this end, and sighed as he read. "not for me the task," he murmured. "not for me. i am not worthy. it is for me to learn, not to teach." he tore the manuscript and burned it; he had forfeited the right to show his brethren the path of duty. at length he came to the end of his labours. before he retired to rest he prayed long and fervently, and offered up supplications for forgiveness. at nine o'clock in the morning mr. moss presented himself, and reported what he had done. "everything is in such straight order," he said, "that the whole business can be finished to-morrow." "it will be a great weight off my mind," said aaron, "when all the papers are signed. i have letters from rachel and esther." he passed the young girl's letter to mr. moss. "she says there is no change in rachel, but that she thinks the air and change of scene are doing her good. if you write to esther do not hint at any impending trouble, and do not mention ruth's name, lest rachel should suspect that something was wrong. i ought to tell you, mr. moss, that i have resolved to retire into private life; i shall be much happier, and i am sure rachel will be. it is a sudden resolution, and i daresay my friends will be surprised; but i am fixed, nothing can induce me to change my mind." "and your contracts, cohen?" asked mr. moss, who was sufficiently familiar with aaron's character to know that remonstrance at present would be thrown away. "i shall transfer them. my earnest wish is that i shall be forgotten, and allowed to live in peace. i am growing old; let my place, which i unworthily hold, be occupied by a better man." "that is hardly likely to come to pass," said mr. moss, gravely. "you are not old; you are in the prime of life, with very many years of usefulness before you. but i will not argue with you; when you have recovered from your depression, when rachel is well again, you will think better of it. we need you; no other man can fill your place, and you will not be allowed to retire without remonstrance. but we will wait till sunday, when you are to deliver your address upon 'judaism, its duties and obligations.' after it is delivered it will be printed in pamphlet form, will it not?" "no; it will be neither delivered nor printed." "cohen!" exclaimed mr. moss, amazed at this statement. "it is as i say, mr. moss," said aaron, firmly. "but it is expected; it is looked forward to, and the best results are anticipated from it. you will not go from your word?" "i must. the address is destroyed. i must bear whatever is said of me; i accept it as part of my punishment." "of your punishment! i do not understand you." "you will by-and-by. mr. moss, the man who presumes to set down laws of right and wrong should be above reproach. can a thief preach honesty? can a liar lift his voice in praise of truth?" "these are strange utterances, cohen, from your lips." "there is a sad foundation for them. to know yourself--that is the height of human wisdom; and i have learned too late. pray do not continue the subject; you stand in the dark, i in the light." "well, well," said mr. moss, with a sigh, "we will speak of this another time. but i do not see what you can have to reproach yourself with." "let every man search his own heart," replied aaron, and his voice was very mournful. "he will find the answer there. and now we will waste no more time in idle conversation. we must go to the lawyers and the bank. have you a list of mr. storndale's debts? ah, thank you." he looked at the total, and drew a cheque for the amount. "the payment of these claims will keep you busy during the day. i will give instructions to the lawyers to prepare the deed of settlement, and tomorrow it can be signed. you will be a trustee; i will call upon a gentleman who will be the other. i shall spend to-night at bournemouth, and will come back by an early train in the morning." "will you not see ruth before you leave?" asked mr. moss. "no, not till everything is finished. how is she?" "well and happy, and overjoyed that you are not angry with her. between ourselves, cohen, it is not what she expected." under his breath he added, "nor what i expected, either." "she has all the more reason for contentment," said aaron. "i wish her to be happy." they had a busy time with lawyers, stockbrokers, bank managers, and creditors, and aaron just managed to catch the two-twenty train for bournemouth. he passed a quiet evening with rachel and esther, and answered such questions put by his wife concerning ruth in a manner which seemed to satisfy her, for she did not press him upon the subject. with esther he had a private conversation, and cautioned her to preserve silence as to the letter she had received. on the following morning he took train for london, and arriving before noon, found everything prepared for a final settlement of his plans for ruth's worldly future. when the deeds were signed, and the consols bought and deposited in the bank of england, aaron breathed more freely. he had made some small atonement to ruth for the deception of which he had been guilty. "we have had no honeymoon trip," said the honourable percy storndale to him, "and i am thinking of taking ruth to the continent tomorrow." "yes," said aaron, absently. "but," added mr. storndale, "the trip will have no pleasure for her if she does not see you before we go." "i will come with you now," said aaron. they met and parted without any warm expression of affection. such a demonstration from ruth towards one whom she believed to be her father, but for whom she had never entertained a strong love, would have been a new feature in her character, and grateful as she was for his generosity she was held back by the feeling that she had given him a poor return for his life-long kindness towards her, and by her fear that he was quietly angry with her; while aaron was held back by the consciousness of his wrong-doing. and so the young couple went forth to commence their new life, and the secret of ruth's birth was still unrevealed. chapter xli. there is a providence that shapes our ends. two weeks had passed away. joseph had come and gone. in the company of esther and his parents he had spent three sad and happy days in bournemouth, happy because he was in the society of those he loved, sad because he was so soon to part from them. rachel's health was improved, and it touched aaron deeply to observe how she clung to her son and esther, as though she were seeking in them a recompense for what she was losing in ruth. he exerted himself to be bright and cheerful, and flattered himself that he was succeeding; but, indeed, during these days he was not the only one who was playing a part. rachel was also exerting herself to hide the cloud which was hanging over her spirits because of the prolonged absence of ruth, as to whom both she and aaron seemed now to have entered into a loving conspiracy of silence. with joseph aaron was compelled to be more open, and to the young man and his affianced he imparted the news of ruth's secret marriage. "i have not yet broken it to your dear mother," said aaron, "in consequence of the state of her health. but she is growing stronger every day, and when you are gone i will break it to her gently." he turned to esther, and said, "you stand now in ruth's place, and in you i also have gained a daughter. do not let this news distress you. be true to each other, be steadfast to the old faith, and all will be well. and be careful to say nothing to the dear mother. leave that task to me." the carrying out of his intention to retire into private life, and to entirely give up the important business transactions in which he had been engaged for so many years, rendered it necessary that he should be in london the greater part of these two weeks; and mr. moss, who was endeavouring to get his own affairs in order, was his constant companion during this time. the private distribution of so large a sum of money as aaron had set apart for charity was no easy matter, and the officers of the institutions which were the richer for his benevolence used much persuasion to induce him to make his benefactions public; but on this point he was resolved. the other important matter which occupied him was the transference of his existing contracts. his great rival, mr. poynter, was especially anxious to obtain a share of this business, and with that object in view he called upon aaron. but the two men could not agree; it was not a question of terms, but a question as to certain stipulations with respect to wages and hours of labour which aaron insisted upon. "surely," protested mr. poynter, "you do not arrogate the right to dictate to other employers what they shall pay their workmen?" "not at all," aaron replied, "where i am not concerned. but these contracts are mine; numbers of the workmen have been in my employ for years, and i must protect them." "protect them!" exclaimed mr. poynter, angrily. "against me!" "against all," said aaron, firmly, "who would pay workmen less than a fair living wage, and would put too severe a strain upon bone and muscle." "bone and muscle!" cried mr. poynter. "bone and fiddlesticks! you are talking common cant, mr. cohen." the interview grew stormy, and did not last much longer. when mr. poynter departed it was with a burning anger against aaron, and with a burning desire for revenge. from that moment he looked about for the means of compassing this revenge. "if i could only bring him down!" he thought, "if i could only bring him down!" at the end of the fortnight aaron was in london, his labours over, and at this time his own fortune amounted to something over forty-five thousand pounds, a larger sum than he had anticipated would be left to him. it must be mentioned that ruth and her husband had just returned to london, as he was informed by letter, their honeymoon trip having come suddenly to an end in consequence of ruth's indisposition it was she who wrote to him, and she was so earnest in the expression of her wish that he would come and see her, that he had sent her a telegram saying that he would call at eight or nine o'clock, by which time he expected to be free. he would have called earlier, but he had an appointment with mr. moss at six, his intention being to make to his old friend a full disclosure of his secret respecting ruth. on the following day rachel and esther were coming back to london, as rachel did not wish to remain longer in bournemouth. aaron was waiting now in his study for mr. moss. the cares and sorrows of the past few months had left their mark upon him. the grey hairs had multiplied fast, the lines in his face had deepened, and in the kind eyes and benevolent countenance there was a touch of childlike pathos, as though the strong man had suddenly grown weak, and was mutely appealing for mercy. mr. moss's face was flushed with excitement as he entered the room with an evening paper in his hand. "have you heard the rumour, cohen?" he asked, excitedly. "what rumour?" inquired aaron, rising to meet his friend. "about your bank, the colonial alliance?" "no, i have heard nothing. i have not been out of the house since the morning." "it came on me like a thunderclap, but it cannot be true." "what cannot be true, mr. moss?" aaron spoke quite calmly. "well, there's nothing definite, but you know there has been something like a panic in the city." "i am aware of it, but it cannot affect me. i have no investments now, with the solitary exception of my bank shares. all my affairs are settled, and what is left of my fortune is in the bank until i decide how to invest it." mr. moss groaned "i wish you had it safely tied up in consols. is all your money there?" "every shilling. the only investments i have not realised are the shares i hold in the bank." "that makes it all the worse. the shareholders are liable to the depositors?" "certainly--to the extent of the unpaid portion of their shares. perhaps beyond that--i am not quite sure." the flush had died out of mr. moss's face, which was now white with apprehension. "they're calling it out in the streets; but here's the paper." he pointed to a paragraph, which stated that one of the largest banks in the city had closed its doors half an hour before its time, and that the panic had in consequence reached an alarming height. "there is no name mentioned, mr. moss." "no, cohen, no; but i passed through the city on my way here, and the name of the bank was on every one's lips. if your bank stops payment tomorrow how will you stand?" "if it stops payment for sufficient cause," said aaron, in a steady voice, "i shall be a ruined man." "good heavens! and you can speak of it so calmly!" "why not? to work myself into a frenzy will not help me. there are worse misfortunes." "i cannot imagine them, cohen. ruined? absolutely ruined?" "absolutely ruined," answered aaron, with a smile. "and it is only yesterday that you were----" he could not continue, and aaron took up his words. "it is only yesterday that i was on the top of the tree. a dangerous height, mr. moss, but i must bear the fall. if, when they climb the ladder of fortune, men would but be careful to make the lower rungs secure! but prosperity makes them reckless. do not look so mournful. happiness is as easily found in poverty as in riches." "it may be, after all, a false alarm," groaned mr. moss. "let us hope so; though there is no smoke without a fire. we will wait till to-morrow." "will you not come with me to the city now to ascertain whether it is true or false?" "no. it will only trouble me, and it will not affect the result. i will wait till to-morrow." so marked was the contrast between his cheerful and mr. moss's despondent mood that it really seemed as if it were his friend's fortune that was imperilled instead of his own. he was standing by the door, and hearing a knock he opened it. "i beg your pardon, sir," said the servant, "but this gentleman is below, and wants to see mr. moss." aaron took the card without looking at it, and handed it to mr. moss, who exclaimed,-- "dr. spenlove! what can he want here?" "show the gentleman up," said aaron to the servant, after a moment's consideration. "had i not better see him alone?" asked mr. moss. "if you have no objection," replied aaron, "i should prefer that you receive him here in my presence." they both seemed to scent a coming danger, but aaron appeared to hail it gladly, while mr. moss would rather have avoided it. "a thousand apologies," said dr. spenlove to aaron upon his entrance, "for intruding upon you; but hearing that mr. moss had come to your house i took the liberty of following him. my errand is an urgent one." "i am happy to see you, dr. spenlove," aaron responded; "if your business with mr. moss is not quite private you can speak freely before me." "i think," said dr. spenlove, half hesitating, "that it is quite private." "i have a distinct reason," continued aaron, as though dr. spenlove had not spoken, "for making the suggestion; it is more than likely that i have a distinct connection with your business, and this must be my excuse for wishing to be present. if it is of an incident in the past you wish to speak, when you and mr. moss were acquainted in portsmouth----" "how singular that you should have guessed it!" exclaimed dr. spenlove. "it is such an incident that brings me here." "the time was winter," pursued aaron, "the season an inclement one. i remember it well. for some days the snow had been falling----" "yes, yes. it was a terrible season for the poor." "for one especially, a lady driven into misfortune, and who had no friend but a stern and honourable gentleman who would only lift her from the depths into which she had fallen on the condition that she submitted to a cruel sacrifice. his demand was that she should give her infant into the care of strangers, and that only in the event of his death should she be free to seek to know its fate. is that the incident, dr. spenlove?" "it is. i see you know all, and with mr. moss's consent i will speak openly." mr. moss looked at aaron, who nodded, and dr. spenlove continued. "there is no need to recall all the particulars of that bitter night when you so kindly assisted me in the search for the unhappy mother and her child." "none at all," said mr. moss; "they are very vivid in my memory." "and in mine. your kindness has not been forgotten either by me or by the lady whose life, and whose child's life, were saved by you. he shakes his head in deprecation, mr. cohen, but what i say is true. had he not, out of the kindness of his heart, accompanied me, these two hapless human beings would have perished in the snow. i had a motive to serve; he had none. on the night we parted in portsmouth, mr. moss, you were on the point of seeking a home for the poor babe, for whom"--he turned to aaron--"a liberal provision was made." "i am acquainted with every detail of the strange story," said aaron. "i was residing in gosport at the time." dr. spenlove gave him a startled look. "it was in gosport he hoped to find this home, with a friend of whom he spoke in the highest terms. the commission entrusted to me by mr. gordon--i perceive you are familiar with the name--ended on that night, and what remained to be done was in the hands of mr. moss and mr. gordon's lawyers. the following morning i came to london, where i have resided ever since. from that day until two or three weeks ago mr. moss and i have not met. it was here in your house, mr. cohen, that, seeing him for the first time after so long an interval, i made inquiries concerning the infant entrusted to him. he informed me that she died very shortly, as i understood, after she entered her new home. i was not surprised to hear it; the exposure on that bitter night was sufficiently severe to kill a child much older. in order that my visit to mr. moss to-night may be properly understood i will relate in a few words the subsequent history of the mother. she married mr. gordon, and accompanied him to australia, where she has resided for twenty years. she has had no children by him, and is now a widow, and very wealthy. unknown to mr. gordon she, in her last interview with me, entrusted to me a small iron casket--it was one i gave her, and i can identify it--in which she deposited some articles, of the nature of which i was ignorant. she entreated me to take steps that this box should be delivered to the people who received her child into their home, and to obtain from them a promise that if the child lived till she was twenty-one years of age it was to be handed over to her, or, in the event of her child dying or of herself claiming the box at any future time, to be handed over to her. i informed mr. moss of the mother's desire, and he promised that it should be attended to. i have looked over some old papers, and i find that, had the child lived, she would be twenty-one in the course of a couple of months. but the child is dead, and the mother has appealed to me to obtain the box which she delivered into my charge." "the mother has appealed to you!" exclaimed aaron. "in person?" "in person," replied dr. spenlove. "she has returned to england, and is at this moment awaiting me in my carriage below. it is not the only appeal she has made to me. she is overwhelmed with grief at the news of her child's death, and i have the sincerest pity for her. she desires to know where her child is buried. mr. gordon's lawyers, it appears, were so bound to secrecy by their client that they do not feel warranted in giving her any information or assistance. she has communicated with another firm of lawyers in london, who are unable to assist her. as a last resource she has come to me to entreat my aid, which, in the circumstances, i cannot refuse to give her. my errand is now fully explained. mr. moss, will you see the poor lady, and give her the information she has a right to demand?" "i will reply for my friend," said aaron. "dr. spenlove, i was the person to whose care the child was entrusted. the casket is in this house, and it is for me to satisfy her. will you step down and ask her to come up, or shall i send a servant to her?" "it will be best for me to go," said dr. spenlove. "how strangely things turn out! it is fortunate that i came here to seek mr. moss." "i must speak to mrs. gordon alone, without witnesses," said aaron. "you and mr. moss will not mind waiting in the adjoining room for a few minutes? the poet's words are true: 'there is a providence that shapes our ends, rough-hew them as we will.' the mother may have cause to bless this night." he bent his head humbly and solemnly as dr. spenlove and mr. moss left the room together. chapter xlii. a mother's joy. for the first time in their lives these two beings, whose fates were so strangely linked together, faced each other--the mother who believed her child to be dead, the father who had brought up that child in ignorance of her birthright. it was a solemn moment, as trying to the man who had erred as to the woman who had fallen. to him the truth was as clear as though it were proclaimed with a tongue of fire, to her it had yet to be revealed. how feeble was the human act when brought into juxtaposition with destiny's decree! aaron's sin had been ever before him; the handwriting had been ever on the wall. scarcely for one day during the last twenty years had the voice of conscience been stilled, and it had been part of his punishment that the inherited instincts of the child had worked inexorably against all his efforts; her silent resistance to the lessons he would have inculcated had been too powerful for him; and in the end she had turned resolutely from the path into which, with inward reproaches, he had endeavoured to lead her, and had obeyed the promptings of her nature in mapping out her own future. keen as were aaron's sufferings, he experienced a sense of relief that the bolt had fallen, and that the hour of retribution had arrived; the agony of suspense had been almost unbearable, and he accepted with mournful resignation the decree which ordained that he should pass judgment upon himself. a difficult task lay before him; the revelation he had to make must be made with tact and delicacy, in consideration for the mother's feelings. joy, as well as sorrow, has its fears. forgetful for the moment of his own domestic grief, a sympathetic pity for the bereaved woman stirred aaron's heart. her tribulation was expressed in her face, which was pale with woe; her eyes were suffused with tears; her limbs trembled as she sank into the chair which he placed for her. it was not he alone who was experiencing the tortures of remorse. mrs. gordon was in mourning, and aaron knew it was as much for her child as for her husband. except that time had told its tale there was little change in her, and few persons who had known her in her springtime would have failed to recognise her in her middle age. her union with mr. gordon had not been entirely unhappy; he had performed his duty towards her, as she had done towards him, and though he had a suspicion that through all the long years she never lost sight of her secret sorrow, he made no reference to it, and she, on her part, did not intrude it upon him. only on his deathbed had he spoken of her child, and had given her an imperfect clue, which she was now following up. bitter was the knowledge she had gained. her child was dead. free, and in possession of great wealth, she was alone, without a tie in the world. all her bright dreams had faded. she had indulged the hope that her child still lived, and as she travelled back to england had raised up mental pictures of her daughter which filled her with joy. the presumption was that the young girl was living in a poor home, and was perhaps working for a livelihood. to lift her from poverty to wealth, to make a lady of her, to load her with gifts, to educate her for the new and higher station in life in which she was now to move, to love and caress her, to travel with her through the pleasure grounds of europe--these were the dreams in which she had indulged. innumerable were the pictures she had raised on her voyage home of the joy and delight of her daughter, and of the happy days in store for them. the information she received from dr. spenlove had killed these hopes, and her yearning desire now was to visit the grave of the babe she had deserted, and to weep over it tears of bitter repentance. it was not so much to reclaim the iron box containing the clue to a shameful episode in her youthful life, as to learn where her babe was buried, that she wished to learn into whose care her child had been given. there was a time when she nursed a fierce desire for revenge upon the man who had betrayed her, but this desire had burnt itself away, and she would be content that the melancholy memories of the past should be buried in oblivion. no good result would accrue from rekindling the smouldering ashes of an experience so mournful. she had lived down the shame; no word of reproach had been uttered against her; let the dead past bury its dead. for a few moments there was silence between her and aaron, and she was the first to speak. "dr. spenlove has told me all," she said. "he has told you what he knows," said aaron, "but you have something more to hear. mrs. gordon, it was i who undertook the charge of your child. mr. moss brought her to me in gosport, and delivered to me also the casket which you entrusted to dr. spenlove. i return it to you now, in the same condition as it was handed to me. you will oblige me by convincing yourself that it has not been tampered with." she unlocked the box with a key she carried in her purse, and taking from it the letters she had deposited therein, glanced over them with a bitter smile, then replaced them in their hiding-place, and relocked the casket. "there was nothing else in it?" asked aaron. "nothing else," she replied; "it is as i delivered it to dr. spenlove. tell me about my child. did she live long? was she buried in gosport? you will tell me the truth; you will conceal nothing from me?" "i will tell you the truth; i will conceal nothing from you; but what i have to say must be said in my own way. prepare yourself for a strange story, but have no fear. you are the first person to whom it will be revealed. when mr. moss left your child with me there were two babes in my house of the same age, and we were in deep poverty and distress. my wife--my beloved wife lay at the point of death"--he covered his eyes with his hands. "bear with me; these recollections overcome me." presently he resumed. "but a short time before her confinement she had been stricken with blindness. her own child, whose face she had never seen, lay quiet and still in her arms. the doctor who attended her feared the worst, and said that her life depended upon the life of her babe. if our child died on the morrow the mother would die; if our child lived, the mother would live. temptation assailed me, and to save the life of my beloved wife i yielded to it. how can i expect you to forgive me for what i did in the agony of my heart?" again he paused, and tears gushed from his eyes. mrs. gordon sank back in her chair; there was not a vestige of colour in her face. "my god! my god!" she murmured. "have i not suffered enough?" the words recalled him to himself. he begged her to have courage, to be strong; there was no new suffering in store for her, he said; what he had to relate would bring joy into her life. he gave her wine, and when she had recovered he proceeded with his story, and gradually and tenderly revealed to her the truth. as he proceeded her face shone with incredulous joy, her heart beat tumultuously with the prospect of this unexpected happiness; and when his story was finished, and he sat before her with bowed head, there was a long, long silence in the room. he dared utter no further words; in silent dread he waited for his condemnation. he felt a hand upon his knee, and looking down he saw her kneeling at his feet. she was transfigured; the spirit of youth shone in her countenance, and she took his hand, and kissed it again and again, bedewing it with happy tears. he gazed at her in wonder. he had expected revilings, and she was all tenderness. "is it true?" she murmured. "oh! is it true? at such a time as this you would not deceive me!" "heaven forbid!" he answered. "what i have related is the solemn truth." "and my child lives?" "she lives." "god in heaven bless you! she lives--my daughter lives!" "and you do not blame me--you do not reproach me?" "i shall bless you to my dying day! oh, my heart, my heart! it will burst with happiness!" he entreated her to be composed, and in a little while she was calmer. then for the first time he wrested himself from the environment of his own selfish sorrows; he put himself in her place, and understood the sacred joy which animated her. she was all eagerness to see her child, but aaron bade her restrain her impatience; he had much more to relate which it was necessary she should hear. "but i must see her to-night!" she cried. "you shall see her to-night. i will take you to her." she was fain to be satisfied with this assurance, but she would not be content till she saw a portrait of ruth. he gave her a cabinet photograph, and she gazed at it longingly, yearningly. "she is beautiful, beautiful!" "yes, she is a beautiful girl," said aaron; and then proceeded with the story, saying nothing, however, of what he had done for the young couple. at first she was grieved to hear that ruth was married, but she found some consolation in the reflection that she had married into an honourable family. when aaron related the particulars of the lawyer's visit to him, commissioned by lord storndale because of his stern objection to his son marrying a jewess, she exclaimed,-- "but ruth is not a jewess!" and was appalled by the thought that her daughter was not born in wedlock. a child of shame! how would she be received? it was her turn now to fear, and aaron, whose native shrewdness had returned to him, divined her fear; but it was not for him to moot the subject. "my child," she said, with hot blushes on her face, "believes herself to be your daughter?" "she does. it was my intention to undeceive her to-night." "you know my story?" "it was imparted to me," he replied, with averted head, "when i was asked to receive your child." "who knows the truth," she asked, trembling and hesitating, "about me?" "i, mr. moss, dr. spenlove, and your husband's lawyers." "no other persons?" "no other persons." he took her hand. "dear lady, from my heart i pity and sympathise with you. if i can assist you in any way----" "you can--you can!" she cried. "for god's sake do not destroy the happiness that may be mine!" "as heaven is my judge, no word shall pass my lips. be comforted, be comforted. the lawyers' lips are sealed, as you have already learned, and i will answer for mr. moss and dr. spenlove. say to her and to her husband's family what you will--it will be justified. your secret is safe." she thanked him humbly and gratefully; it was she who was abashed; it was she who had to implore for mercy; and it was due to his wisdom that her aching heart was eased. "if i can repay you--if i can repay you!" she murmured. "you can repay me by saying you forgive me for the sin i committed." "your sin!" she cried, in amazement. "you, who have brought up my child in virtue and honour! at my door lies the sin, not at yours." "you forget," he groaned; "i have sinned against my wife, whom i love with a love dearer than life itself, and she has yet to receive the confession i have made to you. it was my love for her that led me into the error." "an error," said mrs. gordon, in tender accents, "that has saved a daughter from regarding her mother with abhorrence. dear friend, god sees and judges, and surely he will approve what you have done. a grateful mother blesses you!" "remain here," said aaron. "i will speak to my friends and yours, and then i will conduct you to your daughter." chapter xliii. a panic in the city. on the following morning aaron was up earlier than usual, and in the daily papers he read the confirmation of the intelligence which mr. moss had imparted to him. the panic on the stock exchange had grown to fever heat, and fortunes were already being won and lost. the bank in which his money was deposited, and in which he held a large number of shares, was tottering, and he knew that he was ruined if it could not weather the storm. mr. moss found him reading the news over his breakfast-table. business, as we know, had not prospered with mr. moss of late years; his investments had turned out badly, and he was in low water himself. he had placed his dependence upon aaron to pull him through, and the rock he had depended upon was crumbling away. "you are also in trouble, mr. moss," said aaron, as his friend made his appearance. "i have brought the second edition of the morning papers," replied mr. moss, with a white face. "the stock exchange is in a blaze, and the world is coming to an end." "there will be misery in many homes," said aaron. "it is the innocent who will chiefly suffer. i pity them sincerely." "everything is going to the dogs," groaned mr. moss. "have you breakfasted?" "had breakfast at seven o'clock. couldn't sleep a wink all night, and could hardly eat a mouthful!" "why?" "why?" exclaimed mr. moss. "what a question to ask when ruin stares a man in the face!" "i hope," said aaron, gravely, "that you are not deeply involved." "i am up to my neck. but what is my position compared with yours? cohen, you are a mystery." "because i accept the inevitable? can you show me how i can improve matters?" "no, i can't," answered mr. moss, with a deep groan; "only if i had capital i could make a fortune." "in what way?" "by joining the bears. cohen, you have a grand chance before you. your credit is good. there is nothing for it but a plunge. it will set you right. luck has been with you all your life; it will be with you now." "how if it goes the other way, mr. moss?" "what if it does? you will be no worse off than a thousand men who are plunging." "the majority of whom, before another sun rises, will find themselves disgraced. no, mr. moss, no. i have never dabbled in stocks and shares at the risk of my good name, and i never will. there is but one way to meet misfortune, and that is the straight way. we will go to the city and ascertain, if we can, exactly how matters stand. rachel and esther do not return from bournemouth till the afternoon." in the city they learned the worst, and aaron realised that he was beggared. "can you save nothing from the wreck?" asked mr. moss. "nothing," replied aaron. "it may be that all i possess will not be sufficient to clear me. i think you had better take esther back with you to portsmouth; you have been absent from your business too long." "i must go this evening," said mr. moss; "but esther can stay. she will be a comfort to mrs. cohen." "no, take her with you. in this crisis rachel, i know, would prefer to be alone with me. besides," he added, with a sad smile, "i have to provide another home, and i must be careful of my shillings." "another home, cohen! what do you mean?" "with certain ruin staring me in the face, and with claims coming upon me which i may not be able to meet, i must begin immediately to retrench. our establishment is an expensive one, and i dare not carry it on a day longer than is necessary. rachel and i will sleep in the house to-night for the last time. to-morrow i will pay off the servants, and we shall move into humbler quarters. so tumble down all our grand castles. well, it has happened to better men, who, after many years of toil, have to begin life all over again. rachel will not mind; we have faced poverty before to-day, and will face it again cheerfully." "it drives me wild to hear you speak like that," exclaimed mr. moss. "you are looking only on the black side. if you had the money you have got rid of the last two or three weeks----" "hush, mr. moss, hush!" said aaron, interrupting him. "it is a consolation to me to know that the greater part of my legitimately earned fortune has been so well bestowed. i am glad i did not wait to make reparation for the great error of my life. rachel has yet to hear my confession. if i obtain her forgiveness i can face the future bravely and cheerfully." under the seal of confidence aaron had made mr. moss and dr. spenlove acquainted with the particulars of the story of the two babes, and of the deception he had practised in his home in gosport. mr. moss was not greatly astonished, for the hints lately dropped by his friend had prepared him for some disclosure of a strange nature. "besides," he said inwardly to himself, "ruth bears no likeness to either mr. or mrs. cohen. it is a mercy she fell in love with that storndale fellow; it would never have done for her to marry a jew. cohen would not have permitted it. but how blind we have all been!" in his weak moments mr. moss was rather inclined to be wise after the event. both he and dr. spenlove had pledged themselves to secrecy, but when they proceeded to commend aaron for the act and to find justification for it he stopped them. "it is a matter between me and my conscience," he said, and added mentally, "and between me and my beloved." on this disastrous morning, as they walked from the city, mr. moss asked aaron when he intended to reveal the secret to his wife. "as soon as i can summon courage to speak," aaron answered. "she has first to hear that we are beggared; it will be as much, perhaps, as she can bear in one day, but in any case i must not delay too long." "if i were in your place," said mr. moss, "i should not delay at all. there are women who become strong through misfortune, and mrs. cohen is one. i wish mrs. moss were like her--don't think i am complaining of her. she is the best wife in the world, but she breaks down under reverses. if only i could be of some assistance to you, cohen----" "your friendship counts for much, mr. moss," responded aaron, pressing his companion's hand, "but every man must fight his own battle. i am not without hope, hard as is the trial through which i am passing. it is kind of you to be so solicitous about my affairs when you have such heavy troubles of your own to contend with. are things very bad with you?" "oh, i shall weather the storm, but it will leave me rather crippled. what matters? _nil desperandum_. and there is just one ray which may become a perfect sunbeam." "ah, i am glad to hear that." "my eldest boy has started in business as a dentist, and has commenced well. once a dentist makes his name the money rolls in. it is a favourite business with our people." "yes," said aaron, somewhat absently, "i have observed it." "it is a kind of revenge, cohen." "a kind of revenge!" echoed aaron. "how so?" "well, you know, in old times the christians used to extract our teeth to get our money from us, and now it's our turn. we extract theirs at a guinea a tooth. see?" aaron could not help smiling at the joke, and the friends parted with mutual expressions of goodwill. chapter xliv. the confession. on the evening of the same day aaron and rachel were alone in their house in prince's gate, which was soon to know them no more. esther had taken an affectionate leave of them, and she and her father were travelling to portsmouth. esther was bright and cheerful, but mr. moss's heart was heavy; he was older than aaron, and confident as he was in speech he was not inwardly so courageous in the hour of adversity. ordinarily, when he and his daughter were travelling together, his blithe spirits found vent in song; on this occasion, however, he was moody and silent. esther looked at him in surprise, and asked what made him so melancholy. "when you reach my age," he replied, "i hope you will not discover that life is a dream." the remark seemed to him rather fine and philosophical, and afforded him some kind of melancholy satisfaction; but had he been asked to explain its precise meaning he would have found it difficult to do so. "i hope i shall, father," said esther, as she leant back and thought of her lover; "a happy dream." "i am glad to get back to you and to our dear home," rachel was saying to her husband at the same moment. "you must not send me away again. indeed, dear aaron, if you ever have such an intention i shall for once in my life be rebellious, and shall refuse to go. i am happiest by your side." she spoke tenderly and playfully, and held his hand in hers, as in the olden days. "nevertheless, my love, your short visit to the seaside has done you good." "yes, dear, i am almost well; i feel much stronger." "there is the justification," said aaron. "neither am i happy away from you, but there are occasions when it is our duty to make sacrifices. this is the longest separation there has been between us in the twenty-six years of our married life." "how time has flown!" she mused. "twenty-six years of peace and joy. it has always been the same, dear husband, whether we were poor or rich. i cannot recall a day in the past without its flower of dear remembrance which money could not purchase." "you make my task easier, rachel," said aaron. "i have something to disclose to you." "and it is not good news, love," she said, in a tone of much sweetness. "it is not good news, rachel. by what means have you divined that?" "i see without eyes. in the early days of my blindness i used to tell you that i was acquiring new senses. it is true. some accent in your voice, the touch of your hand, conveys the message to my mind, and i wait in patience, as i am waiting now. aaron, my dear husband, i have known for some time past that you have a sorrow which one day you would ask me to share. how have i known it? i cannot tell, but it is clear to me. you have not had a joy in your life apart from me. it is my right, is it not, to share your sorrows?" "it is your right, rachel, and you shall share them. i have not been without my errors; once in the past my footsteps strayed, but in the straying i inflicted suffering upon no human being." "of that i am sure, my love. it is human to err, but it is not in your nature to inflict suffering or commit an injustice. i am not pressing you to confide in me before in your judgment the proper time arrives. nothing can shake my faith and trust in you." he regarded her in silence awhile. the turn the conversation had taken favoured the disclosure of his secret respecting ruth, but he still feared to speak of that and of his ruin in the same hour. the latter was the more imperative, because it demanded immediate action, and he nerved himself to the task. "your loving instinct, rachel, has not misled you. for many years i have had a secret which i have concealed from you." "fearing to give me pain, dear husband?" "yes; and fearing that it would disturb the faith you have in me. i place so high a value upon it that my life would be dark indeed were i to lose it." "that is impossible, dear. banish the fear from your mind. were the hands of all men raised against you i would stand before you as your shield, and they would not dare to strike. so long as we are together i am happy and content." "dear life of my life, you inspire me with hope. but it is not of this secret i must speak first. there is another trouble which has come upon me quite suddenly, and which demands immediate action. rachel, for twenty years heaven has showered prosperity upon me; not a venture i have made has failed, and many of my undertakings have succeeded far beyond my expectations. i have heard it said, 'everything aaron cohen touches turns to gold.' it really has been so. i accumulated a large fortune, and--with humbleness i say it--no man, however high or low his station, was the loser by it. but a breath may destroy what the labours of a lifetime have created. if such a reverse has come to me, rachel, how would you accept it?" "without murmuring, love," she said, drawing him close to her, and kissing his lips. "i should have but one regret--that i could not work for you as you have worked for me. but that, also, was god's will, and i have never repined. who would presume to question his wisdom? his name be praised for ever and ever!" "amen. in our old home in gosport you were happy." "i have never been happier, aaron. i have sometimes felt pride in your successes, but surely that is pardonable. many and many a time have i thought of our early life and struggles with gratitude, because of the love which sustained us and gave us strength. it is the most precious gift that life can bestow. all else is nought. it is our soul-life, and dies not with the body." "you do not value money, rachel?" "for the good it may do to others, not for the good it can do to the possessor; for the suffering it may be made the means of relieving, for the blessings it may bring into the lives of the afflicted and unfortunate. then it becomes god-like, and when so used the angels smile approval." "dear love, you lighten my burden. when i won you my life was blessed. listen, rachel. this is a dark day for many men who find themselves fallen from their high estate. despair sits in many homes at this hour." "but not in ours, aaron, whatever has happened." "thank god! it is my happy belief that this hour is not dark for us. it was my intention, rachel, to retire altogether from business and public life, and to that end i took advantage of your absence from london to settle my affairs. my resolution was prompted by the secret, the burden of which, although i have not yet disclosed it to you, you have made lighter for me to reveal. brought to public knowledge, which i fear its peculiar nature will render inevitable, it will be immediately said that i am unfitted to retain my position as a leader and teacher. to tarry until that judgment was pronounced upon me would be to aggravate the disaster, and i resolved to anticipate the verdict by resigning the honours which have been conferred upon me. i have done so, and i have withstood the pressure that has been put upon me to withdraw my resignation. an examination of my worldly affairs resulted in my finding myself in possession of nearly a hundred thousand pounds. i divided this into three portions, one of which i intended to retain in order that we might pass what years of life remained to us in comfort; the second portion i devoted to charity, and it has thus been distributed; the third portion was devoted to repairing to some extent the error of which i have been guilty." he looked at rachel after he uttered these words, which he had spoken with averted head. there was no change in her. sweetness and sympathy were expressed in her beautiful face, and it seemed as if her soul's light dwelt thereon. "do you approve, rachel?" "entirely, love. let me hold your hand." he continued. "the money i intended for our private use was lodged in a city bank, and in this bank i hold shares for which i am liable to the depositors. yesterday mr. moss brought me news of a commercial crisis in which i discerned----" "go on, dear husband. i am prepared for the worst." "in which i discerned my ruin. this morning i convinced myself that the news was true." "and we are poor again," said rachel, in a gentle voice. "and we are poor again. everything is lost. i do not know the extent of my liabilities upon the shares i hold in the bank, but it is certain that my property--even down to the smallest possession--will scarcely be sufficient to meet them. i have nothing more to tell of my worldly trouble, rachel." "dear love," said rachel, sweetly, with her arms around him, "it is a small trouble, and we will meet it bravely. with all my heart and strength i will help you to meet it, and it will not make the future less happy. we cannot remain in this house; the expenses are too great." "you echo my thought, rachel. i have already discharged the servants, and have paid what is due to them. they expressed their sorrow, for i think they have an affection for us, but the separation is unavoidable. to-morrow they take their departure, and to-morrow, dear love, we must move into humbler quarters." "i am content," said rachel, "i am happy. we have each other. do all the servants go--all?" "no; one insists upon remaining. i could not convince her that it would be for her good to leave us." "prissy!" cried rachel. "yes, prissy, the foolish woman. with or without my consent she insists upon sharing our poverty." "dear, faithful prissy! do you remember the first night she came to us in gosport? what changes there have been since that time! let it be as she wishes, love; i know her constant, devoted nature. she will be a comfort to both of us." "it shall be as you say, rachel; a faithful heart like hers is a treasure." rachel paused before she spoke again, and aaron, gazing upon her, held his breath, for he divined what was coming. she took his hand, and held it between her own. "kiss me, love," she said, her voice trembling from emotion. he pressed his lips to hers in silence. "i have been a great trouble to you, dear." "you have been the blessing of my life, rachel," he said in a low tone. "not only your love, dear, but the thought that you believed me worthy of your confidence, has brought great sweetness into mine. you have made me truly happy; and yet, dear husband, my heart is aching--not for myself, not because we are poor again, but for you, for you; for your heart, also, is charged with sorrow. we commence a new life to-morrow, and it affects not ourselves alone, but those who are dear to us. let this night end your sorrows, and let me share them now, before i sleep. aaron, not once have you mentioned the name of ruth. is it the thought of her that oppresses you? it oppresses me, too, and it is no new grief. for a long time past i have felt as if something had come between us, weakening the tie which should unite mother and child. if anything has been hidden from me which i should know, let it be hidden no longer. i am well, i am strong. give me all your confidence. there is nothing i cannot bear for your dear sake." he could not resist the appeal. in a voice as tremulous as her own he related the story of his sin. he recalled all the incidents of their life in gosport, of the calamities which had trodden upon each others' heels, of the desperate state of poverty he was in when the fire occurred which deprived her of sight, of the birth of their child, of the doctor's words that rachel's life depended upon the life of her babe and upon his taking her away to a warmer clime, of his giving her the sleeping draught and leaving her, wrapt in slumber, to admit mr. moss who had come from portsmouth charged with a startling commission, the acceptance of which would be the saving of rachel, of his reluctance to accept the guardianship of a strange child, and of his requesting time to consider it. here he faltered; he stood, as it were, upon the threshold of his sin, and but for rachel's tender urging he would have been unable to proceed. "dear love, dear love," she said, "my heart bleeds for you! ah, how you must have suffered! be strong, dear husband, and tell me all. i am prepared--indeed, indeed i am!" in hushed and solemn tones he told her of the death of their offspring, of the desperate temptation that assailed him, of his yielding to it, of the transposition of the babes, and of his agony and joy as he watched her when she awoke and pressed the stranger to her breast. "by my sin you were saved," he said. "by your agony was i saved," she murmured, and still retained and fondled his hand while the tears ran down her face. but love was there in its divinest aspect, and tenderest pity; and thus fortified, he continued to the end, and waited for the verdict that was to mar or make his future. he had not long to wait. rachel held him close in her embrace, and mingled her tears with his. "can you forgive me, rachel?" "it is for me to bless, not to forgive," she sobbed. "for me you strayed, for me you have suffered. comfort his bruised heart, o all-merciful god, who sees and judges! and, aaron, dear and honoured husband, we have still a son to bless our days!" chapter xlv. a poisoned arrow. had it not been that public attention was directed mainly to events of greater importance aaron cohen's affairs would have furnished a liberal theme for the busy hunters of sensational and personal journalism, but to a certain extent he was protected by the fever of the financial panic in which numbers of unfortunate families were caught and ruined, and the fortunes of famous historic houses imperilled. he would have been grateful to slip into obscurity unnoticed, but this could scarcely be expected. he had occupied too high a station to be passed over in complete silence, and he had one bitter enemy, mr. poynter, who rejoiced in his downfall and neglected no opportunity to wing a poisoned arrow against his old rival. this man was furious with disappointment at having been unable to secure his rival's contracts, and when the excitement of the panic was over these arrows became more numerous, and aaron's name was frequently mentioned in a slighting manner in those second- and third-class journals whose columns are too freely open to personal spite and malice. he saw but few of the paragraphs in which he was attacked, and those he read did not wound him; they made his friends angry (for he was not deserted by all), and they urged him to reply to them; but he shook his head, and said, "i shall not assist my enemies to stir up muddy waters. to every word i wrote they would reply with twelve. let them do their worst." he was, however, greatly concerned lest the slanders should reach rachel's knowledge; and here her blindness aided him. either he or the faithful prissy was ever by her side, and if his traducers hoped to make him suffer through the being whose love was the most precious jewel in his life, they were doomed to disappointment. perhaps aaron had never been happier than he was during these dark days of adversity. now that the weight of a secret sin was lifted from his heart he had no fears of poverty. he had full confidence in his being able to obtain some employment which would keep the wolf from the door; however lowly it might be he was ready to accept it thankfully. he was not immediately free to enter a situation, for the whole of his time was occupied in settling his affairs. he had left his home in prince's gate, and was living in lodgings in brixton. everything he had in the world was given up to the creditors of the bank, and when he quitted the house, neither he nor rachel had taken from it a single article of the slightest value. small personal gifts which had been given by one to the other, articles of dress which they might legitimately have retained, mementos of little value, endeared to them by some affectionate association, even the old silver-mounted pipe in its jeweled case--all were left behind. simply dressed, without a piece of jewellery about them, they turned their faces towards the new home and the new life without a murmur, and, hand in hand, walked to their humble rooms with contented hearts. prissy, who had gone before to get the place ready, received them with a smiling face. grandeur was nothing to prissy, so long as she could be with those whom she loved to serve. as happy in a cottage as in a palace, she proved herself to be a true philosopher, accepting fortune's rubs with equanimity, and making the best of them with a cheerful willingness it were well for loftier folk to emulate. bird never trilled more happily than prissy as she moved hither and thither, upstairs and down, setting things to rights, shifting the furniture and studying each new arrangement with a critical eye, interrupting herself every minute by running to the window to see if her master and mistress were coming. the rooms were sweet and clean, there were flowers about, and blooming flowers in pots on the window-sill. the fragrance of the flowers greeted rachel as she entered, and her bright face was prissy's reward. "where did the flowers come from, prissy?" asked aaron, when rachel was out of hearing. "from the flower-man, sir," she answered. "surely not a gift?" "yes, sir," said the unblushing prissy; "wasn't it good of him?" "prissy!" said aaron, with warning finger uplifted. "well, sir, they cost next to nothing, and they're paid for." "but, prissy----" "please don't, sir," she interrupted, and there were tears in her eyes and a pleading rebellion in her voice. "i know what you're going to say, mr. cohen, but please don't. you'd like me to keep good, wouldn't you, sir?" "why, of course, prissy," said aaron, astonished at the question. "well, sir, i can't, if you blow me up now you're in misfortune; i can't keep good if you don't let me have my way in little things. i'll be very careful, i will, indeed, mr. cohen. it's almost the first time in my life i've bought any flowers at all for any one else, and it ain't in you, sir, to take away pleasure from anybody--and did you see, sir, how happy missis looked when she came in?" thus inconsequentially prissy, mixing her arguments in the strangest manner. "but, my good girl," said aaron, kindly, "you have no business to waste your money; you must think of your future." "it's what i am thinking of, sir; i don't want to grow wicked, and flowers are the only things that will prevent me. it's the honest truth, sir; they make me feel good. mr. cohen, if it hadn't been for you, where should i have been? in the gutter, i daresay. you took me out of it, sir. i don't forget the first night i come to you with victoria regina in gosport; if i lived to be as old as methusalem i couldn't never forget it. and then when missis got me the gillard water to bathe my eyes--i should be the ungratefullest woman that ever drew breath if i could forget those things. do, please, sir, let me have my way. you've paid me a lot more wages than i was worth, and all my money is in the post office savings bank, and it ain't mine at all, it's yours----" "my good prissy," said aaron, much affected, for prissy could not continue, her voice was so full of tears, "do as you wish, but be very careful, as you have promised. perhaps fortune will turn again, and then----" "and then, sir," said prissy, taking up his words, "you shall give it all back to me--and i'll take it then, sir, you see if i don't. it will turn, if there's any fairness anywhere. and now, if you'll forgive me, sir, i must go and look after the dinner." aaron was very busy for several days after this making a careful inventory of his possessions in the house in prince's gate, which he sent to the appointed liquidators of the bankrupt bank. of all the debtors he was the only one who did not wait for the law's decree to give up his fortune to the last farthing, and perhaps he was the only one whose conscience was free of the intention of wrong. he had his gleams of sunshine. first, the sweet contentment and happiness of his beloved wife. the affection she lavished upon him was of so tender and exalted a nature that it made their humble home a paradise. she listened for his footstep, she stood at the door to meet him, she drew him to her side, as a young maiden in the springtime of life might have done to the lover she adored. spiritual flowers grew about her feet, and everything and every one was made purer and better by contact with her. then, as ill news travels fast, his son joseph, when his ship stopped at a not-distant port to take in cargo, was made acquainted through the public journals with the condition of affairs; and, divining that his father was in need of money, he cabled home advices which assisted aaron in his extreme need. the young man had saved some money, and he placed it all at the disposal of his parents, who derived an exquisite pleasure from this proof of affection. as in gosport twenty years before, rachel did not know the stress to which her husband was put; he kept from her knowledge everything of a distressing nature, and in this loving task he was silently assisted by prissy, whose thoughtfulness and devotion were not to be excelled. she watched her mistress's every movement, and anticipated her lightest wish. the dishes she liked best were always on the table, and everything she wanted was ready to her hand. prissy was no less attentive to her master, brushing his clothes, and polishing his boots till she could see her face in them. "what should we do without you, prissy?" said rachel. "i hope you'll never want to do without me, ma'am," answered prissy. another gleam of sunshine came to him in the offer of a situation from a merchant who had known him in his days of prosperity. he was not asked to occupy a position of responsibility, and the offer was conveyed to him in apologetic terms. "i cannot displace men who have been long in my employ," the merchant said, "but a desk is vacant which you can have if you think it worthy of you." aaron accepted it gladly, and expressed his thanks. "fortune has not deserted us," he said to his wife. "i shall not only be able to pay our expenses, but i shall even be able to save a little. the hours are short, the labour is light; and in time i may rise to something better." so, like a young man commencing life, he went every morning to his new duties, and returned in the evening to a peaceful and happy home. during all this time he had heard no word of ruth or mrs. gordon, and the sin of which he had been guilty had not reached the public ear. his house and furniture still remained unsold, law's process being proverbially slow and tedious. at length, passing his house one evening, he saw bills up, announcing that the mansion and its contents were to be sold by auction in the course of the following week. he was not a stoic, and it gave him a pang, but the pain soon passed away. "what have i to repine at," he thought, "with heavenly love awaiting me at home?" it was his intention to attend the auction for the purpose of purchasing two or three small mementos, towards which he had saved a few pounds. the sale was to take place on thursday, and on wednesday night he was looking through the catalogue, and talking with rachel about his intended purchases. "there are dumb memorials," he said, "which from long association become like living friends. something of our spirit seems to pass into them, imbuing them with life. i shall not be quite happy till i get back my silver-mounted pipe; of all my possessions it was my dearest. tobacco has lost its flavour since i left it behind me; but i had no right to bring away anything of value, and i have always looked forward to possessing it again. great misfortunes are really easy to bear in comparison with such-like trifles." aaron seldom indulged now in those touches of humour to which rachel in the old days loved to listen. the aaron of to-day and the aaron of yesterday were the same in everything but that; the tender gaiety was replaced by a tender sadness, and rachel often thought with regret of the play of fancy which used to stir her to mirth. on this night they expected a visit from mr. moss, who was coming to london on business; and at about nine o'clock he made his appearance. an hour afterwards rachel retired to bed, and left the friends together. aaron had observed that mr. moss looked anxious and uneasy, but he was careful not to refer to it in the presence of his wife. "you have something on your mind," he now said. "no new misfortune, i hope?" "not to me personally," replied mr. moss, with a reluctant air. "to none of your family, i trust." "no; they are all quite well. my dentist son is getting along famously; i saw him before i came here, and he told me that he had pulled out three christian teeth to-day. isaac of york is avenged!" dolefully as he spoke, aaron could not help smiling. "but what is it?" he asked. "i am the harbinger of trouble, it seems," groaned mr. moss, "and to my best friend. i was the first to bring you the news of the panic, and now----" "yes," said aaron, gently, "and now? speak low, or rachel may overhear us." "you do not see many papers, cohen?" "not many." "i hardly like to tell you," said mr. moss, "but you will be sure to hear of it to-morrow. they never spare a man who is down, for god's sake, cohen, don't blame me! i've never opened my lips--i'd have cut my tongue out first." "let me know the worst," said aaron. "it relates to me, i see. as for blaming you, set your mind at ease. you have been too good a friend to me to do anything to distress me. come, shake hands. whatever it is, i can bear it like a man, i hope. i have passed through the fire, and it has left me humble and patient." in silence mr. moss took a newspaper from his pocket, and handed it to aaron. it was folded in a particular place, and there aaron read an article headed "a strange revelation," in which the whole story of his sin was circumstantially detailed. he was not referred to by name, nor was ruth's name or mrs. gordon's mentioned; but the name of the place in which the incident occurred and the year of the occurrence were accurately set down, and certain allusions to himself could not be mistaken. he was spoken of as a jew who, until lately, had occupied an eminent position in society, who had posed as a friend of the working man, and had been instrumental in putting an end to the late great strike in the building trade. "ostensibly this may be said to have been of service to society, but in our judgment of a man's character the public issue must be set aside. the question of private motive has to be considered: if it be worthy it reflects credit upon him; if unworthy, it passes to his dishonour." from this argument was drawn the conclusion that there was not a public act performed by "the eminent jew" that was not undertaken with a view to self-interest and self-aggrandisement. he was a dealer in fine phrases, which, with a stock of empty professions and mock moralities which he kept always on hand, had helped to set him on the pedestal from which he had toppled down. for years he had been successful in throwing dust into the eyes of the multitude whom he had cajoled into sounding his praises; but at length the sword had fallen, and the life of duplicity he had led both publicly and privately was laid bare to view. his charities were so many advertisements, and were undoubtedly turned to profit; his religious professions, unceasingly paraded, served as a cloak for his greed and self-seeking. "this man's life of hypocrisy points a moral. he was in affluence, he is in want; he was a leader, he has become a drudge. he has been justly served, and we hold him up as a warning and an example to all pretenders of his class and creed." then followed a promise of further revelations to be furnished by a competent authority, and probably by the publication of the delinquent's name, for the benefit of society at large. as aaron read this scandalous article the colour deserted his cheeks, his hands and mouth trembled, his heart sank within him. what could he say in his defence? nothing. the deductions and conclusions were false, but the story was true. there was but one answer to the question whether he had perpetrated a domestic fraud, and had brought up as a jewess a child whom he had allowed to grow to womanhood in ignorance of her parentage and rightful faith. this answer would be fatal, and would give the impress of truth to the entire article. how could he show himself in public after such an exposure? his intended appearance at the sale to-morrow must be relinquished: he would be pointed at with scorn and contempt. not for him the open paths where he would meet his fellowman face to face; he must creep through the byways, close to the wall. it seemed to him as if his life were over. his head drooped, his arms sank listlessly down, his whole appearance was that of a man who had received a mortal stroke. "it is abominable, abominable!" cried mr. moss. "is there no law to punish such a slander? is there no protection for such a man as you?" "for such a man as i?" echoed aaron, sadly. "ah, my friend, you forget. there is no grave deep enough for sin and wrong-doing; you may bury it fathoms deep, but the hour will arrive when the ghost rises and points at you with accusing hand. the punishment meted out to me is just." "it is not--it is not!" "hush! you will disturb rachel." he stepped softly into the bedroom; rachel was slumbering, with a smile on her lips. as he stood by her side, contemplating her sweet and beautiful face, she awoke. "aaron!" "yes, my life!" "is it late? has mr. moss gone?" "he is still here, rachel. it is quite early." she encircled his neck with her arms, and drew him to her. "i have had such happy dreams, dear love! some good fortune is going to happen to us." "what would life be without its delusions?" he said, in a sad tone. "do not speak sadly, dear. you have borne up so bravely; you must not break down now. come, come--for my sake, love!" "for your sake, beloved," he said; and as he spoke the tormenting demon which had been torturing him lost its power. "what made you sad, love?" said rachel. "surely not because we are poor?" "no, love; it was not that. but if your dreams should not come true" "why, then," she answered, and her voice was like music in his ears, "we have faced trouble before, and can face it again. it will make no difference so long as we are together. aaron, with you by my side i would walk barefoot through the world, and bless the gracious lord that made me. he is all-merciful and all-powerful, and in him i put my trust. to the last, to the last, dear and honoured husband, we will not lose our trust in him! do not be sad again. all will come right--i feel it will. it is as if a divine voice is whispering to me." when aaron rejoined his friend the colour had returned to his face, his step was firmer, his eye brighter. "there is an angel in my home," he said. "let my enemies do their worst. i am armed against them. does this article make any change in our friendship?" "it binds me closer to you, cohen." aaron pressed mr. moss's hand. "love and friendship are mine," he said simply. "what more can i desire?" chapter xlvi. retribution. the following morning aaron went to the office as usual, and quickly discovered that the poisoned arrow had found its mark. he was received with coldness, and the principals of the firm passed his desk without speaking to him. he observed the older employes whispering together, and looking at him furtively, avoiding his eye when he returned their gaze. his mind was soon made up; sending in his name to his employers he requested an interview with them. upon entering the private room he saw upon the table a copy of the paper containing the scandalous attack; he did not change colour, he thought of rachel's love, and his voice was firm and resigned. "you have read this article, mr. cohen?" said the principal member of the firm. "yes, sir; i read it last night." "and you have come to explain----" he interrupted his employer mildly. "no, sir; i have not come to explain anything. i am here to tender my resignation." "you save us from a difficulty, mr. cohen. it was our intention to speak to you before the day was over. but still, if the story we have seen in the paper is not true--if it does not, after all, refer to you----" "the story is true," he said, "and it refers to me." "in that case," was the reply, "there is nothing more to be said. we regret the necessity, but it appears unavoidable. the cashier will pay you a month's salary in lieu of notice." "i can accept only what is due to me," said aaron; and shortly afterwards he left the office. not one of his fellow-clerks offered to shake hands with him as he went away; but the pang he felt was momentary. "patience, patience," he murmured, raising his eyes to heaven. "to thy decree, o god, i humbly submit. my punishment is just." he did not return home until evening, and then he said nothing to rachel of his dismissal. the next day he went out and wandered aimlessly about the streets, choosing the thoroughfares where he would be least likely to be recognised. so the days passed, and still he had not the courage to speak to rachel. "perhaps in another country," he thought, "i may find rest, and rachel and i will be allowed to pass the remainder of our life in peace." on tuesday, in the ensuing week, he went forth, and with bowed head was walking sadly on, when, with a sudden impulse, he wheeled round in the direction of his home. the feeling that impelled him to do this was, that he was behaving treacherously to rachel in keeping the secret from her. he would make her acquainted with his disgrace and dismissal, and never again in his life would he conceal anything from her knowledge. this resolution gave him the courage he had lacked. "it is as if i were losing faith in her," he murmured. "love has made me weak where it should have made me strong." he hastened his steps, and soon reached his home. as he stood for a moment at the door of the sitting-room he heard a voice within which he recognised as that of his old rival, mr. poynter, and upon his entrance he found that gentleman and his wife together. rachel was standing in a dignified attitude, as though in the presence of an enemy; her face was pale and scornful, and mr. poynter was manifestly ill at ease. hearing her husband's footsteps she extended her hand, and taking his, pressed it to her lips. in this position they must be left for a brief space while an explanation is given of another incident which was to bear directly upon the scene, and to bring into it a startling colour. prissy had conducted mr. poynter into the presence of her mistress, and had scarcely done so when she was called down to a lady, who had inquired for mr. and mrs. cohen. "mr. cohen is out," said prissy, "and mrs. cohen is engaged." "i wish to see them particularly," said the lady, giving prissy a card, upon which the name of mrs. gordon was engraved. "are you prissy?" "yes, ma'am," prissy answered in wonder; "but i don't remember ever having seen you." "you have never seen me before," said mrs. gordon with a smile, "but i have heard of you. can i wait until your mistress's visitor is gone? i bring good news." "you can sit in my room, if you don't mind, ma'am," said prissy, who was greatly excited at the promise of good news. "thank you," said mrs. gordon; and she followed the servant upstairs to a room next to that in which mr. poynter and rachel were conversing, and where, the wall being thin, she could hear every word that was being spoken in the adjoining apartment. "this gentleman," said rachel to her husband, pointing in the direction of mr. poynter, "has called to see you on business, and has taken advantage of your absence to offer me a bribe." "one moment, rachel," said aaron; "let me first hear the nature of mr. poynter's business." "i will explain it," said mr. poynter. "i have not been fortunate enough to win mrs. cohen's favour, but ladies are not accustomed to discuss business matters." "did you come here to discuss a business matter with my wife?" inquired aaron, calmly. "well, hardly; but as you were absent i thought i might mention the matter to her." "what matter?" "the business i came upon," said mr. poynter, irritated by aaron's composure. "i am ready to hear it, sir." "very well. we will not beat about the bush, but will come straight to the point. you are down in the world, mr. cohen?" "yes, sir; i am, as you say, down in the world." "the newspapers," continued mr. poynter, "have been saying uncomplimentary things of you, and i have heard a threat of further revelations. i considered it my duty--in the interests of truth, mr. cohen--to make your wife acquainted with these public disclosures." rachel pressed her lips again upon aaron's hand, which she held in a firm and loving grasp. his face brightened. "you have rendered me a service," he said. "possibly i have you to thank, also, for the statements which have been made in the papers concerning me." "possibly," said mr. poynter. "nay," said aaron, "you suggested just now the advisability of not beating about the bush, and you proclaim that you are here in the interests of truth. have i, or have i not, to thank you for this unfavourable publicity?" "i have never shrunk from the truth," replied mr. poynter, with a lofty air, "nor from a duty, however distressing the truth or the duty might be. society has to be considered, and we must ignore the feeling of the individual. i became possessed of certain information, and i considered it my imperative duty not to withhold it from the public ear." "i thank you. without further circumlocution i must ask you to come straight to the business which brings you here." "it is very simple, and will put money in your pocket, of which, it seems to me, you stand in need." "i do stand in need of money." "then the matter can be arranged. some little while since we had a conversation concerning certain contracts which you were not in a position to complete." "you solicited a transference of those contracts to your firm," said aaron, "and i declined to grant your request." "you use high-sounding words for one in your position," said mr. poynter, with a frown, "but i will not quarrel with you. you gave the worst of all bad reasons for your refusal." "whether my reasons were good or bad, you have taken your revenge." "god-fearing men do not seek revenge, but justice. to continue. the firm to which you transferred the most important of these contracts happens at the present time to need some assistance, and hearing of it, i offer what it needs. but it appears that you have hampered them, and that in the deed of transference you expressly stipulate that no part of the contracts shall be executed by me unless i bind myself to a scale of wages and hours which you have tabulated." "i considered it fair to the men," said aaron, "and it is as you have stated." "it is my belief," pursued mr. poynter, "that the firm will accept my aid if i adhere to the scale, which i decline to do. i know what is right, and i will not be dictated to. my business here is to make you the offer of a sum of money--i will go as far as a hundred pounds--if you will cancel this stipulation by which my friends are bound. a hundred pounds is a large sum, mr. cohen; it would come in useful to you just now." "it would. it is likely you would increase the sum." "oh, you jews, you jews!" exclaimed mr. poynter, jocosely, thinking he had gained his point. "always on the look-out for the main chance--always screwing out the last penny. well, i am not a mean man, mr. cohen. we will say a hundred and twenty." aaron turned to rachel, and asked, "is this the bribe you spoke of?" "it is not," she replied. "mr. poynter will explain it to you in his own words." "i haven't the smallest objection," said mr. poynter. "you see, mr. cohen, it is sometimes necessary to put the screw on. who knows that better than you? there is a material screw, and a moral screw, in this particular case. the material screw is money; the moral screw is an iron safe, of which, as yet, no mention has been made in the newspapers." "ah!" said aaron. "it is almost a waste of words to speak of it to you, who are so familiar with the circumstances. this iron safe, it appears, was given into your charge when you received the infant into your house in gosport. you were a pauper at the time, and from that day you prospered. in a manner of speaking you became suddenly rich. well, well, the temptation was too strong for you. you could not resist opening the safe, and appropriating what it contained--undoubtedly treasure of some sort in money or jewels. but, mr. cohen, there is an all-seeing eye." "i acknowledge it in the event of my refusing your money, you threaten to accuse me through the columns of the press of breaking open the safe and stealing the contents." "you have expressed it clearly, mr. cohen. the moral screw, you know." "and of further blackening my character." "it can scarcely be made worse than it is. in the event of your refusal i shall certainly do my duty." "mr. poynter," said aaron, with dignity, "i refuse your offer." "it is not enough?" "were you to multiply it a hundred times, it would not be enough." through aaron's veins ran the sweet approval conveyed in rachel's close clasp upon his hand. "you beggar!" exclaimed mr. poynter. "you hypocrite! you defy me?" "i do not defy you; i simply tell you to do your worst." "it shall be done!" cried mr. poynter, furiously. "you are ruined; i will ruin you still more; i will bring you to your knees; you shall lie in the gutter and beg for mercy! you paragon of sanctity, all the world shall know you for what you are!" "you can use no harsher words," said aaron. "relieve me now of your presence." as he said this the communicating door between the rooms opened, and mrs. gordon appeared on the threshold. "yes, i will go," said mr. poynter, but fell back when mrs. gordon advanced. "not yet," she said, and turned to aaron. "i have a word to say to this gentleman. your servant admitted me, and allowed me to wait in the adjoining apartment till you were disengaged. i have heard all that has passed between you, and i am thankful for the chance that enabled me to do so. mr. cohen, look upon that man, and mark how changed he is from braggart to coward. it is not the infamous falsehoods he has spoken, it is not the cowardly threats to which he has dared to give utterance in the presence of a lady, that cause him to shrink, that blanch his face, and bring terror into his eyes. it is because he sees me stand before him, the woman he betrayed and deserted long years ago. he believed me dead, driven to death by his treachery and baseness; he beholds me living, to cover him, if i wish, with shame and ignominy. heaven knows i had no desire to seek him, but heaven directed me here in a just moment to expose and baffle him. it is my turn now to threaten, it is my turn to dictate. you unutterable villain, you shall make some sort of retribution for the infamy of the past!" "psha!" said mr. poynter, with white lips. "who will believe you? you have no proofs." "i have. god's justice has turned your weapon against yourself. the safe entrusted to this noble gentleman, and which he delivered to me intact, untampered with, when i came to claim it, contained no treasure in money or jewels. when i parted with my child--and yours--i was too poor to deposit even one silver coin in it, but in its stead i placed there the letters you wrote to me, in your own hand, signed in your own name, the name by which you are known. these letters are now in my possession. how would you stand in the eyes of the world if i published them, you god-fearing man, with the story attaching to them? i will do it, as heaven is my judge, if you do not repair the injury you have done this gentleman, whom, with all my heart and soul, i honour and revere. it is him you have to thank that your child has been reared in honour and virtue. go! i never wish to look upon your face again; but as you are a living man i will bring the good name you falsely bear to the dust if you do not make reparation!" as he slunk past her, uttering no word, she held her dress so that it should not come in contact with him. his power for evil was at an end, and aaron had nothing more to fear from his malice. then, after aaron had introduced her to rachel, she poured glad tidings into their ears. she had not sought them earlier, she said, because she wished first to execute a plan which was in her head respecting them, and she had also to reconcile lord storndale to his son's marriage with ruth. her great wealth had enabled her, after much labour, to succeed in this endeavour, and ruth was recognised by her husband's family. the fortune which aaron had settled upon ruth had not been used in the carrying out of her desire; it was deposited in the bank, where only aaron's signature was needed to prove his right to it. and now she begged them to accompany her; she wished to show them something, and her carriage was at the door. it conveyed them to a handsome house in a good neighbourhood, which they supposed to be mrs. gordon's residence. a neatly dressed maid answered the bell, and to their surprise mrs. gordon immediately left them, and saying she would call on the morrow, drove away before they could reply. the maid, holding the door open to allow them to enter, handed aaron a letter and a packet, both addressed to him. the letter was from mrs. gordon, and upon reading it the mystery was explained. the house had been purchased by her in the name of aaron cohen, and the packet contained the deeds. "in furnishing the house," mrs. gordon wrote, "ruth has been the guiding spirit; she knew what was most precious to you and your dear wife." aaron's heart throbbed with gratitude as he and rachel walked through the rooms, and he saw all the memorials of their old home which they held most dear. on the walls were the portrait of himself and the picture of rachel in the garden in france, which had been presented to him on the day when all his friends had assembled to do him honour. joyful tears ran down rachel's face as he described these treasures to her; the love she had lavished on ruth met now with its return. in the study aaron paused, and lifting something from the table, placed it in rachel's hands. "your silver-mounted pipe!" she exclaimed. "my silver-mounted pipe," he answered. "my life, with this pipe, and the dear picture of you sitting under the cherry tree, and holding your dear hand, i can pass my days in perfect happiness and content." "o lord of the universe," said rachel, clasping her hands, and raising her lovely face, "i thank thee humbly for all thy goodness to me and mine!" the end * * * * * * printed by hazell, watson, & viney, ld., london and aylesbury. michael penguyne; fisher life on the cornish coast, by william h g kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ in this rather short book kingston tells us of the hard life and its few pleasures of the fisher-folk of cornwall. gales and a forbidding coast-line can often spell disaster to the poor fisherman caught out in a rising tempest. yet throughout this he and his family, with few exceptions, remain steadfast and god-fearing, with relatives springing to the aid of orphans and wives following a tragedy. kingston is here at his most persuasively christian, arguing that both the good things of life and the bad, are dealt out to us by an all-seeing fatherlike god. it does not take long to read, but you will certainly enjoy it. as it probably didn't take long to write it is not one of kingston's great masterpieces, but it is certainly worth taking note of. ________________________________________________________________________ michael penguyne, fisher life on the cornish coast, by william h g kingston. chapter one. as the sun rose over the lizard, the southernmost point of old england, his rays fell on the tanned sails of a fleet of boats bounding lightly across the heaving waves before a fresh westerly breeze. the distant shore, presenting a line of tall cliffs, towards which the boats were steering, still lay in the deepest shade. each boat was laden with a large heap of nets and several baskets filled with brightly-shining fish. in the stern of one, tiller in hand, sat a strongly-built man, whose deeply-furrowed countenance and grizzled hair showed that he had been for many a year a toiler on the ocean. by his side was a boy of about twelve years of age, dressed in flushing coat and sou'wester, busily employed with a marline-spike, in splicing an eye to a rope's-end. the elder fisherman, now looking up at his sails, now stooping down to get a glance beneath them at the shore, and then turning his head towards the south-west, where heavy clouds were gathering fast, meanwhile cast an approving look at the boy. "ye are turning in that eye smartly and well, michael," he said. "whatever you do, try and do it in that fashion. it has been my wish to teach you what is right as well as i know it. try not only to please man, my boy, but to love and serve god, whose eye is always on you. don't forget the golden rule either: `do to others as you would they should do to you.'" "i have always wished to understand what you have told me, and tried to obey you, father," said the boy. "you have been a good lad, michael, and have more than repaid me for any trouble you may have caused me. you are getting a big boy now, though, and it's time that you should know certain matters about yourself which no one else is so well able to tell you as i am." the boy looked up from his work, wondering what paul trefusis was going to say. "you know, lad, that you are called michael penguyne, and that my name is paul trefusis. has it never crossed your mind that though i have always treated you as a son--and you have ever behaved towards me as a good and dutiful son should behave--that you were not really my own child?" "to say the truth, i have never thought about it, father," answered the boy, looking up frankly in the old man's face. "i am oftener called trefusis than penguyne, so i fancied that penguyne was another name tacked on to michael, and that trefusis was just as much my name as yours. and oh! father, i would rather be your child than the son of anybody else." "there is no harm in wishing that, michael; but it's as well that you should know the real state of the case, and as i cannot say what may happen to me, i do not wish to put off telling you any longer. i am not as strong and young as i once was, and maybe god will think fit to take me away before i have reached the threescore years and ten which he allows some to live. we should not put off doing to another time what can be done now, and so you see i wish to say what has been on my mind to tell you for many a day past, though i have not liked to say it, lest it should in any way grieve you. you promise me, michael, you won't let it do that? you know how much i and granny and nelly love you, and will go on loving you as much as ever." "i know you do, father, and so do granny and nelly; i am sure they love me," said the boy gazing earnestly into paul's face, with wonder and a shade of sorrow depicted on his own countenance. "that's true," said paul. "but about what i was going to say to you. "my wife, who is gone to heaven, nelly's mother, and i, never had another child but her. your father, michael, as true-hearted a seaman as ever stepped, had been my friend and shipmate for many a long year. we were bred together, and had belonged to the same boat fishing off this coast till we were grown men, when at last we took it into our heads to wish to visit foreign climes, and so we went to sea together. after knocking about for some years, and going to all parts of the world, we returned home, and both fell in love, and married. your mother was an orphan, without kith or kin, that your father could hear of--a good, pretty girl she was, and worthy of him. "we made up our minds that we would stay on shore and follow our old calling and look after our wives and families. we had saved some money, but it did not go as far as we thought it would, and we agreed that if we could make just one more trip to sea, we should gain enough for what we wanted. "you were about two years old, and my nelly was just born. "we went to falmouth, where ships often put in, wanting hands, and masters are ready to pay good wages to obtain them. we hadn't been there a day, when we engaged on board a ship bound out to the west indies. as she was not likely to be long absent, this just suited us. your father got a berth as third mate, for he was the best scholar, and i shipped as boatswain. "we made the voyage out, and had just reached the chops of the channel, coming back, bound for bristol, and hoping in a few days to be home again with our wives, when thick weather came on, and a heavy gale of wind sprang up. it blew harder and harder. whether or not the captain was out of his reckoning i cannot say, but i suspect he was. before long, our sails were blown away, and our foremast went by the board. we did our best to keep the ship off the shore, for all know well that it is about as dangerous a one as is to be found round england. "the night was dark as pitch, the gale still increasing. "`paul,' said your father to me as we were standing together, `you and i may never see another sun rise; but still one of us may escape. you remember the promise we made each other.' "`yes, michael,' i said, `that i do, and hope to keep it.' "the promise was that if one should be lost and the other saved, he who escaped should look after the wife and family of the one who was lost. "i had scarcely answered him when the look-out forward shouted `breakers ahead!' and before the ship's course could be altered, down she came, crashing on the rocks. it was all up with the craft; the seas came dashing over her, and many of those on deck were washed away. the unfortunate passengers rushed up from below, and in an instant were swept overboard. "the captain ordered the remaining masts to be cut away, to ease the ship; but it did no good, and just as the last fell she broke in two, and all on board were cast into the water, i found myself clinging with your father to one of the masts. the head of the mast was resting on a rock. we made our way along it; i believed that others were following; but just as we reached the rock the mast was carried away, and he and i found that we alone had escaped. "the seas rose up foaming around us, and every moment we expected to be washed away. though we knew many were perishing close around us we had no means of helping them. all we could do was to cling on and try and save our own lives. "`i hope we shall get back home yet, michael,' i said, wishing to cheer your father, for he was more down-hearted than usual. "`i hope so, paul, but i don't know; god's will be done, whatever that will is. paul, you will meet me in heaven, i hope,' he answered, for he was a christian man. `if i am taken, you will look after mary and my boy,' he added. again i promised him, and i knew to a certainty that he would look after my nelly, should he be saved and i drowned. "when the morning came at last scarcely a timber or plank of the wreck was to be seen. what hope of escape had either of us? the foaming waters raged around, and we were half perished with cold and hunger. on looking about i found a small spar washed up on the rock, and, fastening our handkerchiefs together, we rigged out a flag, but there was little chance of a boat putting off in such weather and coming near enough to see it. we now knew that we were not far off the land's end, on one of two rocks called the sisters, with the village of senum abreast of us. "your father and i looked in each other's faces; we felt that there was little hope that we should ever see our wives and infants again. still we spoke of the promise we had made each other--not that there was any need of that, for we neither of us were likely to forget it. "the spring tides were coming on, and though we had escaped as yet, the sea might before long break over the rock and carry us away. even if it did not we must die of hunger and thirst, should no craft come to our rescue. "we kept our eyes fixed on the distant shore; they ached with the strain we put on them, as we tried to make out whether any boat was being launched to come off to us. "a whole day passed--another night came on. we did not expect to see the sun rise again. already the seas as they struck the rock sent the foam flying over us, and again and again washed up close to where we were sitting. "notwithstanding our fears, daylight once more broke upon us, but what with cold and hunger we were well-nigh dead. "your father was a stronger man than i fancied myself, and yet he now seemed most broken down. he could scarcely stand to wave our flag. "the day wore on, the wind veered a few points to the nor'ard, and the sun burst out now and then from among the clouds, and, just as we were giving up all hope, his light fell on the sails of a boat which had just before put off from the shore. she breasted the waves bravely. was she, though, coming towards us? we could not have been seen so far off. still on she came, the wind allowing her to be close-hauled to steer towards the rock. the tide meantime was rapidly rising. if she did not reach us soon, we knew too well that the sea would come foaming over the rock and carry us away. "i stood up and waved our flag. still the boat stood on; the spray was beating in heavy showers over her, and it was as much as she could do to look up to her canvas. sometimes as i watched her i feared that the brave fellows who were coming to our rescue would share the fate which was likely to befall us. she neared the rock. i tried to cheer up your father. "`in five minutes we shall be safe on board, michael,' i said. "`much may happen in five minutes, paul; but you will not forget my mary and little boy,' he answered. "`no fear of that,' i said; `but you will be at home to look after them yourself.' "i tried to cheer as the boat came close to the rock, but my voice failed me. "the sails were lowered and she pulled in. a rope was hove, and i caught it. i was about to make it fast round your father. "`you go first, paul,' he said. `if you reach the boat i will try to follow, but there is no use for me to try now; i should be drowned before i got half way.' "still i tried to secure the rope round him, but he resisted all my efforts. at last i saw that i must go, or we should both be lost, and i hoped to get the boat in nearer and to return with a second rope to help him. "i made the rope fast round my waist and plunged in. i had hard work to reach the boat; i did not know how weak i was. at last i was hauled on board, and was singing out for a rope, when the people in the boat uttered a cry, and looking up i saw a huge sea come rolling along. over the rock it swept, taking off your poor father. i leapt overboard with the rope still round my waist, in the hopes of catching him, but in a moment he was hidden from my sight, and, more dead than alive, i was again hauled on board. "the crew of the boat pulled away from the rock; they knew that all hopes of saving my friend were gone. sail was made, and we stood for the shore. "the people at the village attended me kindly, but many days passed before i was able to move. "as soon as i had got strength enough, with a sad heart i set out homewards. how could i face your poor mother, and tell her that her husband was gone? i would send my own dear wife, i thought, to break the news to her. "as i reached my own door i heard a child's cry; it was that of my little nelly, and granny's voice trying to soothe her. "i peeped in at the window. there sat granny, with the child on her knee, but my wife was not there. she has gone to market, i thought. still my heart sank within me. i gained courage to go in. "`where is nelly?' i asked, as granny, with the baby in her arms, rose to meet me. "`here is the only nelly you have got, my poor paul,' she said, giving me the child. "i felt as if my heart would break. i could not bring myself to ask how or when my wife had died. granny told me, however, for she knew it must be told, and the sooner it was over the better. she had been taken with a fever soon after i had left home. "it was long before i recovered myself. "`i must go and tell the sad news i bring to poor mary,' i said. "granny shook her head. "`she is very bad, it will go well-nigh to kill her outright,' she observed. "i would have got granny to go, but i wanted to tell your poor mother of my promise to your father, and, though it made my heartache, i determined to go myself. "i found her, with you by her side. "`here is father,' you cried out, but your mother looked up, and seemed to know in a moment what had happened. "`where is michael?' she asked. "`you know, mary, your husband and i promised to look after each other's children, if one was taken and the other left; and i mean to keep my promise to look after you and your little boy.' "your mother knew, by what i said, that your father was gone. "`god's will be done,' she murmured; `he knows what is best--i hope soon to be with him.' "before the month was out we carried your poor mother to her grave, and i took you to live with granny and nelly. "there, michael, you know all i can tell you about yourself. i have had hard times now and then, but i have done my duty to you; and i say again, michael, you have always been a good and dutiful boy, and not a fault have i had to find with you." "thank you, father, for saying that; and you will still let me call you father, for i cannot bring myself to believe that i am not really your son." "that i will, michael; a son you have always been to me, and my son i wish you to remain. and, michael, as i have watched over you, so i want you to watch over my little nelly. should i be called away, be a brother and true friend to her, for i know not to what dangers she may be exposed. granny is old, and her years on earth may be few, and when she is gone, michael, nelly will have no one to look to but you. she has no kith nor kin, that i know of, able or willing to take care of her. her mother's brother and only sister went to australia years ago, and no news has ever come of them since, and my brothers found their graves in the deep sea, so that nelly will be alone in the world. that is the only thing that troubles me, and often makes me feel sad when we are away at night, and the wind blows strong and the sea runs high, and i think of the many i have known who have lost their lives in stouter boats than mine. but god is merciful; he has promised to take care of the widow and orphan, and he will keep his word. i know that, and so i again look up and try to drive all mistrustful thoughts of his goodness from my mind." "father, while i have life i will take care of nelly, and pray for her, and, if needs be, fight for her," exclaimed michael. he spoke earnestly and with all sincerity, for he intended, god willing, to keep his word. chapter two. the fleet of fishing-boats as they approached the coast steered in different directions, some keeping towards kynance and landewednach, while paul trefusis shaped his course for mullyan cove, towards the north, passing close round the lofty gull rock, which stands in solitary grandeur far away from the shore, braving the fierce waves as they roll in from the broad atlantic. asparagus island and lion rock opened out to view, while the red and green sides of the precipitous serpentine cliffs could now be distinguished, assuming various fantastic shapes: one shaped into a complete arch, another the form of a gigantic steeple, with several caves penetrating deep into the cliff, on a level with the narrow belt of yellow sand. young michael, though accustomed from his childhood to the wild and romantic scenery, had never passed that way without looking at it with an eye of interest, and wondering how those cliffs and rocks came to assume the curious forms they wore. the little "wild duck," for that was the name paul trefusis had given his boat, continued her course, flying before the fast increasing gale close inshore, to avoid the strong tide which swept away to the southward, till, rounding a point, she entered the mouth of a narrow inlet which afforded shelter to a few boats and small craft. it was a wild, almost savage-looking place, though extremely picturesque. on either side were rugged and broken cliffs, in some parts rising sheer out of the water to the gorse-covered downs above, in others broken in terraces and ledges, affording space for a few fishermen's cottages and huts, which were seen perched here and there, looking down on the tranquil water of the harbour. the inlet made a sharp bend a short distance from its mouth, so that, as paul's boat proceeded upwards, the view of the sea being completely shut out, it bore the appearance of a lake. at the further end a stream of water came rushing down over the summit of the cliffs, dashing from ledge to ledge, now breaking into masses of foam, now descending perpendicularly many feet, now running along a rapid incline, and serving to turn a small flour-mill built a short way up on the side of the cliff above the harbour. steep as were the cliffs, a zigzag road had been cut in them, leading from the downs above almost to the mouth of the harbour, where a rock which rose directly out of the water formed a natural quay, on which the fishing-boats could land their cargoes. beyond this the road was rough and steep, and fitted only for people on foot, or donkeys with their panniers, to go up and down. art had done little to the place. the little "wild duck," a few moments before tossed and tumbled by the angry seas, now glided smoothly along for a few hundred yards, when the sails were lowered, and she floated up to a dock between two rocks. hence, a rough pathway led from one of the cottages perched on the side of the cliff. at a distance it could scarcely have been distinguished from the cliff itself. its walls were composed of large blocks of unhewn serpentine, masses of clay filling up the interstices, while it was roofed with a thick dark thatch, tightly fastened down with ropes, and still further secured by slabs of stone to prevent its being carried away by the fierce blasts which are wont to sweep up and down the ravine in winter. there was space enough on either side of the cottage for a small garden, which appeared to be carefully cultivated, and was enclosed by a stone wall. at the upper part of the pathway a flight of steps, roughly hewn in the rock, led to the cottage door. the door opened as soon as paul's boat rounded the point, and a young girl with a small creel or fish basket at her back was seen lightly tripping down the pathway, followed by an old woman, who, though she supported her steps with a staff, also carried a creel of the ordinary size. she wore a large broad-brimmed black hat, and a gaily-coloured calico jacket over her winsey skirt; an apron, and shoes with metal buckles, completing the ordinary costume of a fish-wife of that district. little nelly was dressed very like her grandmother, except that her feet were bare, and that she had a necklace of small shells round her throat. her face was pretty and intelligent, her well-browned cheeks glowed with the hue of health, her eyes were large and grey, and her black hair, drawn up off her forehead, hung in neat plaits tied with ribbons behind her back. nelly trefusis was indeed a good specimen of a young fisher-girl. she tripped lightly down the pathway, springing to the top of the outermost rock just before her father's boat glided by it, and in an instant stepping nimbly on board, she threw herself into his arms and bestowed a kiss on his weather-beaten brow. michael had leaped on shore to fend off the boat, so that he lost the greeting she would have given him. "you have had a good haul with the nets to-night, father," she said, looking into the baskets; "granny and i can scarce carry half of them to market, and unless abel mawgan the hawker comes in time to buy them, you and michael will have work to do to salt them down." "it is well that we should have had a good haul, nelly, for dirty weather is coming on, and it may be many a day before we are able to cast our nets again," answered paul, looking up affectionately at his child, while he began with a well-practised hand to stow the boat's sail. nelly meantime was filling her creel with fish, that she might lessen the weight of the baskets which her father and michael had to lift on shore. as soon as it was full she stepped back on the rock, giving a kiss to michael as she passed him. the baskets were soon landed, and the creel being filled, she and nelly ascended the hill, followed by paul and michael, who, carrying the baskets between them, brought up the remainder of the fish. breakfast, welcome to those who had been toiling all night, had been placed ready on the table, and leaving paul and his boy to discuss it, polly lanreath, as the old dame was generally called, and her little granddaughter, set off on their long journey over the downs to dispose of their fish at helston, or at the villages and the few gentlemen's houses they passed on their way. it was a long distance for the old woman and girl to go, but they went willingly whenever fish had been caught, for they depended on its sale for their livelihood, and neither paul nor michael could have undertaken the duty, nor would they have sold the fish so well as the dame and nelly, who were welcomed whenever they appeared. their customers knew that they could depend on their word when they mentioned the very hour when the fish were landed. the old dame's tongue wagged cheerfully as she walked along with nelly by her side, and she often beguiled the way with tales and anecdotes of bygone days, and ancient cornish legends which few but herself remembered. nelly listened with eager ears, and stored away in her memory all she heard, and often when they got back in the evening she would beg her granny to recount again for the benefit of her father and michael the stories she had told in the morning. she had a cheerful greeting, too, for all she met; for some she had a quiet joke; for the giddy and careless a word of warning, which came with good effect from one whom all respected. at the cottages of the poor she was always a welcome visitor, while at the houses of the more wealthy she was treated with courtesy and kindness; and many a housewife who might have been doubtful about buying fish that day, when the dame and her granddaughter arrived, made up her mind to assist in lightening nelly's creel by selecting some of its contents. the dame, as her own load decreased, would always insist on taking some of her granddaughter's, deeming that the little maiden had enough to do to trot on so many miles by her side, without having to carry a burden on her back in addition. nelly would declare that she did not feel the weight, but the sturdy old dame generally gained her point, though she might consent to replenish nelly's basket before entering the town, for some of their customers preferred the fish which the bright little damsel offered them for sale to those in her grandmother's creel. thus, though their daily toil was severe, and carried on under summer's sun, or autumn's gales, and winter's rain and sleet, they themselves were ever cheerful and contented, and seldom failed to return home with empty creels and well-filled purses. paul trefusis might thus have been able to lay by a store for the time when the dame could no longer trudge over the country as she had hitherto done, and he unable to put off with nets or lines to catch fish; but often for weeks together the gales of that stormy coast prevented him from venturing to sea, and the vegetables and potatoes produced in his garden, and the few fish he and michael could catch in the harbour, were insufficient to support their little household, so that at the end of each year paul found himself no richer than at the beginning. while nelly and her grandmother and the other women of the village were employed in selling the fish, the men had plenty of occupation during the day in drying and mending their nets, and repairing their boats, while some time was required to obtain the necessary sleep of which their nightly toil had deprived them. those toilers of the sea were seldom idle. when bad weather prevented them from going far from the coast, they fished with lines, or laid down their lobster-pots among the rocks close inshore, while occasionally a few fish were to be caught in the waters of their little harbour. most of them also cultivated patches of ground on the sides of the valley which opened out at the further end of the gorge, but, except potatoes, their fields afforded but precarious crops. paul and michael had performed most of their destined task: the net had been spread along the rocks to dry, and two or three rents, caused by the fisherman's foes, some huge conger or cod-fish, had been repaired. a portion of their fish had been sold to abel mawgan, and the remainder had been salted for their own use, when paul, who had been going about his work with less than his usual spirit, complained of pains in his back and limbs. leaving michael to clean out the boat and moor her, and to bring up the oars and other gear, he went into the cottage to lie down and rest. little perhaps did the strong and hardy fisherman suppose, as he threw himself on his bunk in the little chamber where he and michael slept, that he should never again rise, and that his last trip on the salt sea had been taken--that for the last time he had hauled his nets, that his life's work was done. yet he might have had some presentiment of what was going to happen as he sailed homewards that morning, when he resolved to tell michael about his parents, and gave him the account of his father's death which has been described. the young fisher boy went on board the "wild duck," and was busily employed in cleaning her out, thinking over what he had heard in the morning. whilst thus engaged, he saw a small boat coming down from the head of the harbour towards him, pulled by a lad somewhat older than himself. "there is eban cowan, the miller's son. i suppose he is coming here. i wonder what he wants?" he thought. "the `polly' was out last night, and got a good haul, so it cannot be for fish." michael was right in supposing that eban cowan was coming to their landing-place. the lad in the punt pulled up alongside the "wild duck." "how fares it with you, michael?" he said, putting out his hand. "you did well this morning, i suspect, like most of us. did abel mawgan buy all your `catch'? he took the whole of ours." "no, granny and nelly started off to helston with their creels full, as they can get a much better price than mawgan will give," answered michael. "i am sorry that nelly is away, for i have brought her some shells i promised her a month ago. but as i have nothing to do, i will bide with you till she comes back." "she and granny won't be back till late, i am afraid, and you lose your time staying here," said michael. "never mind, i will lend you a hand," said eban, making his punt fast, and stepping on board the "wild duck." he was a fine, handsome, broad-shouldered lad, with dark eyes and hair, and with a complexion more like that of an inhabitant of the south than of an english boy. he took up a mop as he spoke, whisking up the bits of seaweed and fish-scales which covered the bottom of the boat. "thank you," said michael; "i won't ask you to stop, for i must go and turn in and get some sleep. father does not seem very well, and i shall have more work in the evening." "what is the matter with uncle paul?" asked eban. michael told him that he had been complaining since the morning, but he hoped the night's rest would set him to rights. "you won't want to go to sea to-night. it's blowing hard outside, and likely to come on worse," observed eban. though he called paul "uncle," there was no relationship. he merely used the term of respect common in cornwall when a younger speaks of an older man. eban, however, did not take michael's hint, but continued working away in the boat till she was completely put to rights. "now," he said, "i will help you up with the oars and sails. you have more than enough to do, it seems to me, for a small fellow like you." "i am able to do it," answered michael; "and i am thankful that i can." "you live hard, though, and your father grows no richer," observed eban. "if he did as others do, and as my father has advised him many a time, he would be a richer man, and you and your sister and aunt lanreath would not have to toil early and late, and wear the life out of you as you do. i hope you will be wiser." "i know my father is right, whatever he does, and i hope to follow his example," answered michael, unstepping the mast, which he let fall on his shoulder preparatory to carrying it up to the shed. "i was going to take that up," said eban; "it is too heavy for you by half." "it is my duty, thank you," said michael, somewhat coldly, stepping on shore with his burden. slight as he looked, he carried the heavy spar up the pathway and deposited it against the side of the house. he was returning for the remainder of the boat's gear, when he met eban with it on his shoulders. "thank you," he said; "but i don't want to give you my work to do." "it's no labour to me," answered eban. "just do you go and turn in, and i will moor the boat and make a new set of `tholes' for you." again michael begged that his friend would not trouble himself, adding-- "if you have brought the shells for nelly and will leave them with me, i will give them to her when she comes home." nothing he could say, however, would induce eban to go away. the latter had made up his mind to remain till nelly's return. still michael was not to be turned from his purpose of doing his own work, though he could not prevent eban from assisting him; and not till the boat was moored, and her gear deposited in the shed, would he consent to enter the cottage and seek the rest he required. meantime eban, returning to his punt, shaped out a set of new tholes as he proposed, and then set off up the hill, hoping to meet nelly and her grandmother. he must have found them, for after some time he again came down the hill in their company, talking gaily, now to one, now to the other. he was evidently a favourite with the old woman. nelly thanked him with a sweet smile for the shells, which he had collected in some of the sandy little bays along the coast, which neither she nor michael had ever been able to visit. she was about to invite him into, the cottage, when michael appeared at the door, saying, with a sad face-- "o granny! i am so thankful you are come; father seems very bad, and groans terribly. i never before saw him in such a way, and have not known what to do." nelly on this darted in, and was soon by paul's bedside, followed by her grandmother. eban lingered about outside waiting. michael at length came out to him again. "there is no use waiting," he said; and eban, reluctantly going down to his boat, pulled away up the harbour. chapter three. paul continued to suffer much during the evening; still he would not have the doctor sent for. "i shall get better maybe soon, if it's god's will, though such pains are new to me," he said, groaning as he spoke. the storm which had been threatening now burst with unusual strength. michael, with the assistance of nelly and her grandmother, got in the nets in time. all hope of doing anything on the water for that night, at all events, must be abandoned; the weather was even too bad to allow michael to fish in the harbour. little nelly's young heart was deeply grieved as she heard her father groan with pain--he who had never had a day's illness that she could recollect. nothing the dame could think of relieved him. the howling of the wind, the roaring of the waves as they dashed against the rock-bound coast, the pattering of the rain, and ever and anon the loud claps of thunder which echoed among the cliffs, made nelly's heart sink within her. often it seemed as if the very roof of the cottage would be blown off. still she was thankful that her father and michael were inside instead of buffeting the foaming waves out at sea. if careful tending could have done paul good he would soon have got well. the old dame seemed to require no sleep, and she would scarcely let either of her grandchildren take her place even for a few minutes. though she generally went marketing, rather than leave her charge she sent michael and nelly to buy bread and other necessaries at the nearest village, which was, however, at some distance. the rain had ceased, but the wind blew strong over the wild moor. "i am afraid father is going to be very ill," observed michael. "he seemed to think something was going to happen to him when he told me what i did not know before about myself. have you heard anything about it, nelly?" "what is it?" asked nelly; "till you tell me i cannot say." "you've always thought that i was your brother, nelly, haven't you?" "as to that, i have always loved you as a brother, and whether one or no, that should not make you unhappy. has father said anything to you about it?" "yes. he said that i was not your brother; and he has told me all about my father and mother: how my father was drowned, and my mother died of a broken heart. i could well-nigh have cried when i heard the tale." nelly looked up into michael's face. "it's no news to me," she said. "granny told me of it some time ago, but i begged her not to let you find it out lest it should make you unhappy, and you should fancy we were not going to love you as much as we have always done. but, michael, don't go and fancy that; though you are not my brother, i will love you as much as ever, as long as you live: for, except father and granny, i have no friend but you in the world." "i will be your brother and your true friend as long as i live, nelly," responded michael; "still i would rather have thought myself to be your brother, that i might have a better right to work for you, and fight for you too, if needs be." "you will do that, i know, michael," said nelly, "whatever may happen." michael felt that he should be everything that was bad if he did not, though it did not occur to him to make any great promises of what he would do. they went on talking cheerfully and happily together, for though nelly was anxious about her father, she did not yet understand how ill he was. they procured the articles for which they had been sent, and, laden with them, returned homewards. they were making their way along one of the hedges which divide the fields in that part of cornwall--not composed of brambles but of solid rock, and so broad that two people can walk abreast without fear of tumbling off--and were yet some distance from the edge of the ravine down which they had to go to their home, when they saw eban cowan coming towards them. "i wish he had gone some other way," said nelly. "he is very kind bringing me shells and other things, but, michael, i do not like him. i do not know what it is, but there is something in the tone of his voice; it's not truthful like yours and father's." "i never thought about that. he is a bold-hearted, good-natured fellow," observed michael. "he has always been inclined to like us, and shown a wish to be friendly." "i don't want to make him suppose that we are not friendly," said nelly; "only still--" she was unable to finish the sentence, as the subject of their conversation had got close up to them. "good-day, nelly; good-day, michael," he said, putting out his hand. "you have got heavy loads; let me carry yours, nelly." she, however, declined his assistance. "it is lighter than you suppose, and i can carry it well," she answered. he looked somewhat angry and then walked on, michael having to give way to let him pass. instead, however, of doing so, he turned round suddenly and kept alongside nelly, compelling michael in consequence to walk behind them. "i went to ask after your father, nelly," he said, "and, hearing that you were away, came on to meet you. i am sorry to find he is no better." "thank you," said nelly; "father is very ill, i fear; but god is merciful, and will take care of him and make him well if he thinks fit." eban made no reply to this remark. he was not accustomed in his family to hear god spoken of except when that holy name was profaned by being joined to a curse. "you had better let me take your creel, nelly; it will be nothing to me." "it is nothing to me either," answered nelly, laughing. "i undertook to bring home the things, and i do not wish anybody else to do my work." still eban persisted in his offers; she as constantly refusing, till they reached the top of the pathway. "there," she said, "i have only to go down hill now, so you need not be afraid the load will break my back. good-bye, eban, you will be wanted at home i dare say." eban looked disconcerted; he appeared to have intended to accompany her down the hill, but he had sense enough to see that she did not wish him to do so. he stopped short, therefore. "good-bye, eban," said michael, as he passed him; "nelly and i must get home as fast as we can to help granny nurse father." "that's the work you are most fitted for," muttered eban, as michael went on. "if it was not for nelly i should soon quarrel with that fellow. he is always talking about his duty, and fearing god, and such like things. if he had more spirit he would not hold back as he does from joining us. however, i will win him over some day when he is older, and it is not so easy to make a livelihood with his nets and lines alone as he supposes." eban remained on the top of the hill watching his young acquaintances as they descended the steep path, and then made his way homewards. when nelly and michael arrived at the cottage the dame told them, to their sorrow, that their father was not better but rather worse. he still, however, forbad her sending for the doctor. day after day he continued much in the same state, though he endeavoured to encourage them with the hopes that he should get well at last. the weather continued so bad all this time that michael could not get out in the boat to fish with lines or lay down his lobster-pots. he and nelly might have lost spirit had not their granny kept up hers and cheered them. "we must expect bad times, my children, in this world," she said. "the sun does not always shine, but when clouds cover the sky we know they will blow away at last and we shall have fine days again. i have had many trials in my life, but here i am as well and hardy as ever. we cannot tell why some are spared and some are taken away. it is god's will, that's all we know. it was his will to take your parents, michael, but he may think fit to let you live to a green old age. i knew your father and mother, and your grandmother too. your grandmother had her trials, and heavy ones they were. i remember her a pretty, bright young woman as i ever saw. she lived in a gentleman's house as a sort of nurse or governess, where all were very fond of her, and she might have lived on in the house to the end of her days; but she was courted by a fine-looking fellow, who passed as the captain of a merchant vessel. a captain he was, though not of an honest trader, as he pretended, but of a smuggling craft, of which there were not a few in those days off this coast. the match was thought a good one for nancy trewinham when she married captain brewhard. they lived in good style and she was made much of, and looked upon as a lady, but before long she found out her husband's calling, and right-thinking and good as she was she could not enjoy her riches. she tried to persuade her husband to abandon his calling, but he laughed at her, and told her that if it was not for that he should be a beggar. "he moved away from penzance, where he had a house, and after going to two or three other places, came to live near here. they had at this time two children, a fine lad of fifteen or sixteen years old, and your mother judith. "the captain was constantly away from home, and, to the grief of his wife, insisted on taking his boy with him. she well knew the hazardous work he was engaged in; so did most of the people on the coast, though he still passed where he lived for the master of a regular merchantman. "there are some i have known engaged in smuggling for years, who have died quietly in their beds, but many, too, have been drowned at sea or killed in action with the king's cruisers, or shot landing their goods. "there used to be some desperate work going on along this coast in my younger days. "at last the captain, taking his boy with him, went away in his lugger, the `lively nancy,' over to france. she was a fine craft, carrying eight guns, and a crew of thirty men or more. the king's cruisers had long been on the watch for her. as you know, smugglers always choose a dark and stormy night for running their cargoes. there was a cutter at the time off the coast commanded by an officer who had made up his mind to take the `lively nancy,' let her fight ever so desperately. her captain laughed at his threats, and declared that he would send her to the bottom first. "i lived at that time with my husband and nelly's mother, our only child, at landewednach. it was blowing hard from the south-west with a cloudy sky, when just before daybreak a sound of firing at sea was heard. there were few people in the village who did not turn out to try and discover what was going on. the morning was dark, but we saw the flashes of guns to the westward, and my husband and others made out that there were two vessels engaged standing away towards mount's bay. we all guessed truly that one was the `lively nancy,' and the other the king's cutter. "gradually the sounds of the guns grew less and the flashes seemed further off. after some time, however, they again drew near. it was evident that the cutter had attacked the lugger, which was probably endeavouring to get away out to sea or to round the lizard, when, with a flowing sheet before the wind, she would have a better chance of escape. "just then daylight broke, and we could distinguish both the vessels close-hauled, the lugger to leeward trying to weather on the cutter, which was close to her on her quarter, both carrying as much sail as they could stagger under. they kept firing as fast as the guns could be loaded, each trying to knock away her opponent's spars, so that more damage was done to the rigging than to the crews of the vessels. "the chief object of the smugglers was to escape, and this they hoped to do if they could bring down the cutter's mainsail. the king's officer knew that he should have the smugglers safe enough if he could but make them strike; this, however, knowing that they all fought with ropes round their necks, they had no thoughts of doing. "though the lugger stood on bravely, we could see that she was being jammed down gradually towards the shore. my good man cried out, `that her fore-tack was shot away and it would now go hard with her.' "the smugglers, however, in spite of the fire to which they were exposed, got it hauled down. the cutter was thereby enabled to range up alongside. "by this time the two vessels got almost abreast of the point, but there were the stags to be weathered. if the lugger could do that she might then keep away. there seemed a good chance that she would do it, and many hoped she would, for their hearts were with her rather than with the king's cruiser. "she was not a quarter of a mile from the stags when down came her mainmast. it must have knocked over the man at the helm and injured others standing aft, for her head fell off and she ran on directly for the rocks. still her crew did their best to save her. the wreck was cleared away, and once more she stood up as close as she could now be kept to the wind. one of her guns only was fired, for the crew had somewhat else to do just then. the cutter no longer kept as close to her as before; well did her commander know the danger of standing too near those terrible rocks, over which the sea was breaking in masses of foam. "there seemed a chance that the lugger might still scrape clear of the rocks; if not, in a few moments she must be dashed to pieces and every soul on board perish. "i could not help thinking of the poor lad whom his father had taken with him in spite of his mother's tears and entreaties. it must have been a terrible thought for the captain that he had thus brought his young son to an untimely end. for that reason i would have given much to see the lugger escape, but it was not to be. "the seas came rolling in more heavily than before. a fierce blast struck her, and in another instant, covered with a shroud of foam, she was dashed against the wild rocks, and when we looked again she seemed to have melted away--not a plank of her still holding together. "the cutter herself had but just weathered the rocks, and though she stood to leeward of them on the chance of picking up any of the luggers crew who might have escaped, not one was found. "such was the end of the `lively nancy,' and your bold grandfather. your poor grandmother never lifted up her head after she heard of what had happened. still she struggled on for the sake of her little daughter, but by degrees all the money she possessed was spent. she at once moved into a small cottage, and then at last she and her young daughter found shelter in a single room. after this she did not live long, and your poor mother was left destitute. it was then your father met her, and though she had more education than he had, and remembered well the comfort she had once enjoyed, she consented to become his wife. he did his best for her, for he was a true-hearted, honest man, but she was ill fitted for the rough life a fisherman's wife has to lead, and when the news of her husband's death reached her she laid down and died. "there, michael, now you have learned all you are ever likely to know of your family, for no one can tell you more about them than i can. "you see you cannot count upon many friends in the world except those you make yourself. but there is one friend you have who will never, if you trust to him, leave or forsake you. he is truer than all earthly friends, and paul trefusis has acted a father's part in bringing you up to fear and honour him." "i do trust god, for it is he you speak of, granny," said michael, "and i will try to love and obey him as long as i live. he did what he knew to be best when he took my poor father away, and gave me such a good one as he who lies sick in there. i wish, granny, that you could have given me a better account of my grandfather." "i thought it best that you should know the truth, michael, and as you cannot be called to account for what he was, you need not trouble yourself about that matter. your grandmother was an excellent woman, and i have a notion that she was of gentle blood, so it is well you should remember her name, and you may some day hear of her kith and kin: not that you are ever likely to gain anything by that; still it's a set-off against what your grandfather was, though people hereabouts will never throw that in your face." "i should care little for what they may say," answered michael; "all i wish is to grow into a strong man to be able to work for you and nelly and poor father, if he does not gain his strength. i will do my best now, and when the pilchard season comes on i hope, if i can get david treloar or another hand in the boat, to do still better." chapter four. day after day paul trefusis lay on his sick-bed. a doctor was sent for, but his report was unfavourable. nelly asked him, with trembling lips, whether he thought her father would ever get well. "you must not depend too much on that, my little maiden," he answered; "but i hope your brother, who seems an industrious lad, and that wonderful old woman, your grandmother, will help you to keep the pot boiling in the house, and i dare say you will find friends who will assist you when you require it. good-bye; i'll come and see your father again soon; but all i can do is to relieve his pain." dame lanreath and michael did, indeed, do their best to keep the pot boiling: early and late michael was at work, either digging in the garden, fishing in the harbour, or, when the weather would allow him, going with the boat outside. young as he was, he was well able, under ordinary circumstances, to manage her by himself, though, of course, single-handed, he could not use the nets. though he toiled very hard, he could, however, obtain but a scanty supply of fish. when he obtained more than were required for home consumption, the dame would set off to dispose of them; but she had no longer the companionship of nelly, who remained to watch over her poor father. when paul had strength sufficient to speak, which he had not always, he would give his daughter good advice, and warn her of the dangers to which she would be exposed in the world. "nelly," he said, "do not trust a person with a soft-speaking tongue, merely because he is soft-speaking; or one with good looks, merely because he has good looks. learn his character first--how he spends his time, how he speaks about other people, and, more than all, how he speaks about god. do not trust him because he says pleasant things to you. there is eban cowan, for instance, a good-looking lad, with pleasant manners; but he comes of a bad stock, and is not brought up to fear god. it is wrong to speak ill of one's neighbours, so i have not talked of what i know about his father and his father's companions; but, nelly dear, i tell you not to trust him or them till you have good cause to do so." nelly, like a wise girl, never forgot what her father said to her. after this paul grew worse. often, for days together, he was racked with pain, and could scarcely utter a word. nelly tended him with the most loving care. it grieved her tender heart to see him suffer; but she tried to conceal her sorrow, and he never uttered a word of complaint. michael had now become the main support of the family; for though paul had managed to keep out of debt and have a small supply of money in hand, yet that was gradually diminishing. "never fear, nelly," said michael, when she told him one day how little they had left; "we must hope for a good pilchard-fishing, and we can manage to rub on till then. the nets are in good order, and i can get the help i spoke of; so that i can take father's place, and we shall have his share in the company's fishing." michael alluded to a custom which prevails among the fishermen on that coast. a certain number, who possess boats and nets, form a company, and fish together when the pilchards visit their coast, dividing afterwards the amount they receive for the fish caught. "it is a long time to wait till then," observed nelly. "but on most days i can catch lobsters and crabs, and every time i have been out lately the fish come to my lines more readily than they used to do," answered michael. "do not be cast down, nelly dear, we have a friend in heaven, as father says, who will take care of us; let us trust him." time passed on. paul trefusis, instead of getting better, became worse and worse. his once strong, stout frame was now reduced to a mere skeleton. still nelly and michael buoyed themselves up with the hope that he would recover. dame lanreath knew too well that his days on earth were drawing to an end. michael had become the mainstay of the family. whenever a boat could get outside, the "wild duck" was sure to be seen making her way towards the best fishing-ground. paul, before he started each day, inquired which way the wind was, and what sea there was on, and advised him where to go. "michael," said paul, as the boy came one morning to wish him good-bye, "fare thee well, lad; don't forget the advice i have given thee, and look after little nelly and her grandmother, and may god bless and prosper thee;" and taking michael's hand, paul pressed it gently. he had no strength for a firm grasp now. michael was struck by his manner. had it not been necessary to catch some fish he would not have left the cottage. putting the boat's sail and other gear on board, he pulled down the harbour. he had to pull some little way out to sea. the wind was setting on shore. he did not mind that, for he should sail back the faster. the weather did not look as promising as he could have wished: dark clouds were gathering to the north-west and passing rapidly over the sky. as he knew, should the wind stand, he could easily regain the harbour, he went rather more to the southward than he otherwise would have done, to a good spot, where he had often had a successful fishing. he had brought his dinner with him, as he intended to fish all day. his lines were scarcely overboard before he got a bite, and he was soon catching fish as fast as he could haul his lines on board. this put him in good spirits. "granny will have her creel full to sell to-morrow," he thought. "maybe i shall get back in time for her to set off to-day." so eagerly occupied was he that he did not observe the change of the weather. the wind had veered round more to the northward. it was every instant blowing stronger and stronger, although, from its coming off the land, there was not much sea on. at last he had caught a good supply of fish. by waiting he might have obtained many more, but he should then be too late for that day's market. lifting his anchor, therefore, he got out his oars and began to pull homewards. the wind was very strong, and he soon found that, with all his efforts, he could make no headway. the tide, too, had turned, and was against him, sweeping round in a strong current to the southward. in vain he pulled. though putting all the strength he possessed to his oars, still, as he looked at the shore, he was rather losing than gaining ground. he knew that the attempt to reach the harbour under sail would be hopeless; he should be sure to lose every tack he made. already half a gale of wind was blowing, and the boat, with the little ballast there was in her, would scarcely look up even to the closest reefed canvas. again he dropped his anchor, intending to wait the turn of the tide, sorely regretting that he could not take the fish home in time for granny to sell on that day. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ dame lanreath and nelly had been anxiously expecting michael's return, and the dame had got ready to set off as soon as he appeared with the fish they hoped he would catch. still he did not come. paul had more than once inquired for him. he told nelly to go out and see how the wind was, and whether there was much sea on. nelly made her way under the cliffs to the nearest point whence she could obtain a view of the mouth of the harbour and the sea beyond. she looked out eagerly for michael's boat, hoping to discover her making her way towards the shore; but nelly looked in vain. already there was a good deal of sea on, and the wind, which had been blowing strong from the north-west, while she was standing there veered a point or two more to the northward. "where could michael have gone?" she looked and looked till her eyes ached, still she could not bring herself to go back without being able to make some report about him. at last she determined to call at the cottage of reuben lanaherne, a friend of her father's, though a somewhat older man. "what is it brings you here, my pretty maiden?" said uncle reuben, who, for a wonder, was at home, as nelly, after gently knocking, lifted the latch and entered a room with sanded floor and blue painted ceiling. "o uncle lanaherne," she said, "can you tell me where you think michael has gone? he ought to have been back long ago." "he would have been wiser not to have gone out at all with the weather threatening as it has been; but he is a handy lad in a boat, nelly, and he will find his way in as well as any one, so don't you be unhappy about him," was the answer. still reuben looked a little anxious, and putting on his hat, buttoning up his coat, and taking his glass under his arm, he accompanied nelly to the point. he took a steady survey round. "michael's boat is nowhere near under sail," he observed. "there seems to me a boat, however, away to the southward, but, with the wind and tide as at present, she cannot be coming here. i wish i could make out more to cheer you, nelly. you must tell your father that; and he knows if we can lend michael a hand we will. how is he to-day?" "he is very bad, uncle lanaherne," said nelly, with a sigh; "i fear sometimes that he will never go fishing again." "i am afraid not, nelly," observed the rough fisherman, putting his hand on her head; "but you know you and your brother will always find a friend in reuben lanaherne. an honest man's children will never want, and if there ever was an honest man, your poor father is one. i will keep a look-out for michael, but do not be cast down, nelly; we shall see him before long." the fisherman spoke in a cheery tone, but still he could not help feeling more anxiety than he expressed for michael. every moment the wind was increasing, and the heavy seas which came rolling in showed that a gale had been blowing for some time outside. nelly hastened back to tell her father what uncle lanaherne had said. when she got to his bedside she found that a great change had taken place during her absence. her father turned his dim eye towards her as she entered, but had scarcely strength to speak, or beckon her with his hands. she bent over him. "nelly dear, where is michael?" he asked, "i want to bless him, he must come quickly, for i have not long to stay." "he has not come on shore yet, father, but uncle lanaherne is looking out for him," said nelly. "i wanted to see him again," whispered paul. "it will be too late if he does not come now; so tell him, nelly, that i do bless him, and i bless you, nelly, bless you, bless you;" and his voice became fainter. nelly, seeing a change come over her father's features, cried out for her granny. dame lanreath hastened into the room. the old woman saw at a glance what had happened. paul trefusis was dead. closing his eyes, she took her grandchild by the hand, and led her out of the room. some time passed, however, before nelly could realise what had happened. "your father has gone, nelly, but he has gone to heaven, and is happier far than he ever was or ever could be down on earth even in the best of times. bad times may be coming, and god in his love and mercy took him that he might escape them." "but, then, why didn't god take us?" asked nelly, looking up. "i would have liked to die with him. bad times will be as hard for us to bear as for him." "god always does what is best, and he has a reason for keeping us on earth," answered the dame. "he has kept me well-nigh fourscore years, and given me health and strength, and good courage to bear whatever i have had to bear, and he will give you strength, nelly, according to your need." "ah, i was wicked to say what i did," answered nelly; "but i am sad about father and you and myself, and very sad, too, about michael. he will grieve so when he comes home and finds father gone, if he comes at all. and, o granny, i begin to fear that he won't come home! what has happened to him i cannot tell; and if you had seen the heavy sea there was rolling outside you would fear the worst." "still, nelly, we must trust in god; if he has taken michael, he has done it for the best, not the worst, nelly," answered dame lanreath. "but when i say this, nelly, i don't want to stop your tears, they are given in mercy to relieve your grief; but pray to god, nelly, to help us; he will do so--only trust him." chapter five. the day was drawing to a close when the storm, which had been threatening all the morning on which paul trefusis died, swept fiercely up the harbour, showing that the wind had again shifted to the westward. poor nelly, though cast down with grief at her father's death, could not help trembling as she thought of michael, exposed as she knew he must be to its rage. was he, too, to be taken away from them? she was left much alone, as dame lanreath had been engaged, with the assistance of a neighbour, in the sad duty of laying out the dead man. nelly several times had run out to look down the harbour, hoping against hope that she might see michael's boat sailing up it. at length, in spite of the gale, she made her way to reuben lanaherne's cottage. his wife and daughter were seated at their work, but he was not there. agitated and breathless from encountering the fierce wind, she could scarcely speak as she entered. "sit down, maiden; what ails thee?" said dame lanaherne, rising, and kindly placing her on a stool by her side. nelly could only answer with sobs. just then old reuben himself entered, shaking the spray from his thick coat. "how is thy father, nelly?" he asked. "he has gone," she answered, sobbing afresh. "and, o uncle reuben, have you seen michael's boat? can you tell me where he is?" "i have not forgotten him, nelly, and have been along the shore as far as i could make my way on the chance that he might have missed the harbour, and had run for kynance cove, but not a sign of him or his boat could i see. i wish i had better news for you, nelly. and your good father gone too! don't take on so--he is free from pain now--happy in heaven; and there is one above who will look after michael, though what has become of him is more than i can tell you." the old fisherman's words brought little comfort to poor nelly, though he and his wife and daughter did their best to console her. they pressed her to remain with them, but she would not be absent longer from her granny, and, thanking them for their kindness, hurried homewards. the wind blew fiercely, but no rain had as yet fallen. their neighbour, having rendered all the assistance required, had gone away, and the old dame and her young grandchild sat together side by side in the outer room. they could talk only of michael. the dame did not dare to utter what she thought. his small boat might have been swamped in the heavy sea, or he might have fallen overboard and been unable to regain her; or, attempting to land on a rocky coast, she might have been dashed to pieces, and he swept off by the receding surf. such had been the fate of many she had known. as each succeeding gust swept by, poor nelly started and trembled in spite of her efforts to keep calm. at length down came the rain battering against the small panes of glass. at that instant there was a knocking at the door. "can you give us shelter from the storm, good folks?" said a voice; and, the latch being lifted, an elderly gentleman, accompanied by two ladies, one of whom was young and the other more advanced in life, appeared at the entrance. they evidently took it for granted that they should not be denied. "you are welcome, though you come to a house of mourning," said dame lanreath, rising, while nelly hastened to place stools for them to sit on. "i am afraid, then, that we are intruders," said the gentleman, "and we would offer to go on, but my wife and daughter would be wet through before we could reach any other shelter." "we would not turn any one away, especially you and mistress tremayne," said the dame, looking at the elder lady. "what! do you know us?" asked the gentleman. "i know mistress tremayne and the young lady from her likeness to what i recollect of her mother," answered dame lanreath. "i seldom forget a person i once knew, and she has often bought fish of me in days gone by." "and i, too, recollect you. if i mistake not you used to be pretty widely known as polly lanreath," said the lady, looking at the old fish-wife. "and so i am now, mistress tremayne," answered the dame, "though not known so far and wide as i once was. i can still walk my twenty miles a-day; but years grow on one; and when i see so many whom i have known as children taken away, i cannot expect to remain hale and strong much longer." "you have altered but little since i knew you," observed mrs tremayne, "and i hope that you may retain your health and strength for many years to come." "that's as god wills," said the dame. "i pray it may be so for the sake of my little nelly here." "she is your grandchild, i suppose," observed mrs tremayne. "ay, and the only one i have got to live for now. her father has just gone, and she and i are left alone." "o granny, but there is michael; don't talk of him as gone," exclaimed nelly. "he will come back, surely he will come back." this remark of nelly's caused mr and mrs tremayne to make further inquiries. they at first regretted that they had been compelled to take shelter in the cottage, but as the dame continued talking, their interest in what she said increased. "it seemed strange, mistress tremayne, that you should have come here at this moment," she observed. "our michael is the grandson of one whom you knew well in your childhood; she was nancy trewinham, who was nurse in the family of your mother, lady saint mabyn; and you, if i mistake not, were old enough at the time to remember her." "yes, indeed, i do perfectly well; and i have often heard my mother express her regret that so good and gentle a young woman should have married a man who, though apparently well-to-do in the world, was more than suspected to be of indifferent character," said the lady. "we could gain no intelligence of her after she left penzance, though i remember my father saying that he had no doubt a noted smuggler whose vessel was lost off this coast was the man she had married. being interested in her family, he made inquiries, but could not ascertain whether she had survived her unhappy husband or not. and have you, indeed, taken charge of her grandson in addition to those of your own family whom you have had to support?" "it was not i took charge of the boy, but my good son-in-law, who lies dead there," said the dame. "he thought it but a slight thing, and only did what he knew others would do by him." "he deserved not the less credit," said mr tremayne. "we shall, indeed, be anxious to hear that the boy has come to no harm, and i am sure that mrs tremayne will be glad to do anything in her power to assist you and him should he, as i hope, have escaped. we purpose staying at landewednach for a few days to visit the scenery on the coast, and will send down to inquire to-morrow." while mr and mrs tremayne and the old dame had been talking, miss tremayne had beckoned to nelly to come and sit by her, and, speaking in a kind and gentle voice, had tried to comfort the young girl. she, however, could only express her hope that michael had by some means or other escaped. though nelly knew that that hope was vain, the sympathy which was shown her soothed her sorrow more than the words which were uttered. sympathy, in truth, is the only balm that one human being can pour into the wounded heart of another. would that we could remember that in all our grief and sufferings we have one in heaven who can sympathise with us as he did when he wept with the sorrowing family at bethany. the rain ceased almost as suddenly as it had commenced, and as mr and mrs tremayne, who had left their carriage on the top of the hill, were anxious to proceed on their journey, they bade dame lanreath and nelly good-bye, again apologising for having intruded on them. "don't talk of that please, mistress tremayne," said the old dame. "your visit has been a blessing to us, as it has taken us off our own sad thoughts. nelly already looks less cast down, from what the young lady has been saying to her, and though you can't bring the dead to life we feel your kindness." "you will let me make it rather more substantial, then, by accepting this trifle, which may be useful under the present circumstances," said the gentleman, offering a couple of guineas. the old dame looked at them, a struggle seemed to be going on within her. "i thank you kindly, sir, that i do," she answered; "but since my earliest days i have gained my daily bread and never taken charity from any one." "but you must not consider this as charity, dame," observed mrs tremayne; "it is given to show our interest in your little granddaughter and in the boy whom your son-in-law and you have so generously protected so many years. i should, indeed, feel bound to assist him, and therefore on his account pray receive it and spend it as you may require." the dame's scruples were at length overcome, and her guests, after she had again expressed her feelings of gratitude, took their departure. they had scarcely gone when eban cowan appeared at the door. "i have just heard what has happened, and i could not let the day pass without coming to tell you how sorry i am," he said, as he entered. nelly thanked him warmly. "father has gone to heaven and is at rest," she said, quietly. "i should think that you would rather have had him with you down on earth," observed eban, who little comprehended her feelings. "so i would, but it was god's will to take him, and he taught me to say, `thy will be done;' and i can say that though i grieve for his loss," answered nelly. "but, o eban, when you came i thought that you had brought some tidings of michael." "no! where is he? i did not know that he was not at home." nelly then told eban how michael had gone away with the boat in the morning and had not returned. "i will go and search for him then," he said. "he has run in somewhere, perhaps, along the coast. i wonder, when you spoke to uncle lanaherne, that he did not set off at once. but i will go. i'll get father to send some men with me with ropes, and if he is alive and clinging to a rock, as he may be, we will bring him back." nelly poured out her thanks to eban, who, observing that there was no time to be lost, set off to carry out his proposal. dame lanreath had said but little. she shook her head when he had gone, as nelly continued praising him. "he is brave and bold, nelly, but that could be said of captain brewhard and many others i have known, who were bad husbands and false friends, and there is something about the lad i have never liked. he is inclined to be friendly now; and as you grow up he will wish, maybe, to be more friendly; but i warn you against him, nelly dear. though he speaks to you ever go fair, don't trust him." "but i must be grateful to him as long as i live if he finds michael," answered nelly, who thought her grandmother condemned eban without sufficient cause. had she known how he had often talked to michael, she might have been of a different opinion. the storm continued to blow as fiercely as ever, and the rain again came pelting down; ever and anon peals of thunder rattled and crashed overhead, and flashes of lightning, seen more vividly through the thickening gloom, darted from the sky. dame lanreath and nelly sat in their cottage by the dead--the old woman calm and unmoved, though nelly, at each successive crash of thunder or flash of lightning, drew closer to her grandmother, feeling more secure in the embrace of the only being on whom she had now to rely for protection in the wide world. chapter six. young michael sat all alone in his boat, tossed about by the foaming seas. his anchor held, so there was no fear of his drifting. but that was not the only danger to which he was exposed. at any moment a sea might break on board and wash him away, or swamp the boat. he looked round him, calmly considering what was best to be done. no coward fear troubled his mind, yet he clearly saw the various risks he must run. he thought of heaving his ballast overboard and trying to ride out the gale where he was, but then he must abandon all hope of reaching the harbour by his own unaided efforts. he might lash himself to a thwart, and thus escape being washed away; still the fierce waves might tear the boat herself to pieces, so that he quickly gave up that idea. he was too far off to be seen from the shore, except perhaps by the keen-sighted coast-guard men; but even if seen, what boat would venture out into the fast-rising sea to his rescue. he must, he felt, depend upon himself, with god's aid, for saving his life. any longer delay would only increase his peril. the wind and tide would prevent him gaining any part of the coast to the northward. he would therefore make sail and run for landewednach, for not another spot where he had the slightest prospect of landing in safety was to be found between the gull rock and the beach at that place. he very well knew, indeed, the danger he must encounter even there, but it was a choice of evils. he quickly made up his mind. he at first set to work to bail out the boat, for already she had shipped a good deal of water. he had plenty of sea room, so that he might venture to lift his anchor. but it was no easy work, and the sea, which broke over the bows again and again, made him almost relinquish the effort, and cut the cable instead. still he knew the importance of having his anchor ready to drop, should he be unable to beach the boat on his arrival at the spot he had selected, so again he tried, and up it came. he quickly hauled it in, and running up his sail he sprang to the tiller, hauling aft his main-sheet. away flew the boat amid the tumbling seas, which came rolling in from the westward. he held the sheet in his hand, for there was now as much wind as the boat could look up to, and a sudden blast might at any moment send her over. that, too, michael knew right well. on she flew like a sea-bird amid the foaming waves, now lifted to the summit of one, now dropping down into the hollow, each sea as it came hissing up threatening to break on board; now he kept away to receive its force on his quarter; now he again kept his course. the huge gull rock rose up under his lee, the breakers dashing furiously against its base; then kynance cove, with its fantastically-shaped cliffs, opened out, but the sea roared and foamed at their base, and not a spot of sand could he discover on which he could hope to beach his boat, even should he pass through the raging surf unharmed. meantale point, pradanack, and the soapy rock appeared in succession, but all threatened him alike with destruction should he venture near them. he came abreast of a little harbour, but he had never been in there, and numerous rocks, some beneath the surface, others rising but just above it, lay off its entrance, and the risk of running for it he considered was too great to be encountered. those on shore might have seen his boat as she flew by, but, should they have done so, even the bravest might have been unwilling to risk their lives on the chance of overtaking her before she met that fate to which they might well have believed she was doomed. michael cast but a glance or two to ascertain whether any one was coming; he had little expectation of assistance, but still his courage did not fail him. the rocks were passed; he could already distinguish over his bow the lighthouses on the summit of the lizard point. again he kept away and neared the outer edge of a line of breakers which roared fiercely upon it. he must land there notwithstanding, or be lost, for he knew that his boat could not live going through the race to the southward of the lizard. when off the stags he could distinguish people moving along the shore. he had been seen by them he knew, and perhaps a boat might be launched and come to his rescue. there was no time, however, for consideration. what he had to do must be promptly done. the water in the bay was somewhat smoother than it had hitherto been. in a moment his sail was lowered and his anchor let go. the rain came down heavily. "the wind is falling," he thought; "i will wait till the turn of the tide, when, perhaps, there will be less surf on." he could see the people on the shore watching him, but no attempt was made to launch a boat; indeed he knew that no boat could pass that foaming barrier in safety. he sat down with folded arms, waiting the progress of events. his mind was occupied for a time rather with those at home than about himself; he thought of little nelly and of dame lanreath, and of the kind friend of his youth who had, though he knew it not at that time, left this world of toil and trouble. he had a simple faith in the merits of one who had died for him, and he had perfect trust, not in his own honesty and uprightness, but in the merits and all-sufficient atonement of that loving saviour who died for him. he could therefore, young as he was, calmly contemplate the probability of being unable after all to reach the shore. still he would not allow himself to dwell long on that matter. he was soon aroused indeed to exertion by finding the seas breaking into his boat. he bailed away as fast as they came on board. but he saw that he must abandon all hope of remaining where he was. should he stay much longer the boat might be swamped; the surf, too, might increase, and more effectually than at present bar his progress to the shore. another huge sea rolling in half filled his boat. undaunted, he bailed it out. a second of like size might sink her. evening was coming on; he must dare the fearful passage through the breakers, or perish where he was. he stood up, holding on to the mast, that he might survey the shore. he was abreast of the best place for landing, although he was convinced there were rocks to the north and south of him, their black heads appearing every now and then amid the snow-white foam. in a moment, should his boat touch them, they would dash her to fragments. promptly michael made up his mind what to do. hoisting his foresail he carried the main-sheet aft, and felt that the tiller was securely fixed. taking out his knife, he held it in his teeth--he had sharpened it afresh the previous evening. with one hand holding the main halyards, with a stroke he severed the cable, then as the boat paid off up went his mainsail and he sprang aft to the helm. the sheet was eased off. the hissing seas followed fast astern. in another minute he would be among the raging breakers, and then safe on shore, or, what was too probable, whirled and tossed and tumbled over and over as he and the fragments of his boat were carried back in their cruel embrace. mr and mrs tremayne and their daughter had reached the little hotel at the lizard head, when they heard that a small boat had been seen in a fearfully perilous position anchored at a short distance outside the breakers. they hastened down to the beach, where some of the coast-guard men and several other persons were collected. they made inquiries as to the probability of the boat reaching the shore in safety. "not the slightest hope through such a surf as this," was the answer. "who is on board?" asked mr tremayne. "it seems to be a young lad, as far as we can make out," said a coast-guard man. "his best chance is to hold on till low water, when, as there will be a pretty broad piece of sand, if the wind goes down, he may happen to get in without being swamped." "but if the wind does not go down, and the weather still looks threatening, what can he do?" "his fate will be that of many another poor fellow," said the man. "he is a brave young chap, though, or he would not have brought up in the way he did. i have not once seen him waving his arms or seeming to be crying out for help, as most would be." "can he be young michael penguyne, of whom we have just heard!" exclaimed mrs tremayne. "oh, can nothing be done to save him?" "will none of you fine fellows launch a boat and go out and try and bring in the boy?" asked mr tremayne. "i will give twenty pounds to the crew of the boat which brings him in." "i am sorry, sir, that i cannot allow my men to go out," said the officer of the coast-guard, who heard the offer made. "we should not have waited for a reward if it could be done, but the best boat we have would be swamped to a certainty, and the lives of all her crew sacrificed. i much regret being compelled to say this; there is not a man here who would not do his best to save the life of the lad if it were possible." "are none of the fishermen's boats better fitted for the purpose?" asked mr tremayne. "i will give twenty-five pounds to the boat which saves the lad. surely if so small a boat as his can live, a large fishing-boat would run but comparatively little risk." the officer explained that the danger would be incurred in passing through the breakers, and that once outside, although the sea was very heavy, a boat properly handled would keep afloat. "i have," he added, "sent to a little harbour to the north of this, but the boats there are small, and i doubt whether any of the fishermen will venture so near the breakers as that boat has brought up. i will, however, send again with your generous offer, though some time must elapse before a boat can be got ready, even if a crew can be found willing to risk their lives in the service." "i will go myself to urge them to undertake it if you can devise no other means of saving the lad," said mr tremayne. "the distance is considerable, and it will be night before you can reach the place," answered the officer. "i would advise you, sir, not to make the attempt. they will trust to my promise, as i will send one of my own men." "tell them you will give them twenty-five pounds if they will start at once," exclaimed mrs tremayne, eagerly; "surely men will not stand calmly by and allow the poor boy to perish in their sight." "i will do as you wish," answered the officer. just as they were speaking, however, there was a cry from those looking on. "he has cut his cable--he has hoisted his sail--he is going to venture it," exclaimed several people simultaneously. the boat's head was turned towards the shore. onward she came. now she rose to the summit of a huge wave, now plunged downwards. for an instant the sail flapped, becalmed by another sea which rolled up astern. a cry escaped the spectators: "she will be swamped! she will be swamped!" but no; again the sail filled and on she came. the young boy was seen seated in the stern of his boat grasping the tiller with one hand and the main-sheet with the other. over she heeled to the blast--again she rose, and again sunk down, and now she was among the hissing, roaring, foaming breakers. the waters bubbled up, tumbling into her on either side; but still the boy held firm hold of his tiller. again the sail flapped--there was a sudden lull. "she is lost, she is lost!" was the cry. "the next sea must swamp her;" but the wind came faster than the wave--the sail bulged out, and on she flew. for another moment she seemed to hang in the midst of a breaker as it rushed backwards from the shore, but another lifted her, and, carried forward on its crest, she came like a thing of life escaping from her savage pursuers towards the beach. a dozen stout hands, incited by the address of mr tremayne, rushed forward to grasp the boat, regardless now of their own safety, for the work was one of no little danger; ere they could seize the boat's gunwale she might be dashed against them, or be swept out by the receding wave as it went hissing backwards in a sheet of foam. but they were well accustomed to the duty they had undertaken. michael to the last kept his seat, steering his boat stem on to the beach. as he felt the keel touch the sand he sprang forward and was grasped by the sturdy arms of one of those who had gone to his rescue, and carried in triumph out of the reach of the foaming breaker, which came roaring up as if fierce at the escape of its prey. with difficulty those who had gone down to seize the boat made their way after their companion, and she, before they could haul her up, was thrown on the beach and rolled over and over with her sides crushed in. "oh, the boat, the boat! what will poor father and those at home do?" exclaimed michael, as he saw what had happened. "i thought to have saved her." "never mind the boat," answered a stout lad, one of those who had gone down to his rescue, wringing him by the hand. "we are right glad to have you safe. i only got here just in time to see you standing for the shore. i did not think you would reach it. i have been hunting for you all along the coast, and made sure that you were lost." "thank you, eban," answered michael, for it was eban cowan who spoke to him. "but poor father will grieve when he hears the boat is lost after all." "thy father won't grieve for that or anything else, michael," said eban, thoughtlessly; "he is dead." "dead!" exclaimed poor michael, grasping the arm of the man who had brought him on shore, and who was still standing by him, and overcome by the strain on his nerves, which he had hitherto so manfully endured, and the sad news so abruptly given him, he would have fallen to the ground had not the fisherman supported him. mr tremayne and his wife and daughter now came up. "poor boy, it is not surprising that he should give way at last," observed mrs tremayne. "we will have him carried to our inn, where he can be properly attended to." mr tremayne agreed to her proposal, and, begging two of the stout fishermen to carry the lad, he promised a reward to those who could secure the boat and her gear. "that will be my charge," said the coast-guard officer. "but i am afraid that the boat herself is a complete wreck, and that very little of her gear will be saved." michael, on being placed in a comfortable bed in the inn, soon returned to consciousness, and was greatly surprised to find two kind-looking ladies watching by his side. the younger one called her father from an adjoining room. "you have had a hard tussle for your life; you behaved courageously, my lad," observed mr tremayne, taking his hand. "i am thankful that god has spared my life," answered michael in a low voice, which showed how much his strength was prostrated. "but, o sir, eban told me that father is dead, and the boat is all knocked to pieces, and what will nelly and poor granny do? next to god, they can only look to the boat and me for help." "what! young as you are, do you expect to be able to support yourself and those you speak of?" asked mrs tremayne. "yes; father gave them into my charge, and if god had given me strength, and the boat had been spared, i would have done my best." "we know nelly and your granny, and more about you than you may suppose," said mrs tremayne, kindly; "we paid them a visit to-day, and heard of their loss. but set your mind at rest about your boat, we will endeavour to obtain another for you, and help you in any other way you may wish." michael expressed his gratitude with an overflowing heart. a night's quiet rest completely restored his strength, and, being eager to assure nelly and dame lanreath of his safety, after he had bade his new friends good-bye he set off on his return home. mrs tremayne promised to have his boat looked after, and to pay him a visit in the course of a day or two to arrange about the purchase of another. on reaching home michael found that eban cowan had been before him, and given nelly and her granny tidings of his safety. they had heard, however, only of the loss of his boat, and had been naturally anxious at the thoughts of what they should do without her. the news he brought that he was to have a new one greatly revived their spirits. "god is indeed kind to us in sending us help in our time of need," said dame lanreath. "o my children! never forget his loving-kindness, but serve and obey him as long as you live." michael's grief was renewed as he went in to see the friend who had acted the part of a father to him all his life; but happily deep grief does not endure long in young hearts, and he now looked forward to mr tremayne's promised visit. "i hope the young lady and her mother will come with him. o nelly! she looked like an angel as she watched by me, when i scarcely knew whether i was alive or being knocked over and over in the breakers," he observed. "for hours after i was safe on shore i had their sound in my ears in a way i never knew before." mr tremayne came to the cottage just as dame lanreath, with michael and nelly, had returned from attending the funeral of paul trefusis. it was a calm and lovely day, and contrasted greatly with the weather which had before prevailed. in the harbour, just below the cottage, lay a boat somewhat smaller than the "wild duck," but nearly new, with freshly-tanned sails, and well fitted in every respect. mrs and miss tremayne were seated in it, with two men who had rowed it round from the lizard. mr tremayne invited the inmates of the cottage to come down and see it. "what do you think of her?" he asked, after they had greeted the two ladies. "she is a handy craft, sir, and just suited for this place," answered michael. "i hope you will find her so," replied mr tremayne. "here is a paper which assigns her to you as her master, and if you will moor her fast her present crew will leave her, as we purpose to continue our journey by land, and have ordered the carriage to meet us at the top of the hill." michael was unable to express his gratitude in words. dame lanreath spoke for him. "may god reward you and your wife and children for your kindness to the orphans, and to an old woman who has well-nigh run her course on earth. we were cast down, though we know that his mercy endureth for ever, and you have lifted us up and shown us that he is faithful and never fails to send help in time of need." nelly took miss tremayne's hand, and, prompted by her feelings, kissed it affectionately; but even she was for the moment unable to express her feelings by words. "thank you, sir, thank you," said michael at last, as they went back. "you have made a man of me, and i can now work for those who have to look to me for support." "i hope you will have the strength, as i am sure you have the will, and may god bless you, my lad," said mr tremayne, shaking him warmly by the hand, for he was far more pleased with the few words michael had uttered than had he poured out his gratitude in measured language. as he and the ladies proceeded up the pathway, nelly ran into the cottage. she soon again overtook them. "will you please, miss, take these small shells?" she said; "they are little worth, i fear, but i have nothing else to give which you might wish to accept, and they may put you in mind of this place, and those who will pray for you and bless your father and mother as long as they live." miss tremayne, much pleased, thanked nelly for her gift, and, assuring her that she should never forget her or michael and her granny, accepted the gift. it is scarcely necessary to say that michael spent a considerable portion of the remainder of the day examining his new boat over and over again, blessing the donor in his heart, and thankful that he should now be able to support nelly and her granny. then the little family assembled in their sitting room, and offered up their thanks to the merciful being who looked down upon them in their distress. chapter seven. michael penguyne made ample use of his new boat. nelly proposed that she should be called the "dove." "you see she was sent to us when all around seemed so dark and gloomy, just as the dove returned to noah, to show that god had not forgotten him." "then we will call her the `dove'," said michael; and the "dove" from henceforth became the name of michael's new boat. early and late michael was in his boat, though he took good care not to be caught to leeward of his port again by a gale of wind. when ashore he was employed mending his nets and refitting his boat's gear or his fishing-lines. never for a moment was he idle, for he always found something which ought to be done; each rope's-end was pointed; his rigging was never chafed; and the moment any service was wanted he put it on. thus a couple of years passed by, dame lanreath and nelly setting out day after day to sell the fish or lobsters and crabs he caught, for which they seldom failed to obtain a good price. at length, however, he found that he could do better with a mate. "i must get david treloar, as i said some time ago," he observed to nelly. "he is twice as strong as i am, though it would not do to trust him alone in a boat, as he never seems to know which way the wind is, or how the tide is running; but he is honest and good-natured, and staunch as steel, and he will do what i tell him. that's all i want. if he had been with me in the little `duck,' we might have gained the harbour and saved her, and though i take all the care i can, yet i may be caught again in the same way." david treloar was a nephew of old reuben lanaherne, who had done his best to bring up the poor lad, and make a fisherman of him. his father had been lost at sea, and his mother had gone out of her mind, and soon afterwards died. michael found him near his uncle's house, attempting, though not very expertly, to mend a net. he was a broad-shouldered, heavy-looking youth, with an expression of countenance which at first sight appeared far from prepossessing; but when spoken to kindly, or told to do anything he liked--and he was ready to do most things--it brightened up, and even a stranger would have said he was a trustworthy fellow, though he might be lacking in intelligence. "so glad you are come, michael," he said. "here have i been working away at these meshes, and cannot make them come even; the more i pull at them the worse they are. just do you use your fingers and settle the job for me, and i will do anything for you." "i know you will, david, and so i am pretty certain that you will come and work in my boat." "what, this afternoon?" asked david. "no, but always. i want you to be my mate." "hurra! hurra! that i will, lad, with all my heart. uncle reuben has got enough lads of his own, he does not want me, and the rest are always making fun at me; but you won't do that, michael, i know. we will soon show them that we can catch as many fish as they can, you and i together; and uncle often says i am as strong as a grown man, and stronger than many." and the young hercules stretched out his brawny arms. michael had not expected to obtain a mate so easily, for david never thought of making terms; provided he got food enough for the day, that was all he thought about. michael, however, intended to settle that matter with uncle reuben. his wish was to act justly towards all men, and pay david fully as much as he was worth. able now to use his nets, michael could look forward to the pilchard season, when he might hope to reap a rich harvest from the sea. soon after this he fell in with eban cowan. "so i see you have got that dolt david treloar as your mate," observed eban. "if you had asked me, i would have advised you to take a chap worth two of him. he is big and strong enough, but he has no sense. i wonder, indeed, michael, that you can go on year after year content to catch a few fish and lobsters, when you might make no end of money and live at home most days in the week enjoying your comfort and doing nothing. just see how father and i live. you don't suppose the mill, and the fish, and our few acres of ground enable us to do that." "i don't ask how you get your living--i do not wish to interfere with my neighbours; but i know that it is my duty to work hard every day that the weather will let me," answered michael. "that may be your taste; but i wonder you like to see nelly wearing her old frock and hood which have become far too small for her, and aunt lanreath's old jacket and petticoat are well-nigh worn out." michael acknowledged that such was the case, and observed that he hoped they would soon get new garments. "you might get them at once if you will join us in our business," answered eban. "what with the fellows who have gone to sea, and some few who have been taken and sent to prison, and those who have been drowned or lost their lives in other ways, we have not as many men as we want. there is good pay to be got, and other profits besides. you would be perfectly safe, for you have a good character, and no one would suspect you of being engaged in the free-trade service." "i tell you, eban, once for all, i will have nothing to do with smuggling," answered michael, firmly. "you say no one will suspect me, but you forget that god sees and hears everything we do, or say, or think. though my fellow-men might not suspect me, he would know that i was engaged in unlawful work. darkness is no darkness to him. day and night to him are both alike." "i don't let myself think about those sort of things," answered eban cowan, in an angry tone. "i ask you again, will you be a sensible fellow and unite with us as i have invited you?" "no, i will not," said michael. "i do not wish to be unfriendly with you, but when you ask me to do what i know to be wrong i cannot look upon you as a friend." "take your own way, then," exclaimed eban, angrily. "you may think better of the matter by-and-by: then all you have to do is to come to me and say so." eban and michael parted for the time. the former, however, was a constant visitor at dame lanreath's cottage. he did not disguise his admiration for nelly trefusis. she might have been flattered, for he was a good-looking, fair-spoken youth, and as he dressed well and had always plenty of money in his pocket, he was looked upon as one of the principal young men in the neighbourhood. still nelly did not consider him equal to michael. time went on: she was becoming a young woman, and michael was no longer the little boy she had looked upon in her early days as her brother. he, too, had ceased to treat her with the affectionate familiarity he used to do when he supposed her to be his sister. still he looked upon her as the being of all others whom he was bound to love, and protect, and support to the utmost of his power. had, however, any young man whom he esteemed, and whom nelly liked, appeared and offered to become her husband, he would possibly have advised her to accept him, though he might have felt that the light of his home had departed. indeed, he was so occupied that the thought of marrying at some future time had never entered his head. though nelly gave eban cowan no encouragement, he still continued, whenever he could get a fair pretence, to visit the cottage, and never failed to walk by her side when he met her out. generally he came saying that he wished to see michael, whom he always spoke of as his most intimate friend, though michael did not consider himself so. he knew too much about eban to desire his friendship; indeed, he doubted very much that eban really cared for him. "your friend eban has been here again to-day," said nelly, one evening when michael returned home late. "he waited and waited, and though i told him i could not say when you would come back, he still sat on, declaring that he must see you, as he wanted you to go somewhere with him, or do something, though what it was he would not tell us. at last, as it grew dark, he was obliged to be off, and neither granny nor i invited him to stay longer." "i am glad he did go," answered michael; "but do not call him my friend. if he was a true friend he would give me good advice and try to lead me aright; instead of that he gives me bad advice, and tries to lead me to do what i know is wrong. there--you now know what i think of eban cowan." "and you think very rightly," observed dame lanreath. "i do not trust him, and perhaps you know more about him and have greater reasons for not liking him than i have." "michael," said nelly, looking up, "i will trust only those whom you trust, and i do not wish to like any one whom you do not like." still, although nelly took no care to show any preference for eban, it was not in her heart to be rude or unkind to him; but dame lanreath tried to make him understand that his visits were not wished for. he, however, fancied that she alone did not like him, and still flattered himself that he was making his way with nelly. thus matters went on month after month. michael and david treloar succeeded together better even than at first expected. david was always ready to do the hard work, and, placing perfect confidence in michael's skill and judgment, readily obeyed him. it was the height of summer-time. the pilchards in vast schools began to visit the coast of cornwall, and the fishermen in all directions were preparing for their capture. the boats were got ready, the nets thoroughly repaired, and corks and leads and tow lines and warps fitted. _huers_, as the men are called who watch for the fish, had taken their stations on every height on the look-out for their approach. each _huer_ kept near him the "white bush," which is the name given to a mass of furze covered with tow or white ribbons. this being raised aloft is the sign that a school is in sight. the boats employed were of two descriptions, the largest of from twenty to thirty tons, carrying seven or eight men; and the smaller somewhat larger than the "dove," having only three or four men. michael had succeeded in obtaining another hand, so that, small as his boat was, he was fully able to take a part in the work. the pilchard belongs to the herring family, but is somewhat smaller, and differs from that fish in external appearance, having a shorter head and a more compact body; its scales, too, are rather longer than those of the common herring. it is supposed to retire during the winter to the deep water of the ocean, and to rise only as the summer approaches to the surface, when it commences its travels and moves eastward towards the english channel. at first it forms only small bands, but these increase till a large army is collected, under the guidance, it is supposed, of a chief. onward it makes its way, pursued by birds of prey who pounce down and carry off thousands of individuals, whose loss, however, scarcely diminishes the size of the mighty host. voracious fish, too, pursue the army as it advances in close columns, and swallow immense numbers. as it approaches the land's end it divides, one portion making its way northward along the west coast, while the other moves forward along the south coast towards the start. the huers can distinguish the approach of a school by a change in the colour of the sea. as it draws near, the water appears to leap and boil like a cauldron, while at night the ocean is spread over, as it were, with a sheet of liquid light, brilliant as when the moonbeams play on the surface rippled by a gentle breeze. from early dawn a number of boats had been waiting off the shore, keeping their position by an occasional pull at the oars as necessity required, with their nets ready to cast at a moment's warning. michael's boat was among them. he and his companions cast their eyes constantly at the huers on the summit of the cliffs above, anxiously expecting the signal that a school had been seen in the far distance. but whether it would approach the shore near enough to enable them to encircle it was uncertain. it might come towards them, but then it might suddenly sweep round to a different part of the coast or dart back again into deep water. hour after hour passed by. the crews of the boats had their provisions with them, and no one at that time would think of returning to the shore for breakfast or dinner. they kept laughing and talking together, or occasionally exchanging a word with those in the boats on either side of them. "i hope we shall have better luck than yesterday," said david treloar. "i had made up my mind that we should have the schools if they came near us, and yet they got off again just at the time i thought we had them secured." "you must have patience, david; trust to him who helped the fishermen of galilee when they had toiled all day and caught nothing," answered michael. "i do not see that we should expect to be better off than they were; he who taught the pilchards to visit our shores will send them into our nets if he thinks fit. our business is to toil on and to trust to his kindness." "ah, michael! you are always right; i do not see things as clearly as you do," said david. "if you do not, still you know that god cares for you as much as he does for me or anyone else; and so do you trust to him, and depend upon it all will turn out right. that's what uncle paul used to say, and your uncle reuben says." michael had for some time past taken pains to let it be known that he was not, as supposed to be, the son of paul trefusis, and had told all his friends and acquaintances the history which paul had given him. many of the elder people, indeed, were well acquainted with the circumstances of the case, and were able to corroborate what he said. eban cowan, however, had hitherto been ignorant of the fact, and had always supposed that michael was nelly's brother. this had originally made him anxious to gain michael's friendship for her sake. almost from his boyhood he had admired her, and his admiration increased with his growth, till he entertained for her as much affection as it was in his nature to feel. no sooner was he aware of the truth than jealousy of michael sprang up in his heart, and instead of putting it away, as he ought to have done, he nourished it till his jealousy grew into a determined and deadly hatred of one whom he chose to consider as his rival. michael, not aware of this, met him in the same frank way that he had always been accustomed to do, and took no notice of the angry scowl which eban often cast at him. eban on this occasion had command of his father's boat. he was reputed to be as good and bold a fisherman as anyone on the coast. michael did not observe the fierce look eban cast at him as they were shoving off in the morning when the two boats pulled out of the harbour together side by side. the boats had now been waiting several hours, and when the huers were seen to raise their white boughs and point to a sandy beach to the north of the harbour (a sign that a school of pilchards was directing its course in that direction), instantly the cry of "_heva_" was raised by the numerous watchers on the shore, and the crews of the boats, bending to their oars, pulled away to get outside the school and prevent them from turning back. two with nets on board, starting from the same point, began quick as lightning to cast them out till they formed a vast circle. away the rowers pulled, straining their sinews to the utmost, till a large circle was formed two thousand feet in circumference, within which the shining fish could be seen leaping and struggling thickly together on the surface. the seine, about twelve fathoms deep, thus formed a wall beyond which the fish could not pass, the bottom being sunk by heavy leads and the upper part supported by corks. in the meantime a boat was employed in driving the fish towards the centre of the enclosure, lest before the circle was completed they might alter their course and escape. although the fish were thus enclosed, their enormous weight would certainly have broken through the net had an attempt been made to drag them on to the beach. the operation was not yet over. warping or dragging them into shallow water had now to be commenced. gradually the circle was drawn nearer and nearer the shore, till shallow water was reached. the seine was then moored, that is, secured by grappling hooks. it had next to be emptied. in bad weather this cannot be done, as the work requires smooth water. on the present occasion, however, the sea was calm, and several boats, supplied with smaller nets and baskets, entered the circle and commenced what is called _tucking_. the small nets were used to encircle as many fish as they could lift, which were quickly hauled on board in the ordinary way, while other boats ladled the pilchards out of the water with baskets. as soon as a boat was laden she returned to the shore by the only passage left open, where men stood ready to close it as soon as she had passed. on the beach were collected numbers of women and lads, with creels on their backs ready to be filled. as soon as this was done they carried them up to the curing-house, situated on a convenient spot near the bay. among those on the beach were dame lanreath and nelly, and as michael assisted to fill their creels he expressed his satisfaction at having contributed so materially to the success of the undertaking, for his boat had been one of the most actively employed. as all engaged in the operation belonged to the same company, they worked with a will, each person taking his allotted duty, and thus doing their utmost to obtain success. some time was occupied in thus emptying the seine, for after the fish on the surface had been caught many more which were swimming lower down and making endeavours to escape, were obtained with the _tucking_ nets. the whole net itself was then dragged up, and the remainder of the fish which had been caught in the meshes, or had before escaped capture, were taken out. such is the ordinary way of catching the pilchard on the coast of cornwall with seines. the inhabitants of the village congratulated themselves on their success. often, as has been said, tucking has to be delayed in consequence of a heavy sea for several days, and sometimes, after all, the fish have been lost. "i mind, not long ago," observed uncle reuben, "when we were shooting a net to the southward, it was caught by the tide and carried away against the rocks, where, besides the fish getting free, it was so torn and mangled that it took us many a long winter's evening to put to rights. and you have heard tell, michael, that at another time, when we had got well-nigh a thousand pounds' worth of fish within our seine, they took it into their heads to make a dash together at one point, and, capsizing it, leaped clear over the top, and the greater number of them got free. and only two seasons ago, just as we thought we had got a fine haul, and the seine was securely moored, a ground swell set in from the westward, where a heavy gale was blowing, and the net was rolled over and over till every fish had escaped, and the net was worth little or nothing. so i say we have reason to be thankful when we get a successful catch like that we have had to-day." it was not, however, the only successful catch which michael and his companions made that season. still, as his boat and net were but small, his share was less than that of the rest of the company, and, after all, his share was not more than sufficient for his expenses. a considerable number of the company were now employed in curing or bulking the late catch of pilchards. this was carried on in a circular court called a cellar. the fish which had been piled up within it were now laid out on raised slabs which ran round the court. first a layer of salt was spread, then a layer of pilchards, and so on, layers of pilchards and salt alternating, till a vast mound was raised. here they remained for about a month or more. below the slabs were gutters, which conveyed the brine and oil which oozed out of the mass into a large pit in the centre of the court. from three to four hundredweight of salt was used for each hogshead. after they had remained in bulk for sufficient time the pilchards were cleansed from the salt and closely packed in hogsheads, each of which contains about , fish, and weighs about pounds. the pressure to which they are subjected forces the oil out through the open joints of the cask. the pilchards are now familiarly called "fair maids," from _fermade_, a corruption of _fumado_ (the spanish word for _smoked_), as originally they were cured by smoking, a method, however, which has long been abandoned. no portion of the prize is lost; the oil and blood is sold to the curriers, the skimmings of the water in which the fish are washed before packing is purchased by the soap-boilers, and the broken and refuse fish are sold for manure. the oil when clarified forms an important item in the profit. the pilchards, however, are not always to be entrapped near the shore. at most times they keep out at sea, where the hardy fishermen make use of the drift-net. two sorts of boats are employed for this purpose; one is of about thirty tons burden, the other much smaller. they use a number of nets called _a set_, about twenty in all, joined together. each net is about feet long, and deep. united lengthways they form a wall three-quarters of a mile long, the lower part kept down by leads, the upper floated on the surface by corks. sometimes they are even much longer. within the meshes of this net the fish, as they swim rapidly forward, entangle themselves. they easily get their heads through, but cannot withdraw them, as they are held by the gills, which open in the water like the barbs of an arrow. their bodies also being larger than the meshes, they thus remain hanging, unable to extricate themselves. the driving-boat is made fast to one end of the wall, where she hangs on till the time for hauling the net arrives. the fishermen prefer a thick foggy night and a loppy sea, as under those circumstances the pilchards do not perceive the net in their way. at times, however, when the water is phosphorescent, the creatures which form the luminous appearance cover the meshes so that the whole net becomes lighted up. this is called "briming," and the pilchards, thus perceiving the trap in their way, turn aside and escape its meshes. as briming rarely occurs during twilight, and the ocean is at that time dark enough to hide the wall of twine, the fishermen generally shoot their nets soon after sunset and just before dawn, when the fine weather makes it probable that they will be lighted up by the dreaded briming at the other hours of the night. the operation of hauling in nearly a mile of net, with its meshes full of fish, is an arduous task, especially during a dark night, when the boat is tossed about by a heavy sea, and at no time indeed can it be an easy one. the hardy fishermen pursue this species of fishing during the greater part of the year, for small schools of pilchards arrive in the channel as early as the month of may, and remain far into the winter, till the water becomes too cool for their constitutions, when they return eastwards to seek a warmer climate in the depths of the atlantic, or swim off to some unknown region, where they may deposit their spawn or obtain the food on which they exist. little, however, is known of the causes which guide their movements, and the cornish fishermen remain satisfied by knowing the fact that the beautiful little fish which enables them to support themselves and their families are sent annually by their benignant creator to visit their coasts, and seldom trouble themselves to make any further inquiries on the subject. chapter eight. two more years passed away--nelly had become a pretty young woman, modest and good as she was attractive in her personal appearance. she had admirers in plenty besides eban cowan, who continued, as in his younger days, to pay her all the attention in his power, and openly declared to his companions his purpose of making her his wife. by this means he kept some at a distance who were afraid to encounter him as a rival, for they well knew his fierce and determined disposition, of which he had on several occasions given evidence. every one knew that he and his father were leagued with the most desperate gang of smugglers on the coast, and two or three times when acting as leader of a party he had had fierce encounters with the coast-guard, and on each occasion by his judgment and courage had succeeded in carrying off the goods which had been landed to a place of safety he frequently also had made trips in a smuggling lugger, of which his father was part owner, to the coast of france. he was looked upon as a hardy and expert seaman, as well as a good fisherman. had he, indeed, kept to the latter calling, with the boats he owned he would have become an independent, if not a wealthy man. but ill-gotten gains go fast, and in his smuggling enterprises, though he was often successful, yet he lost in the end more than he gained. nelly, though flattered by the attention paid her, showed no preference for any of her admirers. she had a good-natured word or a joke for all of them, but always managed to make them hold their tongues when they appeared to be growing serious. how she might have acted without the sage dame lanreath to advise her, or had she not felt that she could not consent to desert her and michael, it is impossible to say. michael had become a fine and active young man. as a sailor he was not inferior to eban. he had been able to support nelly and her grandmother in comfort, and to save money besides. he had invested his profits in a share of uncle reuben's large fishing-boat, and was thus able to employ himself in the deep-sea seine fishing for the greater part of the year, as well as that of the inshore fishing which he had hitherto pursued. his only regret was that it compelled him to be absent from home more frequently and for longer periods, but then he had always the advantage of returning to spend every sunday with nelly. those sundays were indeed very happy ones; he did not spend them in idle sloth, but he and nelly, accompanied by her grandmother, set off early to worship together, never allowing either wind or rain to hinder them, although they had several miles to go. on their return they spent the remainder of the day in reading god's word, or one of the few cherished books they possessed. they had received some time back two or three which were especially favoured, sent by mrs and miss tremayne, with a kind message inquiring after michael and dame lanreath, and hoping that the "dove" had answered michael's expectations and proved a good and useful sea-boat. nelly undertook to write a reply. "that she has, tell them," said michael. "i often think, when i am at work on board her, of their kindness, and what i should have done had they and mr tremayne not given her to me." after this, however, they received no further news of their friends, and though nelly wrote to inquire, her letter was returned by the post-office, stating that they had left the place. refreshed by his sunday rest, michael went with renewed strength to his weekly toil. uncle reuben's boat was called the "sea-gull." michael was now constantly on board her, as he had from his prudence and skill been chosen as mate. when reuben himself did not go out in her, he had the command. the merry month of may had begun, the "sea-gull" was away with her drift-nets. reuben hoped to be among the first to send fish to the helston market. dame lanreath and nelly, as well as several other female members of reuben's family, or related to his crew, were ready to set off with their creels as soon as the boat returned. nelly had gone as far as uncle reuben's house to watch for the "sea-gull." she had not long to wait before she caught sight of the little vessel skimming over the waters before a light nor'-westerly breeze. it was the morning of the eighth of may, when the annual festival of the flurry was to be held at helston. although nelly did not wish to take part in the sports carried on there, still she had no objection to see what was going forward, and perhaps michael, contrary to his custom, would be willing to accompany her and her granny. "he so seldom takes a holiday; but for this once he may be tempted to go and see the fun," she thought. the "sea-gull" drew near, and nelly knew her appearance too well to have any doubt about her, even when she was a long way off. she now hurried home to tell dame lanreath, that they might be ready at the landing-place to receive their portion of the vessel's cargo. the vessel was soon moored alongside the quay, when the creels were quickly filled with fish. "if you will come with us to helston, michael, i will wait for you. granny will go on ahead and we can soon overtake her. though you have lived so near you have never seen a flurry dance, and on this bright morning there will sure to be a good gathering." "i care little for seeing fine folks dressed up in gay flowers and white dresses, and dancing and jigging, especially as neither you nor i can take a part in the fun," answered michael. "i should like the walk well enough with you, nelly, but a number of congers and dog-fish got foul of our nets and made some ugly holes in them, which will take us all day to mend; it is a wonder they did not do more mischief. so, as i always put business before pleasure, you see, nelly, i must not go, however much i might wish it." nelly thought that david and others might mend the nets; but michael said that he and all hands were required to do the work, and that if he did not stop and set a good example the others might be idle, and when he got back in the evening it might not be done. so nelly, very unwillingly, was obliged to give up her scheme of inducing michael to take a holiday, and accompanied her granny as usual. having left michael's breakfast ready on the table, they set off. the dame trudged along, staff in hand; her step was as firm as it had been ten years before, though her body was slightly bent. nelly walked by her side, as she had done year after year, but she now bore her burden with greater ease; and with her upright figure, and her cheeks blooming with health, the two together presented a perfect picture of a fish-wife and fish-girl. dame lanreath had promised, after they had sold the contents of their creels, to wait some little time to see the flurry dance and the gay people who would throng the town. nelly looked forward to the scene with pleasure, her only regret being that michael had been unable to accompany her. they had gone some distance when they heard a rapid step behind them, and eban cowan came up to nelly's side. "i have been walking hard to overtake you, nelly," he said, "for i found that you had gone on. i suppose you intend to stay and see the gay doings at helston, and will not object to an escort back in the evening?" "granny proposes stopping for the flurry dance, but we shall come away long before it is dark, and as we know the road as well as most people, we can find it by ourselves," answered nelly, coldly. "you will miss half the fun, then," said eban. "you must get your granny to stop, or, if she will not, she cannot mind your remaining with my sister and cousin, and i can see you and them home." "i cannot let my granny walk home by herself," answered nelly; "and so, eban, i beg that you will not say anything more about the matter." eban saw that it would not do just then to press the subject, and he hoped that perhaps nelly would lose sight of her grandmother in the crowd, and that she would then be too glad to come back under his charge. he had made up his mind to have a talk with her, and bring matters to an issue; he did not suppose that she and michael could care much for each other, or he thought that they would have married long ago, and so believed that he had a better chance than any one else of winning nelly trefusis. he walked on, trying to make himself agreeable now saying a few words to the dame, who generally gave him curt answers, and now addressing nelly. as he had plenty to say for himself, she could not help being amused, and his conversation served to beguile the way over the somewhat dreary country they had to pass till the neighbourhood of helston was reached. he accompanied them in the ferry-boat which took them across to the town on the other side of the shallow estuary or lake on which it is built. as they had now to go from house to house to sell their fish, he had to leave them, believing, however, that he should have no difficulty in finding them again when their creels were empty. the town was at that time quiet enough, for all the shops were closed, and most of the young men and maidens, as well as large parties of children, had gone into the surrounding woods to cut boughs and gather wild flowers. the housewives, however, were eager to purchase their fresh-caught pilchards, to make into huge pasties, which, with clotted cream, forms the favourite cornish dish. they had already disposed of a considerable portion of their freight, when they saw a large party approaching along the principal thoroughfare. it consisted of a number of young people, boys and girls, their heads decked with wreaths of flowers, and holding in their hands green boughs, which they waved to and fro as they advanced, singing-- "once more the merry month of may has come, and driven old winter away; and so as now green boughs we bring, we merrily dance and merrily sing. no more we dread the frost and snow, no more the winter breezes blow; but summer suns and azure skies warm our hearts and please our eyes. and so we dance and so we sing, and here our woodland trophies bring; hurra, hurra, hurra, hurra! what can with our flurry dance compare?" thus the merry party went dancing and singing through the town, every one running out from their houses to greet and applaud them. a large number of carriages and vehicles of all sorts now appeared, conveying the inhabitants of the surrounding district, who came in summer attire, decked with spring flowers, preceded by a band of music. they all assembled before the town hall, when the flurry dance commenced. rows of ladies and gentlemen formed opposite each other, then, moving forward, they set to each other in couples, and proceeded thus, dancing and singing, down the streets. garden-gates stood open, and many of the doors of the larger houses. through them the dancers entered, continuing their evolutions up and down the gravel walks and through the halls, all ranks and classes mingling together. all seemed in good humour; in spite of the exercise they were taking, none appeared fatigued or willing to stop. the flurry tune which was played is a peculiar one, evidently of great antiquity, and probably the custom had its origin as far back as the feast of flora, when pagan rites were performed in the country, or, perhaps, it originally was instituted to celebrate a victory over the saxons; or it may be a remnant of some old celtic observance. few of those who took part in it cared much about its origin. the young people enjoyed the amusement of dancing and singing, and their elders their holiday and relaxation from business. dame lanreath and nelly had disposed of all their fish before the flurry dance began; they thus had ample time to watch what was going forward, nelly kept close to her grandmother, although she met several of her acquaintances, who stopped to have a talk, and she might easily, had she not been on the watch, have lost her in the crowd. in the evening the grander people were to have a ball at the town hall; but as the dame and nelly took no interest in watching the ladies in their gay dresses stepping from their carriages, they, having seen enough of the flurry dance to satisfy their curiosity, set out in company with several of their friends on their walk homeward. they were just leaving the town, when eban cowan overtook nelly, who was in company with another girl a short distance behind dame lanreath. "nelly," said eban, "i was in a great fright lest i should miss you. you are going away without seeing half the fun of the day; the people are only just getting into the spirit of the dance. i wanted you to take off that creel and have a turn with me. among all the fine ladies there is not one can compare with you for beauty in my eyes, and many a lad there would have been jealous of me, in spite of the white dresses and bright flowers of the girls." nelly laughed, thinking that eban was joking. her companion, who believed the common report, that eban cowan was an admirer of nelly trefusis, and that she encouraged him, dropped behind and joined another party, and eban and nelly were left alone. he at once changed his tone, which showed that he was deeply in earnest. "nelly," he said, "i have sought you for long years, and however others may admire you, they cannot care for you as i do--my love surpasses theirs a hundredfold. i can give you a comfortable home, and make you equal to any of the fine ladies we have been watching to-day. you need no longer carry that creel on your back, and slave as you have been doing, if you will become my wife. i tell you that i love you more than life itself, and ask you, will you marry me?" nelly would willingly have stopped eban from talking on, but had hitherto been unable to get in a word. "i have known you, eban cowan, since i way a girl, but i have never for one moment encouraged you to suppose that i would become your wife, and i now say positively that i cannot and will not. i thank you for all you have said to me, though i would rather you had left it unsaid; and i would wish to be friendly, as we have always been," she answered, firmly. "is that the only answer you can give me?" exclaimed eban. "i can give no other," replied nelly. "do you never intend to marry, then?" asked eban. "i am not compelled to tell you my intentions," said nelly. "do you love any one else? because i shall then know how to act," exclaimed eban. nelly thought for a moment. "i will tell him; it will be the kindest thing to do, as he will then understand that i can never marry him, and wisely seek another wife." "yes, eban cowan, i do love another," she said, in a low voice. "i love michael penguyne, and can be no other man's wife than his. you have long called him your friend; let him be your friend still, but give up all thoughts of me." "i now know how to act," muttered eban, gloomily. "i had no idea that you cared for him; and if you choose to become a poor fisherman's wife, you must follow your own course; only, do not suppose that i can cease to love you." "i cannot listen to what you say," exclaimed nelly, walking on rapidly, and feeling very indignant at eban's last remark. he did not attempt to follow her, and she soon overtook dame lanreath and the friends who were accompanying her. when she looked round, eban had disappeared. she felt greatly relieved at having got rid of him, and she hoped that, notwithstanding what he had said, he would abandon all hopes of becoming her husband. eban went home by another path, muttering fiercely that he would not be balked, and that michael should pay dearly for coming between him and the girl he loved. people little know, when they give way to their unbridled passions, into what crimes they may be led. day after day eban cowan pondered over his rejection by nelly, and chose to consider himself especially ill-treated. "she should have let me know years ago that she intended to marry that fellow. how can she think of preferring him, a poor, hard-working lad, to me?" he exclaimed; and dreadful thoughts came into his mind. he made no attempt to drive them from him. chapter nine. the autumn was drawing on. the pilchard harvest had not been as successful as the fishermen desired, and they kept their boats at sea in the hopes of obtaining a share of the schools of fish which still hovered off their coasts. the drift-nets now could only be used with any prospect of success, and michael was as active and energetic as ever. he had, indeed, greater reason for working hard, as nelly had promised to become his wife in the ensuing spring. he wished to make every preparation in his power that she might begin her married life with as much comfort as a fisherman's wife could hope to do. "only we must look after granny too, and try to save her the long trudges she has had to make; and repay her, though that would be a hard matter, for all the care she took of us when we were young," he observed to nelly, as they were talking over their future prospects. nelly heartily agreed with him; but when dame lanreath heard of their intentions, she laughed at the notion of giving up her daily walks to market. "more reason for nelly to stay at home to look after the house. wait a bit till my limbs grow stiffer than they are as yet, and till she has got a little damsel of her own to trot alongside her as she used to trot alongside me," she answered. "but, granny, i have been thinking of getting little mary lanaherne, uncle reuben's granddaughter, to go to market with me while you stay at home; she is quite ready to agree to my plan," said nelly. "ah, i see you want to become a fine lady now you are going to marry, and have an attendant of your own," said the dame, laughing. "bide a bit till you have need of help, and let my old limbs wag on while they have life in them." "that will be for many years to come, i hope, granny," said michael; "and to my eyes you don't seem to have become a day older since i first remember you, and that's longer than i can remember anything else; for i mind you holding me in your arms when father came home one day and gave me a fish to play with." "that was a good bit ago, michael, to be sure, and i should not like to have to lift you up now, lad, strong as my arms still are," answered the old dame, looking approvingly at the fine manly young fisherman as he stood before her. nelly, too, gave him a glance of tender affection, and all three laughed merrily. their hearts were light, for though theirs was a life of toil they willingly undertook their daily tasks, and were thankful for the blessings bestowed on them. "it is time for me to be off," said michael; "uncle reuben stays on shore this evening, so i am to act captain. we shall be back, i hope, soon after ten, as he always wishes us to be home early on saturday night, and as the weather looks pretty thick, and there is a nice lop of a sea on, we may expect to get a good haul." michael kissed nelly's clear brow, and bestowed his usual "buss," as he called it, on granny's withered cheek; then shouldering his oilskin coat, he took his way towards the landing-place at the mouth of the harbour. david and the rest of his crew were sitting about on the rocks with their short pipes in their mouths in readiness to go on board. uncle reuben had come down to see them off, and seemed half inclined to accompany them. "if it were not for these aches in my back and sides, and that i promised my dame to stay on shore this evening, i would go with you, lads. but keep your weather eyes open. i cannot say i quite like the look of the weather. it may turn out fine, but it is very thick away to the southward." "it will be fine enough for what we want, uncle reuben, and the `sea-gull' does not mind a bit of a swell and a stiffish breeze, and we shall be back again almost before there is time to send a second hand to the bellows," answered michael. "god go with you, lads," said the old fisherman as the lads sprang on board. "if the weather gets worse, haul your nets and make the best of your way back. we will keep the light burning on the point, so that you will not miss your road into harbour at all events." the "sea-gull" was shoved off, the oars got out, and, with her attendant drift-boat towing ahead, her hardy crew soon swept her out of the harbour. her tanned sails were then hoisted, and, close-hauled, she stood away to beat up to her intended fishing-grounds some distance to the southward, off the gull rock. the old fisherman stood watching her for some time, more than once saying to himself, "i wish that i had gone, the trip would not have hurt me; but michael is a careful lad, and, even if the weather does come on bad, he will not risk staying out longer than is prudent." bad, indeed, there shortly appeared every probability of the weather becoming. dark green seas came rolling in crested with foam, and breaking with increasing loudness of sound on the rocky shore; the wind whistled and howled louder and louder. uncle reuben buttoned up his coat to the chin as he gazed seaward. at last his daughter came to call him in to tea. "mother says you will be making yourself worse, father, standing out in the cold and damp." he obeyed the summons; still he could not help every now and then getting up and going to the door to see what the weather was like; each time he came back with a less favourable report. as it grew dark, in spite of his dame's expostulations he again went out and proceeded to the point, where he was also joined by three or four men, who had come either to attend to the beacon which was kept burning on dark nights, or to look out for the fishing-boats which they expected would at once return in consequence of the bad weather which had now in earnest set in. as soon as michael had left his home, a young girl, the child of a neighbour who lived further up the harbour in the direction of the mill, came running to the cottage, saying that her mother was taken ill, and that as her father and brothers were away fishing, there was no one to stay with her while she went to call for the doctor. nelly at once offered to go and stay with the poor woman, and to do her best. "no, i will go," said dame lanreath; "maybe i shall be able to tell what is best to be done as well as the doctor himself. do you run on, nancy, and i will come and look after your mother." as the dame was not to be contradicted, nelly continued the work in which she was engaged, and her grandmother set off with active steps towards her neighbour's cottage. nelly had not been long alone when she heard a hasty footstep approaching. the door opened, and eban cowan stood before her. a dark frown was on his brow, his eyes she thought had a wild and fierce expression she had never before seen them wear. her heart sank within her, and she in vain tried to speak in her usually friendly tone. "good evening, eban; what brings you here at this hour?" she said, on seeing him stand gazing at her without uttering a word. "nelly, i have come to ask you a question, and as you answer it you will make me more happy than i have been for many a long day, or you will send me away a miserable wretch, and you will never, it may be, see me again." "i shall be sorry not to see you again, eban, for we have been friends from our earliest days, and i hoped that we should always remain so," answered nelly, mustering all the courage she possessed to speak calmly. "that is what drives me to desperation," he exclaimed. "nelly, is it true that you are going to marry michael penguyne?" "i hope so, if it is god's will, as you ask me to tell you," said nelly, firmly. "i fancied that you were his friend, as you always were mine. and, eban, i pray that you may not feel any ill-will towards either of us, because we love each other, and are sure we shall be happy together." "is that the only answer you have to give me?" exclaimed eban, hoarsely. "i can say nothing more nor less," said nelly, gently. "i am very sorry that my answer should make you unhappy, but you insisted on having it, and i can say nothing more." eban gazed at her for a moment, and appeared to be about to utter a threat, but he restrained himself, and turning hastily round rushed out of the cottage. she was thankful that he had gone, yet a feeling of undefined fear of what he might do in his present angry mood stole over her. she was well aware of his fierce and daring character, and she had heard from her granny of desperate deeds done by men whose addresses had been rejected by girls whom they professed to love. she earnestly wished that the dame would soon come back, that she might tell her what had occurred and consult what was best to be done. had nelly known what was passing in the dark mind of eban cowan she would indeed have had cause for alarm. instead of going homewards he proceeded down towards the mouth of the harbour. on turning the point he scanned the spot where the fishing-vessels lay at anchor, and observed that the "sea-gull," among others, was away. "she will be back early to-night," he muttered, "and michael will pass this way homeward by himself, but his home he shall never reach, if i have my will. i am not going to let him come between me and the girl i have all my life intended to marry; he has no right to her: she is too good for a poor hard-working fisherman like him, and he will make her drudge all the best days of her life. if he were out of the way she would soon come round and look on me as she used to do." much more to the same effect he thought, working himself up to do, without compunction, the fearful act he meditated. the pathway between the quay at the mouth of the harbour, where the fishing-vessels landed their cargoes, and michael's house, at one place between the cliffs and the water, became so narrow that two people could with difficulty pass each other. close to this spot, however, there existed a hollow in the rock, in which a person standing was completely concealed, especially on a dark night, when it might be passed by without discovering that any one was within. eban cowan stood for some time watching the distant horizon, and as the evening drew on he observed through the gloom two or three fishing-boats running under close-reefed sails for the harbour's mouth. "one of those is the `sea-gull'; i must not be seen in the neighbourhood, or i may be suspected," he muttered, taking his way towards the lurking-place from which he intended to rush out and commit the crime he meditated. satan, ever ready to encourage those who yield to his instigations, persuaded him that he could do the deed without being discovered, and again and again he thought of the happiness he should enjoy with the pretty nelly as his wife, as if the soul guilty of the blood of a fellow-creature could ever enjoy happiness! there he stood listening amid the roar of the fast-rising gale for the step of his victim. suddenly he thought-- "but suppose she hates me, i shall have done a deed and gained nothing. she may suspect that i did it. why did i madly go and see her this evening? i had not intended to enter the cottage. had the dame not gone away i should not have thought of it. still, neither she nor any one else can swear that i am guilty. no eye will see me. the path is slippery: it will be supposed that he fell into the water." then at that moment a voice seemed to whisper to him the words michael had uttered long before, "god sees and hears and knows everything we do or say or think." it seemed to be that of michael, "the darkness is no darkness to him; the day and night to him are both alike." "oh, he sees me now; he knows what i am thinking of." the strong, daring smuggler trembled. "i cannot do it; miserable i may be, but i should be more miserable still if i had it ever present to my mind that i had killed in cold blood another man who never wished to offend me." he rushed from his concealment and threw the weapon he had hitherto clutched in his hand far away into the water. he was hurrying homewards, when he heard shouts coming up from the harbour's mouth. he caught the sounds; they were cries, for hands to man a boat. constitutionally brave, he was ready at that moment for any desperate service. he wanted something to drive away the fearful thoughts which agitated his mind; he dreaded being left to himself; he must be actively engaged or he should go mad, if he was not mad already. he hurried to the quay, alongside which a boat, kept ready for emergencies, was tossing up and down; she was not a life-boat, but still one well fitted to encounter heavy seas, and was used to go off to vessels which had got embayed or ran a risk of being driven on shore. "i am ready to go off, if you want another hand," he exclaimed. "you will do, and welcome. our number is now made up," answered uncle reuben, who was seated in the stern of the boat. eban leaped in. "whereabouts is the vessel in danger?" he asked. "i could not make her out." "she is my craft, the `sea-gull,'" said uncle reuben. "the `favourite,' which has just come in, saw her driving, with her mast gone, towards the gull rock, and if she strikes it there is no chance for her or the poor fellows on board. lord be merciful to them! we must do our best to try and save them, for no craft under sail will dare to stand near them, for fear of sharing their fate." eban knew that michael had gone away in the "sea-gull." should he risk his life to try and save that of his rival? he felt inclined to spring on shore again. the next instant uncle reuben gave the order to get out the oars. once actively engaged eban no longer wished to quit the boat, but the wild thought rose in his mind that michael might be lost, and then, his rival removed, that nelly would become his. in his selfishness he did not consider the grief she whom he professed to love would suffer; he, at all events, would not have inflicted it. he had not committed the crime he meditated, and yet might gain the object of his wishes. nelly had been anxiously waiting the return of dame lanreath; she was greatly agitated by eban's visit--unable to overcome the fear that he might do something desperate, but what that might be she could not tell. she frequently went to the door to see if her granny was coming. the night drew on, the fury of the storm increased. she thought of michael on the raging ocean engaged in hauling in his nets. the "sea-gull" would surely not remain out long in such weather; the fishing-vessels ought to be back by this time. she longed to run down to the harbour's mouth to ascertain if they had returned; then her granny might come in, and, finding her gone, not know what had become of her. the thought, too, that she might meet eban in his angry mood restrained her. "oh, what is going to happen?" she exclaimed, feeling more anxiety and alarm than she had ever before experienced. "o my dear, dear michael, why don't you come back to me? o merciful god, protect him!" she fell on her knees, hiding her face in her hands, and prayed for the safety of him who was on the foaming waters. she thought she heard her granny coming. she rose from the ground and, going to the door, looked out. no one was there; she heard the roaring of the breakers on the rocky coast, and the fierce wind howling up the wild glen, making the surface of the harbour bubble and hiss and foam, and sending the spray, mingled with the cold night wind, high up, even to where she stood. "i must go and learn why he does not come," she exclaimed. "oh, how i wish granny would come back! she may suffer harm coming along the rough path this bleak night in the dark." poor nelly felt in truth forlorn; but hers was a brave heart, which a fisherman's wife needs must have, or she could not endure the agitating suspense to which she must day after day throughout her life he exposed, when the tempest howls and the wild waves roar. she went in and put on her hood and cloak. in vain she strove to restrain her agitation. again she went to the door. she thought she saw through the thick gloom a figure approaching. "is that you, dear granny?" she cried out. "ay, nelly, though i have had a hard battle with the wind," answered dame lanreath, in her usually cheery voice. "but my journey is ended, and it was well i went to poor polly penduck when i did, for she was in a bad way; the doctor, however, has been with her, and she is all right now." nelly had run forward to lead her grandmother into the house, and she spoke the latter words on her way. "why, my child, what is the matter with you?" exclaimed the dame, as she saw her pale and agitated countenance. before nelly could answer, footsteps were heard outside. she hurried back to the door. "oh! can it be michael coming?" exclaimed nelly. "michael, michael, are you there?" "no, we be paul and joseph penduck," answered two young voices. "we are on our way home to mother." "your mother is well and sleeping, but do not make a noise, lads, when you go in," exclaimed dame lanreath, who had followed nelly to the door. "why are you in such a hurry?" "we needs be to get out of the storm, dame," answered one of the boys. "father told us to make haste home; but he has gone off in the `rescue' with uncle reuben lanaherne to look after the `sea-gull,' which they say has lost her mast, and was seen driving on the gull rock; there is little hope of any of the poor lads escaping aboard her." "what is that you say," shrieked poor nelly; "the `sea-gull' driving on shore?" "i forgot, mistress nelly, that michael penguyne was aboard her," answered the thoughtless boy. "i would not have said it to frighten you so, but it may be father and the others will find them if they are not all drowned before they get there." "o granny, i was afraid something dreadful was happening," exclaimed nelly, gasping for breath. "i must go down to the harbour's mouth. i do not mind the wind and rain; don't stop me, granny," for dame lanreath had taken nelly's arm, thinking she was about to fall, she trembled so violently. "let me go, granny, that i may hold him in my arms, and warm him, and breathe into his mouth when he is brought on shore. oh, i shall die if i stay at home, and he out struggling maybe for life in the cold foaming seas." "but the lads may be mistaken, dear nelly," urged dame lanreath; "it may not be the `sea-gull' that has met with the damage, and if she has michael and the rest, who are stout lads and know how to handle her, they may manage to keep her off the rocks, and get in safe notwithstanding." nelly, however, was not to be reasoned with. she knew the way to the harbour's mouth in the darkest night as well as by daylight; the rain and wind were nothing to her, and if michael had got safe on shore her anxiety would the sooner be set at rest, and she should be ready to welcome him. the dame, finding that she could not persuade nelly to remain at home, insisted on accompanying her, for though she had tried to make her believe that michael would return in safety, she herself could not help entertaining the fear that he had shared the fate of the many she had known in her time who had lost their lives on the treacherous ocean. nelly was not selfish, and though she felt that she must go forth, she was anxious that her granny should not again face the cruel storm. the dame, however, was determined to go, for she felt scarcely less anxiety than nelly. "well, nelly," she said at length, "if you won't let me go with you, i will just go by myself, and you must stay at home till i come back and tell you that michael has got on shore all safe." nelly yielded. she and the dame set off. they had a fierce battle to fight with the storm, which blew directly in their faces. they worked their way onwards, holding their cloaks tight round them. they at last reached the rocky point where, by the light of the beacon, they saw a group of men and women and boys and girls collected, with their gaze turned seaward, waiting anxiously for the appearance of the boat which had gone out over the dark and troubled ocean in search of their missing friends. the dame and nelly anxiously inquired what had happened. the answer made their hearts sink: the "sea-gull" had last been seen driving towards the rocks in an almost helpless condition; she might drop an anchor, but there was little expectation that it would hold. the only hope was that she might be reached before she was finally dashed to pieces, and those on board her had perished. chapter ten. the "rescue" gallantly made her way amid the dark foam-crested seas, which rolled in from the westward, each appearing heavier than its predecessor. uncle reuben kept gazing out ahead in anxious search of his little vessel, now encouraging his crew with the hopes that they would soon reach the spot which she must have reached, feeling his own heart, however, sink within him as he sought in vain to find her across the wildly tossing waters. the men needed no encouragement: they knew as well as he did that every moment was precious, and yet that after all they might arrive too late. eban pulled as hard as the rest; he would do his utmost to save the crew of the "sea-gull," yet he darkly hoped that their efforts might be vain. on they pulled; often reuben had to turn the boat's head to breast a threatening sea which, caught on the broadside, might have hurled her over. now again he urged his crew to redoubled efforts during a temporary lull. for some time he had been silent, keeping his eye on a dark spot ahead. it must be the "sea-gull." she was already fearfully near the rocks. the water there was too deep to allow her anchor to hold long, if holding it was at all. another fierce wave came rolling towards them. eager as uncle reuben was to make his way onward, he was compelled to put the boat's head towards it, and to give all his attention to avoid being buried beneath the foaming billows. the boat rose safely to its summit. a glance seaward told him that now was the time once more to make way to the south. he looked eagerly for his little vessel; the same sea had struck her. he caught but one glimpse of her hull as she was dashed helplessly against the rocks. still some of those on board might escape. every effort must be made to save them. though reuben told his crew what had happened, none hesitated to pull on. the boat approached the rock, her crew shouted to encourage those who might be clinging to it. the "sea-gull" had struck on the northernmost point, within which the sea, though surging and boiling, was comparatively quiet; and reuben was thus enabled to get nearer to the rock than he could have ventured to do on the outside, where it broke with a fury which would quickly have overwhelmed the boat. two men were distinguished through the gloom clinging to the rock, at the foot of which fragments of the hapless "sea-gull" were tossing up and down in the foaming waves. another sea such as that which wrecked their vessel might at any moment wash the men from their hold. a rope was hove to them, they fastened it round their waists and were dragged on board. they proved to be reuben's two sons. the father's heart was relieved, but he thought of his brave young captain. "where is michael, where are the rest?" he exclaimed. "gone, gone, father, i fear!" was the answer. "no, no! i see two more clinging to a spar!" shouted one of the men. "the sea is carrying it away, but the next will hurl it back on the rocks, and heaven protect them, for the life will be knocked out of their bodies." to approach the spot in the boat, however, was impossible without the certainty of her being dashed to pieces. "here, hand the bight of the rope to me," shouted eban, starting up; "i am the best swimmer among you--if any one can save them i can." as he uttered the words he sprang overboard, and with powerful strokes made his way towards the drowning men, while the rest, pulling hard, kept the boat off the rocks, to which she was perilously near. "here, here, take him, he is almost gone," said one of the men in the water, as eban approached them. "i can hold on longer." eban, grasping the man round the waist and shouting to those in the boat, was hauled up to her stern with his burden. reuben, assisted by the man pulling the stroke oar, lifted the rescued man into the boat, and eban once more dashed off to try and save the other. "who is it? who is it?" asked the crew, with one voice, for the darkness prevented them from distinguishing his countenance. no one replied. reuben hoped it might be michael--but all his attention was required for the management of the boat, and the rescued man, exhausted, if not severely injured, was unable to reply himself. eban was gallantly striking out towards the man who still clung to the spar, but he had miscalculated his strength--he made less rapid way than at first. a cry reached him, "help, mate! help!" he redoubled his efforts; but before he could reach the spot he saw a hand raised up, and as he grasped the spar he found that it was deserted. the brave fellow, whoever he was, had sacrificed his own life to save that of his drowning companion. eban, feeling that his own strength was going, shouted to those in the boat to haul him on board, and he was himself well-nigh exhausted when lifted over the side. one of reuben's sons took his oar. all further search for their missing friends proved in vain, and though thankful that some had been saved, with sad hearts they commenced their perilous return to the harbour. reuben's younger son, simon lanaherne, had gone aft and sat down by the side of the rescued man. "he is coming to, i believe." "which of the poor lads is he, simon?" asked his father. simon felt the man's face and dress, bending his head down to try and scan his features. "i cannot quite make out; but i am nearly sure it is michael penguyne," answered simon. "i am main glad if it be he, for poor nelly's sake," said reuben. "pull up your starboard oars, lads, here comes a sea," he shouted, and a tremendous wave came curling up from the westward. the attention of every one was engaged in encountering the threatened danger. "michael penguyne! have i saved him?" muttered eban cowan, with a deep groan. "he was destined to live through all dangers, then, and nelly is lost to me. fool that i was to risk my life when i might have lot him drown. no one could have said that i was guilty of his death." human ear did not listen to the words he uttered, and a voice came to him, "you would have been guilty of his death if you could have saved him and would not." he had recovered sufficiently to sit up, and, as he gazed at the angry sea around, his experienced eye told him that even now he and all with him might be engulfed beneath it ere they could reach the shore. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ nelly and her grandmother stood with the group of anxious watchers near the beacon-fire, straining their eyes in a vain endeavour to pierce the gloom which hung over the ocean. they could hear the sea's savage roar as it lashed the rocks at their feet and sent the spray flying over them; but they could only see the white crests of the waves as they rose and fell, and every instant it seemed to their loving hearts that these fierce waves came in with greater force than heretofore. could the "rescue," stout and well-formed as she was, live amid that fierce tumult of waters? might not those who had bravely gone forth to save their fellow-creatures, too probably perish with them? still, notwithstanding their fears, they listened hoping to hear the cry which those in the boat would raise as they drew near the shore, should success have attended their efforts. again and again they asked each other, if the boat would not now be returning? oh! how long the time seemed since they went away! a short half-hour had often sufficed to go to the gull rock and back. an hour or more had elapsed since the "rescue" left the harbour, and no sign of her could be discerned. "we must take into account the heavy seas she will have to meet; they will keep her busy for a goodish time with her bows towards them," observed an old fisherman. "uncle reuben knows what he is about, and if there is a man can steer the `rescue' on a night like this he can. a worse sea, in which a boat might live, i never saw. there is little likelihood of its getting better either, by the look of the sky." the last remark was not encouraging; still, while a possibility remained of the return of the boat, none among the anxious group would, in spite of the rain and spray and fierce wind, leave the point. at length a sharp-eyed youngster darted forward to the extreme end of the rock, at the risk of being washed off by the next breaker which dashed against it. "i see her! i see her!" he shouted. there was a rush forward. dame lanreath held her granddaughter back. "you cannot bring them in sooner, nelly," she said, "and, my child, prepare your heart for what god may have ordered. seek for strength, nelly, to be able to say, `thy will be done!'" "i am trying," groaned nelly; "but o granny, why do you say that?" "it is better to be prepared for bad tidings before they come," answered the dame; "but it maybe that god has willed that michael should be saved, and so let us be ready with a grateful heart to welcome him; but whichever way it is, remember that it is for the best." the dame herself, notwithstanding what she said, felt her own heart depressed. a simultaneous shout arose from the men and boys who had gone to the end of the point. "the boat! the boat! it is her, no doubt about it," they cried out, and then most of them hurried away to the landing-place to welcome their friends and assist them on shore. the dame and nelly followed them. some still remained at the point, knowing that there was yet another danger to be passed at the very entrance of the harbour, for a cross sea breaking at its mouth might hurl the boat, in spite of the efforts of the rowers, against the rocks, and those who had toiled so long, worn out with fatigue, would require assistance, for, unaided, their lives might be lost. as the boat drew near her crew raised a shout in return to the greeting, of their friends. perfect silence followed as the "rescue" neared the dangerous point. in an instant it was passed, though a sea breaking over her deluged the crew. "are they all saved?" shouted several voices. "some, but not all; but our boys are here: tell my dame," shouted reuben as the boat glided by. nelly heard the answer. with trembling knees she stood on the landing-place supported by dame lanreath, while the light of several lanterns fell on the boat and the figures of those in her as she came alongside. eager hands were ready to help the well-nigh exhausted crew on shore. nelly tried to distinguish the countenances of the men--the light falling on her pale face as she stooped over. "he is here, nelly; michael is safe," cried uncle reuben, and simon, with two or three others, speedily assisted michael on shore. nelly, regardless of those around, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed his lips and cheeks, while the dame with others helped him to move away from the quay. "i shall soon be strong again, nelly," he whispered. "god be praised for his mercies to us. my sorest thought was, as i felt myself in the breakers, that you and granny would be left without me to help you." at the moment that nelly's arms were about her betrothed, a man in the boat, refusing the aid of others, sprang on shore. as he passed, dame lanreath caught a glimpse of the haggard features of eban cowan. he rushed on without stopping to receive the greetings of any of those gathered on the quay, and was quickly lost to sight as he made his way up the glen. "eban seems in a strange mood," observed simon. "he might have stopped till michael and all of us had thanked him for his brave act; he seems as if he was sorry he had done it, or was wishing that he was with the other poor fellows who are lying out there among the rocks." michael was too weak to walk. uncle reuben invited him to come to his cottage; but he wished to return home, and there was no lack of willing arms to carry him. "where is david treloar?" he asked. "if it had not been for him i should have been washed off the spar, but he held me on till i was hauled on board." "david! poor fellow! he is among those who are gone," was the answer. "if it was he who was on the spar with you, he would not, it seems, quit it till he thought you were safe; and meantime his strength must have gone before help could reach him." "then he lost his life to save mine," said michael, deeply grieved. "and how was i saved?" "by that brave fellow, eban cowan, who jumped overboard, and brought you on board," answered uncle reuben. "where is he, that i may shake him by the hand, and thank him?" inquired michael; but eban was not to be found. michael hoped the next morning to be able to go to the mill and thank eban. nelly wondered at what she heard, recollecting eban's visit to her a few hours before; but she said nothing. indeed, by that time, with a sail, a litter had been rigged, on which his friends carried michael to his cottage, dame lanreath and nelly following them. the rest of the population of the village hastened to their homes, several with hearts grieving for those who had been lost. they did not, however, find any lack of friends to comfort them--for all could sympathise where all knew that the like misfortune might some day happen to themselves. uncle reuben, too, had ample cause for grief. the little vessel on which he depended for the subsistence of his family had gone to pieces, and it would be a hard matter to obtain another. and honest david and the other lads in whom he was interested were gone; but his young boys were saved, and he felt thankful for the mercies granted him. michael, carefully watched over by nelly, and doctored by the dame, soon recovered his strength. as soon as he was strong enough, he told nelly that he must go and tell eban how thankful he was to him for saving his life. nelly, on this, gave him an account of what had occurred on that eventful evening of the wreck. he was greatly astonished. "but he is a brave fellow, nelly; and though i cannot say what i should have been ready to do to him had i known it before, yet he saved my life, and risked his to do so, and i must not forget that. i must forget all else, and go and thank him heartily." "go, michael," said nelly, "and tell him that i bless him from my heart, and wish him every happiness; but do not ask him to come here. it is better for his sake he should not be seeing me and fancying that i can ever care for him." michael promised to behave discreetly in the matter, and set off. the heavy gale was still blowing. he wondered as he went along how the path was so much steeper and rougher than it used to be, not aware how greatly his strength had decreased. on reaching the mill he saw old cowan standing at the door. he inquired for eban. "where is he? that's more than i can tell you, lad," he answered. "he went away the other evening and has not since come back. i do not inquire after his movements, and so i suppose it is all right." michael then told the old man of the service his son had rendered him. "glad he saved thy life, lad; he is a brave fellow, no doubt of that; but it is strange that he should not have come in to have his clothes dried and get some rest." none of the household could give any further account of eban. michael, again expressing such thanks as his heart prompted, returned home. several days passed and rumours came that eban had been seen on the way to falmouth: and his father, who had become anxious about him, setting off, discovered that he had gone on board a large ship which had put in there to seek shelter from the gale. he had left no message, and no letter was received by any of his family to say why he had gone, or what were his intentions for the future. during the winter two or three seizures of smuggled goods were made; they belonged to the band of which eban was supposed to have been the leader: and old cowan, whose venture it was known they were, became gradually downcast and desponding. his fishing-boats were unsuccessful; he offered one for sale, which uncle reuben and michael purchased between them; another was lost; and, his mill being burned down, he died soon afterwards broken-hearted, leaving his family in utter destitution. in the spring michael and nelly married. the wedding, if not a very gay one, was the merriest which had occurred in the village for many a day, nor were any of the usual customs in that part of cornwall omitted. dame lanreath declared that she felt younger than she had been for the last ten years, or twenty for that matter, and uncle reuben had recovered from his rheumatism with the warm spring weather. the pilchard harvest in that year was unusually early and abundant, and michael was able to increase the size of his house and improve its appearance, while he gave his young wife many comforts, which he declared no one so well deserved. no one disputed the point; indeed, all agreed that a finer and happier young couple was not to be found along the cornish coast. they were grateful to god for the happiness they enjoyed, and while they prayed that it might be prolonged, and that their lives might be spared, they did not forget that he who had the power to give had the right to take away. but, trusting to his mercy and loving-kindness, they hoped that he would think fit to protect them during their lives on earth, while they could with confidence look forward to that glorious future where there will be no more sorrow and no more parting. the end. the tides of barnegat by f. hopkinson smith contents i the doctor's gig ii spring blossoms iii little tod fogarty iv ann gossaway's red cloak v captain nat's decision vi a game of cards vii the eyes of an old portrait viii an arrival ix the spread of fire x a late visitor xi morton cobden's daughter xii a letter from paris xiii scootsy's epithet xiv high water at yardley xv a package of letters xvi the beginning of the ebb xvii breakers ahead xviii the swede's story xix the breaking of the dawn xx the undertow xxi the man in the slouch hat xxii the claw of the sea-puss the tides of barnegat chapter i the doctor's gig one lovely spring morning--and this story begins on a spring morning some fifty years or more ago--a joy of a morning that made one glad to be alive, when the radiant sunshine had turned the ribbon of a road that ran from warehold village to barnegat light and the sea to satin, the wide marshes to velvet, and the belts of stunted pines to bands of purple--on this spring morning, then, martha sands, the cobdens' nurse, was out with her dog meg. she had taken the little beast to the inner beach for a bath--a custom of hers when the weather was fine and the water not too cold--and was returning to warehold by way of the road, when, calling the dog to her side, she stopped to feast her eyes on the picture unrolled at her feet. to the left of where she stood curved the coast, glistening like a scimitar, and the strip of yellow beach which divided the narrow bay from the open sea; to the right, thrust out into the sheen of silver, lay the spit of sand narrowing the inlet, its edges scalloped with lace foam, its extreme point dominated by the grim tower of barnegat light; aloft, high into the blue, soared the gulls, flashing like jewels as they lifted their breasts to the sun, while away and beyond the sails of the fishing-boats, gray or silver in their shifting tacks, crawled over the wrinkled sea. the glory of the landscape fixed in her mind, martha gathered her shawl about her shoulders, tightened the strings of her white cap, smoothed out her apron, and with the remark to meg that he'd "never see nothin' so beautiful nor so restful," resumed her walk. they were inseparable, these two, and had been ever since the day she had picked him up outside the tavern, half starved and with a sore patch on his back where some kitchen-maid had scalded him. somehow the poor outcast brought home to her a sad page in her own history, when she herself was homeless and miserable, and no hand was stretched out to her. so she had coddled and fondled him, gaining his confidence day by day and talking to him by the hour of whatever was uppermost in her mind. few friendships presented stronger contrasts: she stout and motherly-looking--too stout for any waistline--with kindly blue eyes, smooth gray hair--gray, not white--her round, rosy face, framed in a cotton cap, aglow with the freshness of the morning--a comforting, coddling-up kind of woman of fifty, with a low, crooning voice, gentle fingers, and soft, restful hollows about her shoulders and bosom for the heads of tired babies; meg thin, rickety, and sneak-eyed, with a broken tail that hung at an angle, and but one ear (a black-and-tan had ruined the other)--a sandy-colored, rough-haired, good-for-nothing cur of multifarious lineage, who was either crouching at her feet or in full cry for some hole in a fence or rift in a wood-pile where he could flatten out and sulk in safety. martha continued her talk to meg. while she had been studying the landscape he had taken the opportunity to wallow in whatever came first, and his wet hair was bristling with sand and matted with burrs. "come here, meg--you measly rascal!" she cried, stamping her foot. "come here, i tell ye!" the dog crouched close to the ground, waited until martha was near enough to lay her hand upon him, and then, with a backward spring, darted under a bush in full blossom. "look at ye now!" she shouted in a commanding tone. "'tain't no use o' my washin' ye. ye're full o' thistles and jest as dirty as when i throwed ye in the water. come out o' that, i tell ye! now, meg, darlin'"--this came in a coaxing tone--"come out like a good dog--sure i'm not goin' in them brambles to hunt ye!" a clatter of hoofs rang out on the morning air. a two-wheeled gig drawn by a well-groomed sorrel horse and followed by a brown-haired irish setter was approaching. in it sat a man of thirty, dressed in a long, mouse-colored surtout with a wide cape falling to the shoulders. on his head was a soft gray hat and about his neck a white scarf showing above the lapels of his coat. he had thin, shapely legs, a flat waist, and square shoulders, above which rose a clean-shaven face of singular sweetness and refinement. at the sound of the wheels the tattered cur poked his head from between the blossoms, twisted his one ear to catch the sound, and with a side-spring bounded up the road toward the setter. "well, i declare, if it ain't dr. john cavendish and rex!" martha exclaimed, raising both hands in welcome as the horse stopped beside her. "good-mornin' to ye, doctor john. i thought it was you, but the sun blinded me, and i couldn't see. and ye never saw a better nor a brighter mornin'. these spring days is all blossoms, and they ought to be. where ye goin', anyway, that ye're in such a hurry? ain't nobody sick up to cap'n holt's, be there?" she added, a shade of anxiety crossing her face. "no, martha; it's the dressmaker," answered the doctor, tightening the reins on the restless sorrel as he spoke. the voice was low and kindly and had a ring of sincerity through it. "what dressmaker?" "why, miss gossaway!" his hand was extended now--that fine, delicately wrought, sympathetic hand that had soothed so many aching heads. "you've said it," laughed martha, leaning over the wheel so as to press his fingers in her warm palm. "there ain't no doubt 'bout that skinny fright being 'miss,' and there ain't no doubt 'bout her stayin' so. ann gossaway she is, and ann gossaway she'll die. is she took bad?" she continued, a merry, questioning look lighting up her kindly face, her lips pursed knowingly. "no, only a sore throat" the doctor replied, loosening his coat. "throat!" she rejoined, with a wry look on her face. "too bad 'twarn't her tongue. if ye could snip off a bit o' that some day it would help folks considerable 'round here." the doctor laughed in answer, dropped the lines over the dashboard and leaned forward in his seat, the sun lighting up his clean-cut face. busy as he was--and there were few busier men in town, as every hitching-post along the main street of warehold village from billy tatham's, the driver of the country stage, to captain holt's, could prove--he always had time for a word with the old nurse. "and where have you been, mistress martha?" he asked, with a smile, dropping his whip into the socket, a sure sign that he had a few more minutes to give her. "oh, down to the beach to git some o' the dirt off meg. look at him--did ye ever see such a rapscallion! every time i throw him in he's into the sand ag'in wallowin' before i kin git to him." the doctor bent his head, and for an instant watched the two dogs: meg circling about rex, all four legs taut, his head jerking from side to side in his eagerness to be agreeable to his roadside acquaintance; the agate-eyed setter returning meg's attentions with the stony gaze of a club swell ignoring a shabby relative. the doctor smiled thoughtfully. there was nothing he loved to study so much as dogs--they had a peculiar humor of their own, he often said, more enjoyable sometimes than that of men--then he turned to martha again. "and why are you away from home this morning of all others?" he asked. "i thought miss lucy was expected from school to-day?" "and so she is, god bless her! and that's why i'm here. i was that restless i couldn't keep still, and so i says to miss jane, 'i'm goin' to the beach with meg and watch the ships go by; that's the only thing that'll quiet my nerves. they're never in a hurry with everybody punchin' and haulin' them.' not that there's anybody doin' that to me, 'cept like it is to-day when i'm waitin' for my blessed baby to come back to me. two years, doctor--two whole years since i had my arms round her. wouldn't ye think i'd be nigh crazy?" "she's too big for your arms now, martha," laughed the doctor, gathering up his reins. "she's a woman--seventeen, isn't she?" "seventeen and three months, come the fourteenth of next july. but she's not a woman to me, and she never will be. she's my wee bairn that i took from her mother's dyin' arms and nursed at my own breast, and she'll be that wee bairn to me as long as i live. ye'll be up to see her, won't ye, doctor?" "yes, to-night. how's miss jane?" as he made the inquiry his eyes kindled and a slight color suffused his cheeks. "she'll be better for seein' ye," the nurse answered with a knowing look. then in a louder and more positive tone, "oh, ye needn't stare so with them big brown eyes o' yourn. ye can't fool old martha, none o' you young people kin. ye think i go round with my eyelids sewed up. miss jane knows what she wants--she's proud, and so are you; i never knew a cobden nor a cavendish that warn't. i haven't a word to say--it'll be a good match when it comes off. where's that meg? good-by, doctor. i won't keep ye a minute longer from miss gossaway. i'm sorry it ain't her tongue, but if it's only her throat she may get over it. go 'long, meg!" dr. cavendish laughed one of his quiet laughs--a laugh that wrinkled the lines about his eyes, with only a low gurgle in his throat for accompaniment, picked up his whip, lifted his hat in mock courtesy to the old nurse, and calling to rex, who, bored by meg's attentions, had at last retreated under the gig, chirruped to his horse, and drove on. martha watched the doctor and rex until they were out of sight, walked on to the top of the low hill, and finding a seat by the roadside--her breath came short these warm spring days--sat down to rest, the dog stretched out in her lap. the little outcast had come to her the day lucy left warehold for school, and the old nurse had always regarded him with a certain superstitious feeling, persuading herself that nothing would happen to her bairn as long as this miserable dog was well cared for. "ye heard what doctor john said about her bein' a woman, meg?" she crooned, when she had caught her breath. "and she with her petticoats up to her knees! that's all he knows about her. ye'd know better than that, meg, wouldn't ye--if ye'd seen her grow up like he's done? but grown up or not, meg"--here she lifted the dog's nose to get a clearer view of his sleepy eyes--"she's my blessed baby and she's comin' home this very day, meg, darlin'; d'ye hear that, ye little ruffian? and she's not goin' away ag'in, never, never. there'll be nobody drivin' round in a gig lookin' after her--nor nobody else as long as i kin help it. now git up and come along; i'm that restless i can't sit still," and sliding the dog from her lap, she again resumed her walk toward warehold. soon the village loomed in sight, and later on the open gateway of "yardley," the old cobden manor, with its two high brick posts topped with white balls and shaded by two tall hemlocks, through which could be seen a level path leading to an old colonial house with portico, white pillars supporting a balcony, and a sloping roof with huge chimneys and dormer windows. martha quickened her steps, and halting at the gate-posts, paused for a moment with her eyes up the road. it was yet an hour of the time of her bairn's arrival by the country stage, but her impatience was such that she could not enter the path without this backward glance. meg, who had followed behind his mistress at a snail's pace, also came to a halt and, as was his custom, picked out a soft spot in the road and sat down on his haunches. suddenly the dog sprang up with a quick yelp and darted inside the gate. the next instant a young girl in white, with a wide hat shading her joyous face, jumped from behind one of the big hemlocks and with a cry pinioned martha's arms to her side. "oh, you dear old thing, you! where have you been? didn't you know i was coming by the early stage?" she exclaimed in a half-querulous tone. the old nurse disengaged one of her arms from the tight clasp of the girl, reached up her hand until she found the soft cheek, patted it gently for an instant as a blind person might have done, and then reassured, hid her face on lucy's shoulder and burst into tears. the joy of the surprise had almost stopped her breath. "no, baby, no," she murmured. "no, darlin', i didn't. i was on the beach with meg. no, no--oh, let me cry, darlin'. to think i've got you at last. i wouldn't have gone away, darlin', but they told me you wouldn't be here till dinner-time. oh, darlin', is it you? and it's all true, isn't it? and ye've come back to me for good? hug me close. oh, my baby bairn, my little one! oh, you precious!" and she nestled the girl's head on her bosom, smoothing her cheek as she crooned on, the tears running down her cheeks. before the girl could reply there came a voice calling from the house: "isn't she fine, martha?" a woman above the middle height, young and of slender figure, dressed in a simple gray gown and without her hat, was stepping from the front porch to meet them. "too fine, miss jane, for her old martha," the nurse called back. "i've got to love her all over again. oh, but i'm that happy i could burst meself with joy! give me hold of your hand, darlin'--i'm afraid i'll lose ye ag'in if ye get out of reach of me." the two strolled slowly up the path to meet jane, martha patting the girl's arm and laying her cheek against it as she walked. meg had ceased barking and was now sniffing at lucy's skirts, his bent tail wagging slowly, his sneaky eyes looking up into lucy's face. "will he bite, martha?" she asked, shrinking to one side. she had an aversion to anything physically imperfect, no matter how lovable it might be to others. this tattered example struck her as particularly objectionable. "no, darlin'--nothin' 'cept his food," and martha laughed. "what a horrid little beast!" lucy said half aloud to herself, clinging all the closer to the nurse. "this isn't the dog sister jane wrote me about, is it? she said you loved him dearly--you don't, do you?" "yes, that's the same dog. you don't like him, do you, darlin'?" "no, i think he's awful," retorted lucy in a positive tone. "it's all i had to pet since you went away," martha answered apologetically. "well, now i'm home, give him away, please. go away, you dreadful dog!" she cried, stamping her foot as meg, now reassured, tried to jump upon her. the dog fell back, and crouching close to martha's side raised his eyes appealingly, his ear and tail dragging. jane now joined them. she had stopped to pick some blossoms for the house. "why, lucy, what's poor meg done?" she asked, as she stooped over and stroked the crestfallen beast's head. "poor old doggie--we all love you, don't we?" "well, just please love him all to yourselves, then," retorted lucy with a toss of her head. "i wouldn't touch him with a pair of tongs. i never saw anything so ugly. get away, you little brute!" "oh, lucy, dear, don't talk so," replied the older sister in a pitying tone. "he was half starved when martha found him and brought him home--and look at his poor back--" "no, thank you; i don't want to look at his poor back, nor his poor tail, nor anything else poor about him. and you will send him away, won't you, like a dear good old martha?" she added, patting martha's shoulder in a coaxing way. then encircling jane's waist with her arm, the two sisters sauntered slowly back to the house. martha followed behind with meg. somehow, and for the first time where lucy was concerned, she felt a tightening of her heart-strings, all the more painful because it had followed so closely upon the joy of their meeting. what had come over her bairn, she said to herself with a sigh, that she should talk so to meg--to anything that her old nurse loved, for that matter? jane interrupted her reveries. "did you give meg a bath, martha?" she asked over her shoulder. she had seen the look of disappointment in the old nurse's face and, knowing the cause, tried to lighten the effect. "yes--half water and half sand. doctor john came along with rex shinin' like a new muff, and i was ashamed to let him see meg. he's comin' up to see you to-night, lucy, darlin'," and she bent forward and tapped the girl's shoulder to accentuate the importance of the information. lucy cut her eye in a roguish way and twisted her pretty head around until she could look into jane's eyes. "who do you think he's coming to see, sister?" "why, you, you little goose. they're all coming--uncle ephraim has sent over every day to find out when you would be home, and bart holt was here early this morning, and will be back to-night." "what does bart holt look like?"--she had stopped in her walk to pluck a spray of lilac blossoms. "i haven't seen him for years; i hear he's another one of your beaux," she added, tucking the flowers into jane's belt. "there, sister, that's just your color; that's what that gray dress needs. tell me, what's bart like?" "a little like captain nat, his father," answered jane, ignoring lucy's last inference, "not so stout and--" "what's he doing?" "nothin', darlin', that's any good," broke in martha from behind the two. "he's sailin' a boat when he ain't playin' cards or scarin' everybody down to the beach with his gun, or shyin' things at meg." "don't you mind anything martha says, lucy," interrupted jane in a defensive tone. "he's got a great many very good qualities; he has no mother and the captain has never looked after him. it's a great wonder that he is not worse than he is." she knew martha had spoken the truth, but she still hoped that her influence might help him, and then again, she never liked to hear even her acquaintances criticised. "playing cards! that all?" exclaimed lucy, arching her eyebrows; her sister's excuses for the delinquent evidently made no impression on her. "i don't think playing cards is very bad; and i don't blame him for throwing anything he could lay his hands on at this little wretch of martha's. we all played cards up in our rooms at school. miss sarah never knew anything about it--she thought we were in bed, and it was just lovely to fool her. and what does the immaculate dr. john cavendish look like? has he changed any?" she added with a laugh. "no," answered jane simply. "does he come often?" she had turned her head now and was looking from under her lids at martha. "just as he used to and sit around, or has he--" here she lifted her eyebrows in inquiry, and a laugh bubbled out from between her lips. "yes, that's just what he does do," cried martha in a triumphant tone; "every minute he kin git. and he can't come too often to suit me. i jest love him, and i'm not the only one, neither, darlin'," she added with a nod of her head toward jane. "and barton holt as well?" persisted lucy. "why, sister, i didn't suppose there would be a man for me to look at when i came home, and you've got two already! which one are you going to take?" here her rosy face was drawn into solemn lines. jane colored. "you've got to be a great tease, lucy," she answered as she leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "i'm not in the back of the doctor's head, nor he in mine--he's too busy nursing the sick--and bart's a boy!" "why, he's twenty-five years old, isn't he?" exclaimed lucy in some surprise. "twenty-five years young, dearie--there's a difference, you know. that's why i do what i can to help him. if he'd had the right influences in his life and could be thrown a little more with nice women it would help make him a better man. be very good to him, please, even if you do find him a little rough." they had mounted the steps of the porch and were now entering the wide colonial hall--a bare white hall, with a staircase protected by spindling mahogany banisters and a handrail. jane passed into the library and seated herself at her desk. lucy ran on upstairs, followed by martha to help unpack her boxes and trunks. when they reached the room in which martha had nursed her for so many years--the little crib still occupied one corner--the old woman took the wide hat from the girl's head and looked long and searchingly into her eyes. "let me look at ye, my baby," she said, as she pushed lucy's hair back from her forehead; "same blue eyes, darlin', same pretty mouth i kissed so often, same little dimples ye had when ye lay in my arms, but ye've changed--how i can't tell. somehow, the face is different." her hands now swept over the full rounded shoulders and plump arms of the beautiful girl, and over the full hips. "the doctor's right, child," she said with a sigh, stepping back a pace and looking her over critically; "my baby's gone--you've filled out to be a woman." chapter ii spring blossoms for days the neighbors in and about the village of warehold had been looking forward to lucy's home-coming as one of the important epochs in the history of the manor house, quite as they would have done had lucy been a boy and the expected function one given in honor of the youthful heir's majority. most of them had known the father and mother of these girls, and all of them loved jane, the gentle mistress of the home--a type of woman eminently qualified to maintain its prestige. it had been a great house in its day. built in early revolutionary times by archibald cobden, who had thrown up his office under the crown and openly espoused the cause of the colonists, it had often been the scene of many of the festivities and social events following the conclusion of peace and for many years thereafter: the rooms were still pointed out in which washington and lafayette had slept, as well as the small alcove where the dashing bart de klyn passed the night whenever he drove over in his coach with outriders from bow hill to barnegat and the sea. with the death of colonel creighton cobden, who held a commission in the war of , all this magnificence of living had changed, and when morton cobden, the father of jane and lucy, inherited the estate, but little was left except the manor house, greatly out of repair, and some invested property which brought in but a modest income. on his death-bed morton cobden's last words were a prayer to jane, then eighteen, that she would watch over and protect her younger sister, a fair-haired child of eight, taking his own and her dead mother's place, a trust which had so dominated jane's life that it had become the greater part of her religion. since then she had been the one strong hand in the home, looking after its affairs, managing their income, and watching over every step of her sister's girlhood and womanhood. two years before she had placed lucy in one of the fashionable boarding-schools of philadelphia, there to study "music and french," and to perfect herself in that "grace of manner and charm of conversation," which the two maiden ladies who presided over its fortunes claimed in their modest advertisements they were so competent to teach. part of the curriculum was an enforced absence from home of two years, during which time none of her own people were to visit her except in case of emergency. to-night, the once famous house shone with something of its old-time color. the candles were lighted in the big bronze candelabra--the ones which came from paris; the best glass and china and all the old plate were brought out and placed on the sideboard and serving-tables; a wood fire was started (the nights were yet cold), its cheery blaze lighting up the brass fender and andirons before which many of colonel cobden's cronies had toasted their shins as they sipped their toddies in the old days; easy-chairs and hair-cloth sofas were drawn from the walls; the big lamps lighted, and many minor details perfected for the comfort of the expected guests. jane entered the drawing-room in advance of lucy and was busying herself putting the final touches to the apartment,--arranging the sprays of blossoms over the clock and under the portrait of morton cobden, which looked calmly down on the room from its place on the walls, when the door opened softly and martha--the old nurse had for years been treated as a member of the family--stepped in, bowing and curtsying as would an old woman in a play, the skirt of her new black silk gown that ann gossaway had made for her held out between her plump fingers, her mob-cap with its long lace strings bobbing with every gesture. with her rosy cheeks, silver-rimmed spectacles, self-satisfied smile, and big puffy sleeves, she looked as if she might have stepped out of one of the old frames lining the walls. "what do ye think of me, miss jane? i'm proud as a peacock--that i am!" she cried, twisting herself about. "do ye know, i never thought that skinny dressmaker could do half as well. is it long enough?" and she craned her head in the attempt to see the edge of the skirt. "fits you beautifully, martha. you look fine," answered jane in all sincerity, as she made a survey of the costume. "how does lucy like it?" "the darlin' don't like it at all; she says i look like a pall-bearer, and ye ought to hear her laughin' at the cap. is there anything the matter with it? the pastor's wife's got one, anyhow, and she's a year younger'n me." "don't mind her, martha--she laughs at everything; and how good it is to hear her! she never saw you look so well," replied jane, as she moved a jar from a table and placed it on the mantel to hold the blossoms she had picked in the garden. "what's she doing upstairs so long?" "prinkin'--and lookin' that beautiful ye wouldn't know her. but the width and the thickness of her"--here the wrinkled fingers measured the increase with a half circle in the air--"and the way she's plumped out--not in one place, but all over--well, i tell ye, ye'd be astonished! she knows it, too, bless her heart! i don't blame her. let her git all the comfort she kin when she's young--that's the time for laughin'--the cryin' always comes later." no part of martha's rhapsody over lucy described jane. not in her best moments could she have been called beautiful--not even to-night when lucy's home-coming had given a glow to her cheeks and a lustre to her eyes that nothing else had done for months. her slender figure, almost angular in its contour with its closely drawn lines about the hips and back; her spare throat and neck, straight arms, thin wrists and hands--transparent hands, though exquisitely wrought, as were those of all her race--all so expressive of high breeding and refinement, carried with them none of the illusions of beauty. the mould of the head, moreover, even when softened by her smooth chestnut hair, worn close to her ears and caught up in a coil behind, was too severe for accepted standards, while her features wonderfully sympathetic as they were, lacked the finer modeling demanded in perfect types of female loveliness, the eyebrows being almost straight, the cheeks sunken, with little shadows under the cheek-bones, and the lips narrow and often drawn. and yet with all these discrepancies and, to some minds, blemishes there was a light in her deep gray eyes, a melody in her voice, a charm in her manner, a sureness of her being exactly the sort of woman one hoped she would be, a quick responsiveness to any confidence, all so captivating and so satisfying that 'those who knew her forgot her slight physical shortcomings and carried away only the remembrance of one so much out of the common and of so distinguished a personality that she became ever after the standard by which they judged all good women. there were times, too--especially whenever lucy entered the room or her name was mentioned--that there shone through jane's eyes a certain instantaneous kindling of the spirit which would irradiate her whole being as a candle does a lantern--a light betokening not only uncontrollable tenderness but unspeakable pride, dimmed now and then when some word or act of her charge brought her face to face with the weight of the responsibility resting upon her--a responsibility far outweighing that which most mothers would have felt. this so dominated jane's every motion that it often robbed her of the full enjoyment of the companionship of a sister so young and so beautiful. if jane, to quote doctor john, looked like a lily swaying on a slender stem, lucy, when she bounded into the room to-night, was a full-blown rose tossed by a summer breeze. she came in with throat and neck bare; a woman all curves and dimples, her skin as pink as a shell; plump as a baby, and as fair, and yet with the form of a wood-nymph; dressed in a clinging, soft gown, the sleeves caught up at the shoulders revealing her beautiful arms, a spray of blossoms on her bosom, her blue eyes dancing with health, looking twenty rather than seventeen; glad of her freedom, glad of her home and jane and martha, and of the lights and blossoms and the glint on silver and glass, and of all that made life breathable and livable. "oh, but isn't it just too lovely to be at home!" she cried as she skipped about. "no lights out at nine, no prayers, no getting up at six o'clock and turning your mattress and washing in a sloppy little washroom. oh, i'm so happy! i can't realize it's all true." as she spoke she raised herself on her toes so that she could see her face in the mirror over the mantel. "why, do you know, sister," she rattled on, her eyes studying her own face, "that miss sarah used to make us learn a page of dictionary if we talked after the silence bell!" "you must know the whole book by heart, then, dearie," replied jane with a smile, as she bent over a table and pushed back some books to make room for a bowl of arbutus she held in her hand. "ah, but she didn't catch us very often. we used to stuff up the cracks in the doors so she couldn't hear us talk and smother our heads in the pillows. jonesy, the english teacher, was the worst." she was still looking in the glass, her fingers busy with the spray of blossoms on her bosom. "she always wore felt slippers and crept around like a cat. she'd tell on anybody. we had a play one night in my room after lights were out, and maria collins was claude melnotte and i was pauline. maria had a mustache blackened on her lips with a piece of burnt cork and i was all fixed up in a dressing-gown and sash. we never heard jonesy till she put her hand on the knob; then we blew out the candle and popped into bed. she smelled the candle-wick and leaned over and kissed maria good-night, and the black all came off on her lips, and next day we got three pages apiece--the mean old thing! how do i look, martha? is my hair all right?" here she turned her head for the old woman's inspection. "beautiful, darlin'. there won't one o' them know ye; they'll think ye're a real livin' princess stepped out of a picture-book." martha had not taken her eyes from lucy since she entered the room. "see my little beau-catchers," she laughed, twisting her head so that martha could see the tiny spanish curls she had flattened against her temples. "they are for bart holt, and i'm going to cut sister out. do you think he'll remember me?" she prattled on, arching her neck. "it won't make any difference if he don't," martha retorted in a positive tone. "but cap'n nat will, and so will the doctor and uncle ephraim and--who's that comin' this early?" and the old nurse paused and listened to a heavy step on the porch. "it must be the cap'n himself; there ain't nobody but him's got a tread like that; ye'd think he was trampin' the deck o' one of his ships." the door of the drawing-room opened and a bluff, hearty, round-faced man of fifty, his iron-gray hair standing straight up on his head like a shoe-brush, dressed in a short pea-jacket surmounted by a low sailor collar and loose necktie, stepped cheerily into the room. "ah, miss jane!" somehow all the neighbors, even the most intimate, remembered to prefix "miss" when speaking to jane. "so you've got this fly-away back again? where are ye? by jingo! let me look at you. why! why! why! did you ever! what have you been doing to yourself, lassie, that you should shed your shell like a bug and come out with wings like a butterfly? why you're the prettiest thing i've seen since i got home from my last voyage." he had lucy by both bands now, and was turning her about as if she had been one of ann gossaway's models. "have i changed, captain holt?" "no--not a mite. you've got a new suit of flesh and blood on your bones, that's all. and it's the best in the locker. well! well! well!" he was still twisting her around. "she does ye proud, martha," he called to the old nurse, who was just leaving the room to take charge of the pantry, now that the guests had begun to arrive. "and so ye're home for good and all, lassie?" "yes--isn't it lovely?" "lovely? that's no name for it. you'll be settin' the young fellers crazy 'bout here before they're a week older. here come two of 'em now." lucy turned her head quickly, just as the doctor and barton holt reached the door of the drawing-room. the elder of the two, doctor john, greeted jane as if she had been a duchess, bowing low as he approached her, his eyes drinking in her every movement; then, after a few words, remembering the occasion as being one in honor of lucy, he walked slowly toward the young girl. "why, lucy, it's so delightful to get you back!" he cried, shaking her hand warmly. "and you are looking so well. poor martha has been on pins and needles waiting for you. i told her just how it would be--that she'd lose her little girl--and she has," and he glanced at her admiringly. "what did she say when she saw you?" "oh, the silly old thing began to cry, just as they all do. have you seen her dog?" the answer jarred on the doctor, although he excused her in his heart on the ground of her youth and her desire to appear at ease in talking to him. "do you mean meg?" he asked, scanning her face the closer. "i don't know what she calls him--but he's the ugliest little beast i ever saw." "yes--but so amusing. i never get tired of watching him. what is left of him is the funniest thing alive. he's better than he looks, though. he and rex have great times together." "i wish you would take him, then. i told martha this morning that he mustn't poke his nose into my room, and he won't. he's a perfect fright." "but the dear old woman loves him," he protested with a tender tone in his voice, his eyes fixed on lucy. he had looked into the faces of too many young girls in his professional career not to know something of what lay at the bottom of their natures. what he saw now came as a distinct surprise. "i don't care if she does," she retorted; "no, i don't," and she knit her brow and shook her pretty head as she laughed. while they stood talking bart holt, who had lingered at the threshold, his eyes searching for the fair arrival, was advancing toward the centre of the room. suddenly he stood still, his gaze fixed on the vision of the girl in the clinging dress, with the blossoms resting on her breast. the curve of her back, the round of the hip; the way her moulded shoulders rose above the lace of her bodice; the bare, full arms tapering to the wrists;--the color, the movement, the grace of it all had taken away his breath. with only a side nod of recognition toward jane, he walked straight to lucy and with an "excuse me," elbowed the doctor out of the way in his eagerness to reach the girl's side. the doctor smiled at the young man's impetuosity, bent his head to lucy, and turned to where jane was standing awaiting the arrival of her other guests. the young man extended his hand. "i'm bart holt," he exclaimed; "you haven't forgotten me, miss lucy, have you? we used to play together. mighty glad to see you--been expecting you for a week." lucy colored slightly and arched her head in a coquettish way. his frankness pleased her; so did the look of unfeigned admiration in his eyes. "why, of course i haven't forgotten you, mr. holt. it was so nice of you to come," and she gave him the tips of her fingers--her own eyes meanwhile, in one comprehensive glance, taking in his round head with its closely cropped curls, searching brown eyes, wavering mouth, broad shoulders, and shapely body, down to his small, well-turned feet. the young fellow lacked the polish and well-bred grace of the doctor, just as he lacked his well-cut clothes and distinguished manners, but there was a sort of easy effrontery and familiar air about him that some of his women admirers encouraged and others shrank from. strange to say, this had appealed to lucy before he had spoken a word. "and you've come home for good now, haven't you?" his eyes were still drinking in the beauty of the girl, his mind neither on his questions nor her answers. "yes, forever and ever," she replied, with a laugh that showed her white teeth. "did you like it at school?" it was her lips now that held his attention and the little curves under her dimpled chin. he thought he had never seen so pretty a mouth and chin. "not always; but we used to have lots of fun," answered the girl, studying him in return--the way his cravat was tied and the part of his hair. she thought he had well-shaped ears and that his nose and eyebrows looked like a picture she had in her room upstairs. "come and tell me about it. let's sit down here," he continued as he drew her to a sofa and stood waiting until she took her seat. "well, i will for a moment, until they begin to come in," she answered, her face all smiles. she liked the way he behaved towards her--not asking her permission, but taking the responsibility and by his manner compelling a sort of obedience. "but i can't stay," she added. "sister won't like it if i'm not with her to shake hands with everybody." "oh, she won't mind me; i'm a great friend of miss jane's. please go on; what kind of fun did you have? i like to hear about girls' scrapes. we had plenty of them at college, but i couldn't tell you half of them." he had settled himself beside her now, his appropriating eyes still taking in her beauty. "oh, all kinds," she replied as she bent her head and glanced at the blossoms on her breast to be assured of their protective covering. "but i shouldn't think you could have much fun with the teachers watching you every minute," said bart, moving nearer to her and turning his body so he could look squarely into her eyes. "yes, but they didn't find out half that was going on." then she added coyly, "i don't know whether you can keep a secret--do you tell everything you hear?" "never tell anything." "how do i know?" "i'll swear it." in proof he held up one hand and closed both eyes in mock reverence as if he were taking an oath. he was getting more interested now in her talk; up to this time her beauty had dazzled him. "never! so help me--" he mumbled impressively. "well, one day we were walking out to the park--now you're sure you won't tell sister, she's so easily shocked?" the tone was the same, but the inflection was shaded to closer intimacy. again bart cast up his eyes. "and all the girls were in a string with miss griggs, the latin teacher, in front, and we all went in a cake shop and got a big piece of gingerbread apiece. we were all eating away hard as we could when we saw miss sarah coming. every girl let her cake go, and when miss sarah got to us the whole ten pieces were scattered along the sidewalk." bart looked disappointed over the mild character of the scrape. from what he had seen of her he had supposed her adventures would be seasoned with a certain spice of deviltry. "i wouldn't have done that, i'd have hidden it in my pocket," he replied, sliding down on the sofa until his head rested on the cushion next her own. "we tried, but she was too close. poor old griggsey got a dreadful scolding. she wasn't like miss jones--she wouldn't tell on the girls." "and did they let any of the fellows come to see you?" bart asked. "no; only brothers and cousins once in a long while. maria collins tried to pass one of her beaux, max feilding, off as a cousin, but miss sarah went down to see him and poor maria had to stay upstairs." "i'd have got in," said bart with some emphasis, rousing himself from his position and twisting his body so he could again look squarely in her face. this escapade was more to his liking. "how?" asked lucy in a tone that showed she not only quite believed it, but rather liked him the better for saying so. "oh i don't know. i'd have cooked up some story." he was leaning over now, toying with the lace that clung to lucy's arms. "did you ever have any one of your own friends treated in that way?" jane's voice cut short her answer. she had seen the two completely absorbed in each other, to the exclusion of the other guests who were now coming in, and wanted lucy beside her. the young girl waved her fan gayly in answer, rose to her feet, turned her head close to bart's, pointed to the incoming guests, whispered something in his ear that made him laugh, listened while he whispered to her in return, and in obedience to the summons crossed the room to meet a group of the neighbors, among them old judge woolworthy, in a snuff-colored coat, high black stock, and bald head, and his bustling little wife. bart's last whisper to lucy was in explanation of the little wife's manner--who now, all bows and smiles, was shaking hands with everybody about her. then came uncle ephraim tipple, and close beside him walked his spouse, ann, in a camel's-hair shawl and poke-bonnet, the two preceded by uncle ephraim's stentorian laugh, which had been heard before their feet had touched the porch outside. mrs. cromartin now bustled in, accompanied by her two daughters--slim, awkward girls, both dressed alike in high waists and short frocks; and after them the bunsbys, father, mother, and son--all smiles, the last a painfully thin young lawyer, in a low collar and a shock of whitey-brown hair, "looking like a patent window-mop resting against a wall," so lucy described him afterward to martha when she was putting her to bed; and finally the colfords and bronsons, young and old, together with pastor dellenbaugh, the white-haired clergyman who preached in the only church in warehold. when lucy had performed her duty and the several greetings were over, and uncle ephraim had shaken the hand of the young hostess in true pump-handle fashion, the old man roaring with laughter all the time, as if it were the funniest thing in the world to find her alive; and the good clergyman in his mildest and most impressive manner had said she grew more and more like her mother every day--which was a flight of imagination on the part of the dear man, for she didn't resemble her in the least; and the two thin girls had remarked that it must be so "perfectly blissful" to get home; and the young lawyer had complimented her on her wonderful, almost life-like resemblance to her grand-father, whose portrait hung in the court-house--and which was nearer the truth--to all of which the young girl replied in her most gracious tones, thanking them for their kindness in coming to see her and for welcoming her so cordially--the whole of lucy's mind once more reverted to bart. indeed, the several lobes of her brain had been working in opposition for the past hour. while one-half of her mind was concocting polite speeches for her guests the other was absorbed in the fear that bart would either get tired of waiting for her return and leave the sofa, or that some other girl friend of his would claim him and her delightful talk be at an end. to the young girl fresh from school bart represented the only thing in the room that was entirely alive. the others talked platitudes and themselves. he had encouraged her to talk of herself and of the things she liked. he had, too, about him an assurance and dominating personality which, although it made her a little afraid of him, only added to his attractiveness. while she stood wondering how many times the white-haired young lawyer would tell her it was so nice to have her back, she felt a slight pressure on her arm and turned to face bart. "you are wanted, please, miss lucy; may i offer you my arm? excuse me, bunsby--i'll give her to you again in a minute." lucy slipped her arm into bart's, and asked simply, "what for?" "to finish our talk, of course. do you suppose i'm going to let that tow-head monopolize you?" he answered, pressing her arm closer to his side with his own. lucy laughed and tapped bart with her fan in rebuke, and then there followed a bit of coquetry in which the young girl declared that he was "too mean for anything, and that she'd never seen anybody so conceited, and if he only knew, she might really prefer the 'tow head' to his own;" to which bart answered that his only excuse was that he was so lonely he was nearly dead, and that he had only come to save his life--the whole affair culminating in his conducting her back to the sofa with a great flourish and again seating himself beside her. "i've been watching you," he began when he had made her comfortable with a small cushion behind her shoulders and another for her pretty feet. "you don't act a bit like miss jane." as he spoke he leaned forward and flicked an imaginary something from her bare wrist with that air which always characterized his early approaches to most women. "why?" lucy asked, pleased at his attentions and thanking him with a more direct look. "oh, i don't know. you're more jolly, i think. i don't like girls who turn out to be solemn after you know them a while; i was afraid you might. you know it's a long time since i saw you." "why, then, sister can't be solemn, for everybody says you and she are great friends," she replied with a light laugh, readjusting the lace of her bodice. "so we are; nobody about here i think as much of as i do of your sister. she's been mighty good to me. but you know what i mean: i mean those don't-touch-me kind of girls who are always thinking you mean a lot of things when you're only trying to be nice and friendly to them. i like to be a brother to a girl and to go sailing with her, and fishing, and not have her bother me about her feet getting a little bit wet, and not scream bloody murder when the boat gives a lurch. that's the kind of girl that's worth having." "and you don't find them?" laughed lucy, looking at him out of the corners of her eyes. "well, not many. do you mind little things like that?" as he spoke his eyes wandered over her bare shoulders until they rested on the blossoms, the sort of roaming, critical eyes that often cause a woman to wonder whether some part of her toilet has not been carelessly put together. then he added, with a sudden lowering of his voice: "that's a nice posy you've got. who sent it?" and he bent his head as if to smell the cluster on her bosom. lucy drew back and a slight flush suffused her cheek; his audacity frightened her. she was fond of admiration, but this way of expressing it was new to her. the young man caught the movement and recovered himself. he had ventured on a thin spot, as was his custom, and the sound of the cracking ice had warned him in time. "oh, i see, they're apple blossoms," he added carelessly as he straightened up. "we've got a lot in our orchard. you like flowers, i see." the even tone and perfect self-possession of the young man reassured her. "oh, i adore them; don't you?" lucy answered in a relieved, almost apologetic voice. she was sorry she had misjudged him. she liked him rather the better now for her mistake. "well, that depends. apple blossoms never looked pretty to me before; but then it makes a good deal of difference where they are," answered bart with a low chuckle. jane had been watching the two and had noticed. bart's position and manner. his easy familiarity of pose offended her. instinctively she glanced about the room, wondering if any of her guests had seen it. that lucy did not resent it surprised her. she supposed her sister's recent training would have made her a little more fastidious. "come, lucy," she called gently, moving toward her, "bring bart over here and join the other girls." "all right, miss jane, we'll be there in a minute," bart answered in lucy's stead. then he bent his head and said in a low voice: "won't you give me half those blossoms?" "no; it would spoil the bunch." "please--" "no, not a single one. you wouldn't care for them, anyway." "yes, i would." here he stretched out his hand and touched the blossoms on her neck. lucy ducked her head in merry glee, sprang up, and with a triumphant curtsy and a "no, you don't, sir--not this time," joined her sister, followed by art. the guests were now separated into big and little groups. uncle ephraim and the judge were hob-nobbing around the fireplace, listening to uncle ephraim's stories and joining in the laughter which every now and then filled the room. captain nat was deep in a discussion with doctor john over some seafaring matter, and jane and mrs. benson were discussing a local charity with pastor dellenbaugh. the younger people being left to themselves soon began to pair off, the white-haired young lawyer disappearing with the older miss cromartin and bart soon following with lucy:--the outer porch and the long walk down the garden path among the trees, despite the chilliness of the night, seemed to be the only place in which they could be comfortable. during a lull in the discussion of captain nat's maritime news and while mrs. benson was talking to the pastor, doctor john seized the opportunity to seat himself again by jane. "don't you think lucy improved?" she asked, motioning the doctor to a place beside her. "she's much more beautiful than i thought she would be," he answered in a hesitating way, looking toward lucy, and seating himself in his favorite attitude, hands in his lap, one leg crossed over the other and hanging straight beside its fellow; only a man like the doctor, of more than usual repose and of a certain elegance of form, jane always said, could sit this way any length of time and be comfortable and unconscious of his posture. then he added slowly, and as if he had given the subject some consideration, "you won't keep her long, i'm afraid." "oh, don't say that," jane cried with a nervous start. "i don't know what i would do if she should marry." "that don't sound like you, miss jane. you would be the first to deny yourself. you are too good to do otherwise." he spoke with a slight quiver in his voice, and yet with an emphasis that showed he believed it. "no; it is you who are good to think so," she replied in a softer tone, bending her head as she spoke, her eyes intent on her fan. "and now tell me," she added quickly, raising her eyes to his as if to bar any further tribute he might be on the point of paying to her--"i hear your mother takes greatly to heart your having refused the hospital appointment." "yes, i'm afraid she does. mother has a good many new-fashioned notions nowadays." he laughed--a mellow, genial laugh; more in the spirit of apology than of criticism. "and you don't want to go?" she asked, her eyes fixed on his. "want to go? no, why should i? there would be nobody to look after the people here if i went away. you don't want me to leave, do you?" he added suddenly in an anxious tone. "nobody does, doctor," she replied, parrying the question, her face flushing with pleasure. here martha entered the room hurriedly and bending over jane's shoulder, whispered something in her ear. the doctor straightened himself and leaned back out of hearing. "well, but i don't think she will take cold," jane whispered in return, looking up into martha's face. "has she anything around her?" "yes, your big red cloak; but the child's head is bare and there's mighty little on her neck, and she ought to come in. the wind's begun to blow and it's gettin' cold." "where is she?" jane continued, her face showing her surprise at martha's statement. "out by the gate with that dare-devil. he don't care who he gives cold. i told her she'd get her death, but she won't mind me." "why, martha, how can you talk so!" jane retorted, with a disapproving frown. then raising her voice so that the doctor could be brought into the conversation, she added in her natural tone, "whom did you say she was with?" "bart holt," cried martha aloud, nodding to the doctor as if to get his assistance in saving her bairn from possible danger. jane colored slightly and turned to doctor john. "you go please, doctor, and bring them all in, or you may have some new patients on your hands." the doctor looked from one to the other in doubt as to the cause of his selection, but jane's face showed none of the anxiety in martha's. "yes, certainly," he answered simply; "but i'll get myself into a hornet's nest. these young people don't like to be told what's good for them," he added with a laugh, rising from his seat. "and after that you'll permit me to slip away without telling anybody, won't you? my last minute has come," and he glanced at his watch. "going so soon? why, i wanted you to stay for supper. it will be ready in a few minutes." her voice had lost its buoyancy now. she never wanted him to go. she never let him know it, but it pained her all the same. "i would like to, but i cannot." all his heart was in his eyes as he spoke. "someone ill?" she asked. "yes, fogarty's child. the little fellow may develop croup before morning. i saw him to-day, and his pulse was not right, he's a sturdy little chap with a thick neck, and that kind always suffers most. if he's worse fogarty is to send word to my office," he added, holding out his hand in parting. "can i help?" jane asked, retaining the doctor's hand in hers as if to get the answer. "no, i'll watch him closely. good-night," and with a smile he bent his head and withdrew. martha followed the doctor to the outer door, and then grumbling her satisfaction went back to the pantry to direct the servants in arranging upon the small table in the supper-room the simple refreshments which always characterized the cobdens' entertainments. soon the girls and their beaux came trooping in to join their elders on the way to the supper-room. lucy hung back until the last (she had not liked the doctor's interference), jane's long red cloak draped from her shoulders, the hood hanging down her back, her cheeks radiant, her beautiful blond hair ruffled with the night wind, an aureole of gold framing her face. bart followed close behind, a pleased, almost triumphant smile playing about his lips. he had carried his point. the cluster of blossoms which had rested upon lucy's bosom was pinned to the lapel of his coat. chapter iii little tod fogarty with the warmth of jane's parting grasp lingering in his own doctor john untied the mare, sprang into his gig, and was soon clear of the village and speeding along the causeway that stretched across the salt marshes leading past his own home to the inner beach beyond. as he drove slowly through his own gate, so as to make as little noise as possible, the cottage, blanketed under its clinging vines, seemed in the soft light of the low-lying moon to be fast asleep. only one eye was open; this was the window of his office, through which streamed the glow of a lamp, its light falling on the gravel path and lilac bushes beyond. rex gave a bark of welcome and raced beside the wheels. "keep still, old dog! down, rex! been lonely, old fellow?" the dog in answer leaped in the air as his master drew rein, and with eager springs tried to reach his hands, barking all the while in short and joyful yelps. doctor john threw the lines across the dash-board, jumped from the gig, and pushing open the hall door--it was never locked--stepped quickly into his office, and turning up the lamp, threw himself into a chair at his desk. the sorrel made no attempt to go to the stable--both horse and man were accustomed to delays--sometimes of long hours and sometimes of whole nights. the appointments and fittings of the office--old-fashioned and practical as they were--reflected in a marked degree the aims and tastes of the occupant. while low bookcases stood against the walls surmounted by rows of test-tubes, mortars and pestles, cases of instruments, and a line of bottles labelled with names of various mixtures (in those days doctors were chemists as well as physicians), there could also be found a bust of the young augustus; one or two lithographs of heidelberg, where he had studied; and some line engravings in black frames--one a view of oxford with the thames wandering by, another a portrait of the duke of wellington, and still another of nell gwynn. scattered about the room were easy-chairs and small tables piled high with books, a copy of tacitus and an early edition of milton being among them, while under the wide, low window stood a narrow bench crowded with flowering plants in earthen pots, the remnants of the winter's bloom. there were also souvenirs of his earlier student life--a life which few of his friends in warehold, except jane cobden, knew or cared anything about--including a pair of crossed foils and two boxing-gloves; these last hung over a portrait of macaulay. what the place lacked was the touch of a woman's hand in vase, flower, or ornament--a touch that his mother, for reasons of her own, never gave and which no other woman had yet dared suggest. for an instant the doctor sat with his elbows on the desk in deep thought, the light illuminating his calm, finely chiselled features and hands--those thin, sure hands which could guide a knife within a hair's breadth of instant death--and leaning forward, with an indrawn sigh examined some letters lying under his eye. then, as if suddenly remembering, he glanced at the office slate, his face lighting up as he found it bare of any entry except the date. rex had been watching his master with ears cocked, and was now on his haunches, cuddling close, his nose resting on the doctor's knee. doctor john laid his hand on the dog's head and smoothing the long, silky ears, said with a sigh of relief, as he settled himself in his chair: "little tod must be better, rex, and we are going to have a quiet night." the anxiety over his patients relieved, his thoughts reverted to jane and their talk. he remembered the tone of her voice and the quick way in which she had warded off his tribute to her goodness; he recalled her anxiety over lucy; he looked again into the deep, trusting eyes that gazed into his as she appealed to him for assistance; he caught once more the poise of the head as she listened to his account of little tod fogarty's illness and heard her quick offer to help, and felt for the second time her instant tenderness and sympathy, never withheld from the sick and suffering, and always so generous and spontaneous. a certain feeling of thankfulness welled up in his heart. perhaps she had at last begun to depend upon him--a dependence which, with a woman such as jane, must, he felt sure, eventually end in love. with these thoughts filling his mind, he settled deeper in his chair. these were the times in which he loved to think of her--when, with pipe in mouth, he could sit alone by his fire and build castles in the coals, every rosy mountain-top aglow with the love he bore her; with no watchful mother's face trying to fathom his thoughts; only his faithful dog stretched at his feet. picking up his brierwood, lying on a pile of books on his desk, and within reach of his hand, he started to fill the bowl, when a scrap of paper covered with a scrawl written in pencil came into view. he turned it to the light and sprang to his feet. "tod worse," he said to himself. "i wonder how long this has been here." the dog was now beside him looking up into the doctor's eyes. it was not the first time that he had seen his master's face grow suddenly serious as he had read the tell-tale slate or had opened some note awaiting his arrival. doctor john lowered the lamp, stepped noiselessly to the foot of the winding stairs that led to the sleeping rooms above--the dog close at his heels, watching his every movement--and called gently: "mother! mother, dear!" he never left his office when she was at home and awake without telling her where he was going. no one answered. "she is asleep. i will slip out without waking her. stay where you are, rex--i will be back some time before daylight," and throwing his night-cloak about his shoulders, he started for his gig. the dog stopped with his paws resting on the outer edge of the top step of the porch, the line he was not to pass, and looked wistfully after the doctor. his loneliness was to continue, and his poor master to go out into the night alone. his tail ceased to wag, only his eyes moved. once outside doctor john patted the mare's neck as if in apology and loosened the reins. "come, old girl," he said; "i'm sorry, but it can't be helped," and springing into the gig, he walked the mare clear of the gravel beyond the gate, so as not to rouse his mother, touched her lightly with the whip, and sent her spinning along the road on the way to fogarty's. the route led toward the sea, branching off within the sight of the cottage porch, past the low, conical ice-houses used by the fishermen in which to cool their fish during the hot weather, along the sand-dunes, and down a steep grade to the shore. the tide was making flood, and the crawling surf spent itself in long shelving reaches of foam. these so packed the sand that the wheels of the gig hardly made an impression upon it. along this smooth surface the mare trotted briskly, her nimble feet wet with the farthest reaches of the incoming wash. as he approached the old house of refuge, black in the moonlight and looking twice its size in the stretch of the endless beach, he noticed for the hundredth time how like a crouching woman it appeared, with its hipped roof hunched up like a shoulder close propped against the dune and its overhanging eaves but a draped hood shading its thoughtful brow; an illusion which vanished when its square form, with its wide door and long platform pointing to the sea, came into view. more than once in its brief history the doctor had seen the volunteer crew, aroused from their cabins along the shore by the boom of a gun from some stranded vessel, throw wide its door and with a wild cheer whirl the life-boat housed beneath its roof into the boiling surf, and many a time had he helped to bring back to life the benumbed bodies drawn from the merciless sea by their strong arms. there were other houses like it up and down the coast. some had remained unused for years, desolate and forlorn, no unhappy ship having foundered or struck the breakers within their reach; others had been in constant use. the crews were gathered from the immediate neighborhood by the custodian, who was the only man to receive pay from the government. if he lived near by he kept the key; if not, the nearest fisherman held it. fogarty, the father of the sick child, and whose cabin was within gunshot of this house, kept the key this year. no other protection was given these isolated houses and none was needed. these black-hooded sisters of the coast, keeping their lonely vigils, were as safe from beach-combers and sea-prowlers as their white-capped namesakes would have been threading the lonely suburbs of some city. the sound of the mare's feet on the oyster-shell path outside his cabin brought fogarty, a tall, thin, weather-beaten fisherman, to the door. he was still wearing his hip-boots and sou'wester--he was just in from the surf--and stood outside the low doorway with a lantern. its light streamed over the sand and made wavering patterns about the mare's feet. "thought ye'd never come, doc," he whispered, as he threw the blanket over the mare. "wife's nigh crazy. tod's fightin' for all he's worth, but there ain't much breath left in him. i was off the inlet when it come on." the wife, a thick-set woman in a close-fitting cap, her arms bared to the elbow, her petticoats above the tops of her shoes, met him inside the door. she had been crying and her eyelids were still wet and her cheeks swollen. the light of the ship's lantern fastened to the wall fell upon a crib in the corner, on which lay the child, his short curls, tangled with much tossing, smoothed back from his face. the doctor's ears had caught the sound of the child's breathing before he entered the room. "when did this come on?" doctor john asked, settling down beside the crib upon a stool that the wife had brushed off with her apron. "'bout sundown, sir," she answered, her tear-soaked eyes fixed on little tod's face. her teeth chattered as she spoke and her arms were tight pressed against her sides, her fingers opening and shutting in her agony. now and then in her nervousness she would wipe her forehead with the back of her wrist as if it were wet, or press her two fingers deep into her swollen cheek. fogarty had followed close behind the doctor and now stood looking down at the crib with fixed eyes, his thin lips close shut, his square jaw sunk in the collar of his shirt. there were no dangers that the sea could unfold which this silent surfman had not met and conquered, and would again. every fisherman on the coast knew fogarty's pluck and skill, and many of them owed their lives to him. to-night, before this invisible power slowly closing about his child he was as powerless as a skiff without oars caught in the swirl of a barnegat tide. "why didn't you let me know sooner, fogarty? you understood my directions?" doctor john asked in a surprised tone. "you shouldn't have left him without letting me know." it was only when his orders were disobeyed and life endangered that he spoke thus. the fisherman turned his head and was about to reply when the wife stepped in front of him. "my husband got ketched in the inlet, sir," she said in an apologetic tone, as if to excuse his absence. "the tide set ag'in him and he had hard pullin' makin' the p'int. it cuts in turrible there, you know, doctor. tod seemed to be all right when he left him this mornin'. i had husband's mate take the note i wrote ye. mate said nobody was at home and he laid it under your pipe. he thought ye'd sure find it there when ye come in." doctor john was not listening to her explanations; he was leaning over the rude crib, his ear to the child's breast. regaining his position, he smoothed the curls tenderly from the forehead of the little fellow, who still lay with eyes closed, one stout brown hand and arm clear of the coverlet, and stood watching his breathing. every now and then a spasm of pain would cross the child's face; the chubby hand would open convulsively and a muffled cry escape him. doctor john watched his breathing for some minutes, laid his hand again on the child's forehead, and rose from the stool. "start up that fire, fogarty," he said in a crisp tone, turning up his shirt-cuffs, slipping off his evening coat, and handing the garment to the wife, who hung it mechanically over a chair, her eyes all the time searching doctor john's face for some gleam of hope. "now get a pan," he continued, "fill it with water and some corn-meal, and get me some cotton cloth--half an apron, piece of an old petticoat, anything, but be quick about it." the woman, glad of something to do, hastened to obey. somehow, the tones of his voice had put new courage into her heart. fogarty threw a heap of driftwood on the smouldering fire and filled the kettle; the dry splinters crackled into a blaze. the noise aroused the child. the doctor held up his finger for silence and again caressed the boy's forehead. fogarty, with a fresh look of alarm in his face, tiptoed back of the crib and stood behind the restless sufferer. under the doctor's touch the child once more became quiet. "is he bad off?" the wife murmured when the doctor moved to the fire and began stirring the mush she was preparing. "the other one went this way; we can't lose him. you won't lose him, will ye, doctor, dear? i don't want to live if this one goes. please, doctor--" the doctor looked into the wife's eyes, blurred with tears, and laid his hand tenderly on her shoulder. "keep a good heart, wife," he said; "we'll pull him through. tod is a tough little chap with plenty of fight in him yet. i've seen them much worse. it will soon be over; don't worry." mrs. fogarty's eyes brightened and even the fisherman's grim face relaxed. silent men in grave crises suffer most; the habit of their lives precludes the giving out of words that soothe and heal; when others speak them, they sink into their thirsty souls like drops of rain after a long drought. it was just such timely expressions as these that helped doctor john's patients most--often their only hope hung on some word uttered with a buoyancy of spirit that for a moment stifled all their anxieties. the effect of the treatment began to tell upon the little sufferer--his breathing became less difficult, the spasms less frequent. the doctor whispered the change to the wife, sitting close at his elbow, his impassive face brightening as he spoke; there was an oven chance now for the boy's life. the vigil continued. no one moved except fogarty, who would now and then tiptoe quickly to the hearth, add a fresh log to the embers, and as quickly move back to his position behind the child's crib. the rising and falling of the blaze, keeping rhythm, as it were, to the hopes and fears of the group, lighted up in turn each figure in the room. first the doctor sitting with hands resting on his knees, his aquiline nose and brow clearly outlined against the shadowy background in the gold chalk of the dancing flames, his black evening clothes in strong contrast to the high white of the coverlet, framing the child's face like a nimbus. next the bent body of the wife, her face in half-tones, her stout shoulders in high relief, and behind, swallowed up in the gloom, out of reach of the fire-. gleam, the straight, motionless form of the fisherman, standing with folded arms, grim and silent, his unseen eyes fixed on his child. far into the night, and until the gray dawn streaked the sky, this vigil continued; the doctor, assisted by fogarty and the wife, changing the poultices, filling the child's lungs with hot steam by means of a paper funnel, and encouraging the mother by his talk. at one time he would tell her in half-whispered tones of a child who had recovered and who had been much weaker than this one. again he would turn to fogarty and talk of the sea, of the fishing outside the inlet, of the big three-masted schooner which had been built by the men at tom's river, of the new light they thought of building at barnegat to take the place of the old one--anything to divert their minds and lessen their anxieties, stopping only to note the sound of every cough the boy gave or to change the treatment as the little sufferer struggled on fighting for his life. when the child dozed no one moved, no word was spoken. then in the silence there would come to their ears above the labored breathing of the boy the long swinging tick of the clock, dull and ominous, as if tolling the minutes of a passing life; the ceaseless crunch of the sea, chewing its cud on the beach outside or the low moan of the outer bar turning restlessly on its bed of sand. suddenly, and without warning, and out of an apparent sleep, the child started up from his pillow with staring eyes and began beating the air for breath. the doctor leaned quickly forward, listened for a moment, his ear to the boy's chest, and said in a quiet, restrained voice: "go into the other room, mrs. fogarty, and stay there till i call you." the woman raised her eyes to his and obeyed mechanically. she was worn out, mind and body, and had lost her power of resistance. as the door shut upon her doctor john sprang from the stool, caught the lamp from the wall, handed it to fogarty, and picking the child up from the crib, laid it flat upon his knees. he now slipped his hand into his pocket and took from it a leather case filled with instruments. "hold the light, fogarty," he said in a firm, decided tone, "and keep your nerve. i thought he'd pull through without it, but he'll strangle if i don't." "what ye goin' to do--not cut him?" whispered the fisherman in a trembling voice. "yes. it's his only chance. i've seen it coming on for the last hour--no nonsense now. steady, old fellow. it'll be over in a minute. ... there, my boy, that'll help you. now, fogarty, hand me that cloth. ... all right, little man; don't cry; it's all over. now open the door and let your wife in," and he laid the child back on the pillow. when the doctor took the blanket from the sorrel tethered outside fogarty's cabin and turned his horse's head homeward the sails of the fishing-boats lying in a string on the far horizon flashed silver in the morning sun, his groom met him at the stable door, and without a word led the mare into the barn. the lamp in his study was still burning in yellow mockery of the rosy dawn. he laid his case of instruments on the desk, hung his cloak and hat to a peg in the closet, and ascended the staircase on the way to his bedroom. as he passed his mother's open door she heard his step. "why, it's broad daylight, son," she called in a voice ending in a yawn. "yes, mother." "where have you been?" "to see little tod fogarty," he answered simply. "what's the matter with him?" "croup." "is he going to die?" "no, not this time." "well, what did you stay out all night for?" the voice had now grown stronger, with a petulant tone through it. "well, i could hardly help it. they are very simple people, and were so badly frightened that they were helpless. it's the only child they have left to them--the last one died of croup." "well, are you going to turn nurse for half the paupers in the county? all children have croup, and they don't all die!" the petulant voice had now developed into one of indignation. "no, mother, but i couldn't take any risks. this little chap is worth saving." there came a pause, during which the tired man waited patiently. "you were at the cobdens'?" "yes; or i should have reached fogarty's sooner." "and miss jane detained you, of course." "no, mother." "good-night, john." "say rather 'good-day,' mother," he answered with a smile and continued on to his room. chapter iv ann gossaway's red cloak the merrymakings at yardley continued for weeks, a new impetus and flavor being lent them by the arrival of two of lucy's friends--her schoolmate and bosom companion, maria collins, of trenton, and maria's devoted admirer, max feilding, of walnut hill, philadelphia. jane, in her joy over lucy's home-coming, and in her desire to meet her sister's every wish, gladly welcomed the new arrivals, although miss collins, strange to say, had not made a very good impression upon her. max she thought better of. he was a quiet, well-bred young fellow; older than either lucy or maria, and having lived abroad a year, knew something of the outside world. moreover, their families had always been intimate in the old days, his ancestral home being always open to jane's mother when a girl. the arrival of these two strangers only added to the general gayety. picnics were planned to the woods back of warehold to which the young people of the town were invited, and in which billy tatham with his team took a prominent part. sailing and fishing parties outside of barnegat were gotten up; dances were held in the old parlor, and even tableaux were arranged under max's artistic guidance. in one of these maria wore a spanish costume fashioned out of a white lace shawl belonging to jane's grand-mother draped over her head and shoulders, and made the more bewitching by a red japonica fixed in her hair, and lucy appeared as a dairy-maid decked out in one of martha's caps, altered to fit her shapely head. the village itself was greatly stirred. "have you seen them two fly-up-the-creeks?" billy tatham, the stage-driver, asked of uncle ephraim tipple as he was driving him down to the boat-landing. "no, what do they look like?" "the he-one had on a two-inch hat with a green ribbon and wore a white bob-tail coat that 'bout reached to the top o' his pants. looks like he lived on water-crackers and milk, his skin's that white. the she-one had a set o' hoops on her big as a circus tent. much as i could do to git her in the 'bus--as it was, she come in sideways. and her trunk! well, it oughter been on wheels--one o' them travellin' houses. i thought one spell i'd take the old plug out the shafts and hook on to it and git it up that-a-way." "some of lucy's chums, i guess," chuckled uncle ephraim. "miss jane told me they were coming. how long are they going to stay?" "dunno. till they git fed up and fattened, maybe. if they was mine i'd have killin' time to-day." ann gossaway and some of her cronies also gave free rein to their tongues. "learned them tricks at a finishin' school, did they?" broke out the dressmaker. (lucy had been the only young woman in warehold who had ever enjoyed that privilege.) "wearin' each other's hats, rollin' round in the sand, and hollerin' so you could hear 'em clear to the lighthouse. if i had my way i'd finish 'em, and that's where they'll git if they don't mind, and quick, too!" the dellenbaughs, cromartins, and bunsbys, being of another class, viewed the young couple's visit in a different light. "mr. feilding has such nice hands and wears such lovely cravats," the younger miss cromartin said, and "miss collins is too sweet for anything." prim mr. bunsby, having superior notions of life and deportment, only shook his head. he looked for more dignity, he said; but then this byronic young man had not been invited to any of the outings. in all these merrymakings and outings lucy was the central figure. her beauty, her joyous nature, her freedom from affectation and conventionality, her love of the out-of-doors, her pretty clothes and the way she wore them, all added to her popularity. in the swing and toss of her freedom, her true temperament developed. she was like a summer rose, making everything and everybody glad about her, loving the air she breathed as much for the color it put into her cheeks as for the new bound it gave to her blood. just as she loved the sunlight for its warmth and the dip and swell of the sea for its thrill. so, too, when the roses were a glory of bloom, not only would she revel in the beauty of the blossoms, but intoxicated by their color and fragrance, would bury her face in the wealth of their abundance, taking in great draughts of their perfume, caressing them with her cheeks, drinking in the honey of their petals. this was also true of her voice--a rich, full, vibrating voice, that dominated the room and thrilled the hearts of all who heard her. when she sang she sang as a bird sings, as much to relieve its own overcharged little body, full to bursting with the music in its soul, as to gladden the surrounding woods with its melody--because, too, she could not help it and because the notes lay nearest her bubbling heart and could find their only outlet through the lips. bart was her constant companion. under his instructions she had learned to hold the tiller in sailing in and out of the inlet; to swim over hand; to dive from a plank, no matter how high the jump; and to join in all his outdoor sports. lucy had been his constant inspiration in all of this. she had surveyed the field that first night of their meeting and had discovered that the young man's personality offered the only material in warehold available for her purpose. with him, or someone like him--one who had leisure and freedom, one who was quick and strong and skilful (and bart was all of these)--the success of her summer would be assured. without him many of her plans could not be carried out. and her victory over him had been an easy one. held first by the spell of her beauty and controlled later by her tact and stronger will, the young man's effrontery--almost impudence at times--had changed to a certain respectful subservience, which showed itself in his constant effort to please and amuse her. when they were not sailing they were back in the orchard out of sight of the house, or were walking together nobody knew where. often bart would call for her immediately after breakfast, and the two would pack a lunch-basket and be gone all day, lucy arranging the details of the outing, and bart entering into them with a dash and an eagerness which, to a man of his temperament, cemented the bond between them all the closer. had they been two fabled denizens of the wood--she a nymph and he a dryad--they could not have been more closely linked with sky and earth. as for jane, she watched the increasing intimacy with alarm. she had suddenly become aroused to the fact that lucy's love affair with bart was going far beyond the limits of prudence. the son of captain nathaniel holt, late of the black ball line of packets, would always be welcome as a visitor at the home, the captain being an old and tried friend of her father's; but neither bart's education nor prospects, nor, for that matter, his social position--a point which usually had very little weight with jane--could possibly entitle him to ask the hand of the granddaughter of archibald cobden in marriage. she began to regret that she had thrown them together. her own ideas of reforming him had never contemplated any such intimacy as now existed between the young man and her sister. the side of his nature which he had always shown her had been one of respectful attention to her wishes; so much so that she had been greatly encouraged in her efforts to make something more of him than even his best friends predicted could be done; but she had never for one instant intended that her friendly interest should go any further, nor could she have conceived of such an issue. and yet jane did nothing to prevent the meetings and outings of the young couple, even after maria's and max's departure. when martha, in her own ever-increasing anxiety, spoke of the growing intimacy she looked grave, but she gave no indication of her own thoughts. her pride prevented her discussing the situation with the old nurse and her love for lucy from intervening in her pleasures. "she has been cooped up at school so long, martha, dear," she answered in extenuation, "that i hate to interfere in anything she wants to do. she is very happy; let her alone. i wish, though, she would return some of the calls of these good people who have been so kind to her. perhaps she will if you speak to her. but don't worry about bart; that will wear itself out. all young girls must have their love-affairs." jane's voice had lacked the ring of true sincerity when she spoke about "wearing itself out," and martha had gone to her room more dissatisfied than before. this feeling became all the more intense when, the next day, from her window she watched bart tying on lucy's hat, puffing out the big bow under her chin, smoothing her hair from the flying strings. lucy's eyes were dancing, her face turned toward bart's, her pretty lips near his own. there was a knot or a twist, or a collection of knots and twists, or perhaps bart's fingers bungled, for minutes passed before the hat could be fastened to suit either of them. martha's head had all this time been thrust out of the easement, her gaze apparently fixed on a birdcage hung from a hook near the shutter. bart caught her eye and whispered to lucy that that "old spy-cat" was watching them; whereupon lucy faced about, waved her hand to the old nurse, and turning quickly, raced up the orchard and out of sight, followed by bart carrying a shawl for them to sit upon. after that martha, unconsciously, perhaps, to herself, kept watch, so far as she could, upon their movements, without, as she thought, betraying herself: making excuses to go to the village when they two went off together in that direction; traversing the orchard, ostensibly looking for meg when she knew all the time that the dog was sound asleep in the woodshed; or yielding to a sudden desire to give the rascal a bath whenever lucy announced that she and bart were going to spend the morning down by the water. as the weeks flew by and lucy had shown no willingness to assume her share of any of the responsibilities of the house,--any that interfered with her personal enjoyment,--jane became more and more restless and unhappy. the older village people had shown her sister every attention, she said to herself,--more than was her due, considering her youth,--and yet lucy had never crossed any one of their thresholds. she again pleaded with the girl to remember her social duties and to pay some regard to the neighbors who had called upon her and who had shown her so much kindness; to which the happy-hearted sister had laughed back in reply: "what for, you dear sister? these old fossils don't want to see me, and i'm sure i don't want to see them. some of them give me the shivers, they are so prim." it was with glad surprise, therefore, that jane heard lucy say in martha's hearing one bright afternoon: "now, i'm going to begin, sister, and you won't have to scold me any more. everyone of these old tabbies i will take in a row: mrs. cavendish first, and then the cromartins, and the balance of the bunch when i can reach them. i am going to rose cottage to see mrs. cavendish this very afternoon." the selection of mrs. cavendish as first on her list only increased jane's wonder. rose cottage lay some two miles from warehold, near the upper end of the beach, and few of their other friends lived near it. then again, jane knew that lucy had not liked the doctor's calling her into the house the night of her arrival, and had heretofore made one excuse after another when urged to call on his mother. her delight, therefore, over lucy's sudden sense of duty was all the more keen. "i'll go with you, darling," she answered, slipping her arm about lucy's waist, "and we'll take meg for a walk." so they started, lucy in her prettiest frock and hat and jane with her big red cloak over her arm to protect the young girl from the breeze from the sea, which in the early autumn was often cool, especially if they should sit out on mrs. cavendish's piazza. the doctor's mother met them on the porch. she had seen them enter the garden gate, and had left her seat by the window, and was standing on the top step to welcome them. rex, as usual, in the doctor's absence, did the honors of the office. he loved jane, and always sprang straight at her, his big paws resting on her shoulders. these courtesies, however, he did not extend to meg. the high-bred setter had no other salutation for the clay-colored remnant than a lifting of his nose, a tightening of his legs, and a smothered growl when meg ventured too near his lordship. "come up, my dear, and let me look at you," were mrs. cavendish's first words of salutation to lucy. "i hear you have quite turned the heads of all the gallants in warehold. john says you are very beautiful, and you know the doctor is a good judge, is he not, miss jane?" she added, holding out her hands to them both. "and he's quite right; you are just like your dear mother, who was known as the rose of barnegat long before you were born. shall we sit here, or will you come into my little salon for a cup of tea?" it was always a salon to mrs. cavendish, never a "sitting-room." "oh, please let me sit here," lucy answered, checking a rising smile at the word, "the view is so lovely," and without further comment or any reference to the compliments showered upon her, she took her seat upon the top step and began to play with rex, who had already offered to make friends with her, his invariable habit with well-dressed people. jane meanwhile improved the occasion to ask the doctor's mother about the hospital they were building near barnegat, and whether she and one or two of the other ladies at warehold would not be useful as visitors, and, perhaps, in case of emergency, as nurses. while the talk was in progress lucy sat smoothing rex's silky ears, listening to every word her hostess spoke, watching her gestures and the expressions that crossed her face, and settling in her mind for all time, after the manner of young girls, what sort of woman the doctor's mother might be; any opinions she might have had two years before being now outlawed by this advanced young woman in her present mature judgment. in that comprehensive glance, with the profound wisdom of her seventeen summers to help her, she had come to the conclusion that mrs. cavendish was a high-strung, nervous, fussy little woman of fifty, with an outward show of good-will and an inward intention to rip everybody up the back who opposed her; proud of her home, of her blood, and of her son, and determined, if she could manage it, to break off his attachment for jane, no matter at what cost. this last lucy caught from a peculiar look in the little old woman's eyes and a slightly scornful curve of the lower lip as she listened to jane's talk about the hospital, all of which was lost on "plain jane cobden," as the doctor's mother invariably called her sister behind her back. then the young mind-reader turned her attention to the house and grounds and the buildings lying above and before her, especially to the way the matted vines hung to the porches and clambered over the roof and dormers. later on she listened to mrs. cavendish's description of its age and ancestry: how it had come down to her from her grandfather, whose large estate was near trenton, where as a girl she had spent her life; how in those days it was but a small villa to which old nicholas erskine, her great-uncle, would bring his guests when the august days made trenton unbearable; and how in later years under the big trees back of the house and over the lawn--"you can see them from where you sit, my dear"--tea had been served to twenty or more of "the first gentlemen and ladies of the land." jane had heard it all a dozen times before, and so had every other visitor at rose cottage, but to lucy it was only confirmation of her latter-day opinion of her hostess. nothing, however, could be more gracious than the close attention which the young girl gave mrs. cavendish's every word when the talk was again directed to her, bending her pretty head and laughing at the right time--a courtesy which so charmed the dear lady that she insisted on giving first lucy, and then jane, a bunch of roses from her "own favorite bush" before the two girls took their leave. with these evidences of her delight made clear, lucy pushed rex from her side--he had become presuming and had left the imprint of his dusty paw upon her spotless frock--and with the remark that she had other visits to pay, her only regret being that this one was so short, she got up from her seat on the step, called meg, and stood waiting for jane with some slight impatience in her manner. jane immediately rose from her chair. she had been greatly pleaded at the impression lucy had made. her manner, her courtesy, her respect for the older woman, her humoring her whims, show her to be the daughter of a cobden. as to her own place during the visit, she had never given it a thought. she would always be willing to act as foil to her accomplished, brilliant sister if by so doing she could make other people love lucy the more. as they walked through the doctor's study, mrs. cavendish preceding them, jane lingered for a moment and gave a hurried glance about her. there stood his chair and his lounge where he had thrown himself so often when tired out. there, too, was the closet where he hung his coat and hat, and the desk covered with books and papers. a certain feeling of reverence not unmixed with curiosity took possession of her, as when one enters a sanctuary in the absence of the priest. for an instant she passed her hand gently over the leather back of the chair where his head rested, smoothing it with her fingers. then her eyes wandered over the room, noting each appointment in detail. suddenly a sense of injustice rose in her mind as she thought that nothing of beauty had ever been added to these plain surroundings; even the plants in the boxes by the windows looked half faded. with a quick glance at the open door she slipped a rose from the bunch in her hand, leaned over, and with the feeling of a devotee laying an offering on the altar, placed the flower hurried on the doctor's slate. then she joined mrs. cavendish. lucy walked slowly from the gate, her eyes every now and then turned to the sea. when she and jane had reached the cross-road that branched off toward the beach--it ran within sight of mrs. cavendish's windows--lucy said: "the afternoon is so lovely i'm not going to pay any more visits, sister. suppose i go to the beach and give meg a bath. you won't mind, will you? come, meg!" "oh, how happy you will make him!" cried jane. "but you are not dressed warm enough, dearie. you know how cool it gets toward evening. here, take my cloak. perhaps i'd better go with you--" "no, do you keep on home. i want to see if the little wretch will be contented with me alone. good-by," and without giving her sister time to protest, she called to meg, and with a wave of her hand, the red cloak flying from her shoulders, ran toward the beach, meg bounding after her. jane waved back in answer, and kept her eyes on the graceful figure skipping along the road, her head and shoulders in silhouette against the blue sea, her white skirts brushing the yellow grass of the sand-dune. all the mother-love in her heart welled up in her breast. she was so proud of her, so much in love with her, so thankful for her! all these foolish love affairs and girl fancies would soon be over and bart and the others like him out of lucy's mind and heart. why worry about it? some great strong soul would come by and by and take this child in his arms and make a woman of her. some strong soul-- she stopped short in her walk and her thoughts went back to the red rose lying on the doctor's desk. "will he know?" she said to herself; "he loves flowers so, and i don't believe anybody ever puts one on his desk. poor fellow! how hard he works and how good he is to everybody! little tod would have died but for his tenderness." then, with a prayer in her heart and a new light in her eyes, she kept on her way. lucy, as she bounded along the edge of the bluff, meg scurrying after her, had never once lost sight of her sister's slender figure. when a turn in the road shut her from view, she crouched down behind a sand-dune, waited until she was sure jane would not change her mind and join her, and then folding the cloak over her arm, gathered up her skirts and ran with all her speed along the wet sand to the house of refuge. as she reached its side, bart holt stepped out into the afternoon light. "i thought you'd never come, darling," he said, catching her in his arms and kissing her. "i couldn't help it, sweetheart. i told sister i was going to see mrs. cavendish, and she was so delighted she said she would go, too." "where is she?" he interrupted, turning his head and looking anxiously up the beach. "gone home. oh, i fixed that. i was scared to death for a minute, but you trust me when i want to get off." "why didn't you let her take that beast of a dog with her? we don't want him," he rejoined, pointing to meg, who had come to a sudden standstill at the sight of bart. "why, you silly! that's how i got away. she thought i was going to give him a bath. how long have you been waiting, my precious?" her hand was on his shoulder now, her eyes raised to his. "oh, 'bout a year. it really seems like a year, luce" (his pet name for her), "when i'm waiting for you. i was sure something was up. wait till i open the door." the two turned toward the house. "why! can we get in? i thought fogarty, the fisherman, had the key," she asked, with a tone of pleasant surprise in her voice. "so he has," he laughed. "got it now hanging up behind his clock. i borrowed it yesterday and had one made just like it. i'm of age." this came with a sly wink, followed by a low laugh of triumph. lucy smiled. she liked his daring; she liked, too, his resources. when a thing was to be done, bart always found the way to do it. she waited until he had fitted the new bright key into the rusty lock, her hand in his. "now, come inside," he cried, swinging wide the big doors. "isn't it a jolly place?" he slipped his arm about her and drew her to him. "see, there's the stove with the kindling-wood all ready to light when anything comes ashore, and up on that shelf are life-preservers; and here's a table and some stools and a lantern--two of 'em; and there's the big life-boat, all ready to push out. good place to come sundays with some of the fellows, isn't it? play all night here, and not a soul would find you out," he chuckled as he pointed to the different things. "you didn't think, now, i was going to have a cubby-hole like this to hide you in where that old spot-cat martha can't be watching us, did you?" he added, drawing her toward him and again kissing her with a sudden intensity. lucy slipped from his arms and began examining everything with the greatest interest. she had never seen anything but the outside of the house before and she always wondered what it contained, and as a child had stood up on her toes and tried to peep in through the crack of the big door. when she had looked the boat all over and felt the oars, and wondered whether the fire could be lighted quick enough, and pictured in her mind the half-drowned people huddled around it in their sea-drenched clothes, she moved to the door. bart wanted her to sit down inside, but she refused. "no, come outside and lie on the sand. nobody comes along here," she insisted. "oh, see how beautiful the sea is! i love that green," and drawing jane's red cloak around her, she settled herself on the sand, bart throwing himself at her feet. the sun was now nearing the horizon, and its golden rays fell across their faces. away off on the sky-line trailed the smoke of an incoming steamer; nearer in idled a schooner bound in to barnegat inlet with every sail set. at their feet the surf rose sleepily under the gentle pressure of the incoming tide, its wavelets spreading themselves in widening circles as if bent on kissing the feet of the radiant girl. as they sat and talked, filled with the happiness of being alone, their eyes now on the sea and now looking into each other's, meg, who had amused himself by barking at the swooping gulls, chasing the sand-snipe and digging holes in the sand for imaginary muskrats, lifted his head and gave a short yelp. bart, annoyed by the sound, picked up a bit of driftwood and hurled it at him, missing him by a few inches. the narrowness of the escape silenced the dog and sent him to the rear with drooping tail and ears. bart should have minded meg's warning. a broad beach in the full glare of the setting sun, even when protected by a house of refuge, is a poor place to be alone in. a woman was passing along the edge of the bluffs, carrying a basket in one hand and a green umbrella in the other; a tall, thin, angular woman, with the eye of a ferret. it was ann gossaway's day for visiting the sick, and she had just left fogarty's cabin, where little tod, with his throat tied up in red flannel, had tried on her mitts and played with her spectacles. miss gossaway had heard meg's bark and had been accorded a full view of lucy's back covered by jane's red cloak, with bart sitting beside her, their shoulders touching. lovers with their heads together interested the gossip no longer, except as a topic to talk about. such trifles had these many years passed out of the dress-maker's life. so miss gossaway, busy with her own thoughts, kept on her way unnoticed by either lucy or bart. when she reached the cross-road she met doctor john driving in. he tightened the reins on the sorrel and stopped. "lovely afternoon, miss gossaway. where are you from--looking at the sunset?" "no, i ain't got no time for spoonin'. i might be if i was miss jane and bart holt. just see 'em a spell ago squattin' down behind the house o' refuge. she wouldn't look at me. i been to fogarty's; she's on my list this week, and it's my day for visitin', fust in two weeks. that two-year-old of hers is all right ag'in after your sewing him up; they'll never get over tellin' how you set up all night with him. you ought to hear mrs. fogarty go on--'oh, the goodness of him!'" and she mimicked the good woman's dialect. "'if tod'd been his own child he couldn't a-done more for him.' that's the way she talks. i heard, doctor, ye never left him till daylight. you're a wonder." the doctor touched his hat and drove on. miss gossaway's sharp, rasping voice and incisive manner of speaking grated upon him. he liked neither her tone nor the way in which she spoke of the mistress of yardley. no one else dared as much. if jane was really on the beach and with bart, she had some good purpose in her mind. it may have been her day for visiting, and bart, perhaps, had accompanied her. but why had miss gossaway not met miss cobden at fogarty's, his being the only cabin that far down the beach? then his face brightened. perhaps, after all, it was lucy whom she had seen. he had placed that same red cloak around her shoulders the night of the reception at yardley--and when she was with bart, too. mrs. cavendish was sitting by her window when the doctor entered his own house. she rose, and putting down her book, advanced to meet him. "you should have come earlier, john," she said with a laugh; "such a charming girl and so pretty and gracious. why, i was quite overcome. she is very different from her sister. what do you think miss jane wants to do now? nurse in the new hospital when it is built! pretty position for a lady, isn't it?" "any position she would fill would gain by her presence," said the doctor gravely. "have they been gone long?" he asked, changing the subject. he never discussed jane cobden with his mother if he could help it. "oh, yes, some time. lucy must have kept on home, for i saw miss jane going toward the beach alone." "are you sure, mother?" there was a note of anxiety in his voice. "yes, certainly. she had that red cloak of hers with her and that miserable little dog; that's how i know. she must be going to stay late. you look tired, my son; have you had a hard day?" added she, kissing him on the cheek. "yes, perhaps i am a little tired, but i'll be all right. have you looked at the slate lately? i'll go myself," and he turned and entered his office. on the slate lay the rose. he picked it up and held it to his nose in a preoccupied way. "one of mother's," he said listlessly, laying it back among his papers. "she so seldom does that sort of thing. funny that she should have given it to me to-day; and after miss jane's visit, too." then he shut the office door, threw himself into his chair, and buried his face in his hands. he was still there when his mother called him to supper. when lucy reached home it was nearly dark. she came alone, leaving bart at the entrance to the village. at her suggestion they had avoided the main road and had crossed the marsh by the foot-path, the dog bounding on ahead and springing at the nurse, who stood in the gate awaiting lucy's return. "why, he's as dry as a bone!" martha cried, stroking meg's rough hair with her plump hand. "he didn't get much of a bath, did he?" "no, i couldn't get him into the water. every time i got my hand on him he'd dart away again." "anybody on the beach, darlin'?" "not a soul except meg and the sandsnipe." chapter v captain nat's decision when martha, with meg at her heels, passed ann gossaway's cottage the next morning on her way to the post-office--her daily custom--the dressmaker, who was sitting in the window, one eye on her needle and the other on the street, craned her head clear of the calico curtain framing the sash and beckoned to her. this perch of ann gossaway's was the eyrie from which she swept the village street, bordered with a double row of wide-spreading elms and fringed with sloping grassy banks spaced at short intervals by hitching-posts and horse-blocks. her own cottage stood somewhat nearer the flagged street path than the others, and as the garden fences were low and her lookout flanked by two windows, one on each end of her corner, she could not only note what went on about the fronts of her neighbors' houses, but much of what took place in their back yards. from this angle, too, she could see quite easily, and without more than twisting her attenuated neck, the whole village street from the cromartins' gate to the spire of the village church, as well as everything that passed up and down the shadow-flecked road: which child, for instance, was late for school, and how often, and what it wore and whether its clothes were new or inherited from an elder sister; who came to the bronsons' next door, and how long they stayed, and whether they brought anything with them or carried anything away; the peddler with his pack; the gunner on his way to the marshes, his two dogs following at his heels in a leash; dr. john cavendish's gig, and whether it was about to stop at uncle ephraim tipple's or keep on, as usual, and whirl into the open gate of cobden manor; billy tatham's passenger list, as the ricketty stage passed with the side curtains up, and the number of trunks and bags, and the size of them, all indicative of where they were bound and for how long; details of village life--no one of which concerned her in the least--being matters of profound interest to miss gossaway. these several discoveries she shared daily with a faded old mother who sat huddled up in a rocking-chair by the stove, winter and summer, whether it had any fire in it or not. uncle ephraim tipple, in his outspoken way, always referred to these two gossips as the "spiders." "when the thin one has sucked the life out of you," he would say with a laugh, "she passes you on to her old mother, who sits doubled up inside the web, and when she gets done munching there isn't anything left but your hide and bones." it was but one of uncle ephraim's jokes. the mother was only a forlorn, half-alive old woman who dozed in her chair by the hour--the relict of a fisherman who had gone to sea in his yawl some twenty years before and who had never come back. the daughter, with the courage of youth, had then stepped into the gap and had alone made the fight for bread. gradually, as the years went by the roses in her cheeks--never too fresh at any time--had begun to fade, her face and figure to shrink, and her brow to tighten. at last, embittered by her responsibilities and disappointments, she had lost faith in human kind and had become a shrew. since then her tongue had swept on as relentlessly as a scythe, sparing neither flower nor noxious weed, a movement which it was wise, sometimes, to check. when, therefore, martha, with meg now bounding before her, caught sight of ann gossaway's beckoning hand thrust out of the low window of her cottage--the spider-web referred to by uncle ephraim--she halted in her walk, lingered a moment as if undecided, expressed her opinion of the dressmaker to meg in an undertone, and swinging open the gate with its ball and chain, made her way over the grass-plot and stood outside the window, level with the sill. "well, it ain't none of my business, of course, martha sands," miss gossaway began, "and that's just what i said to mother when i come home, but if i was some folks i'd see my company in my parlor, long as i had one, 'stead of hidin' down behind the house o' refuge. i said to mother soon's i got in, 'i'm goin' to tell martha sands fust minute i see her. she ain't got no idee how them girls of hers is carryin' on or she'd stop it.' that's what i said, didn't i, mother?" martha caught an inarticulate sound escaping from a figure muffled in a blanket shawl, but nothing else followed. "i thought fust it was you when i heard that draggle-tail dog of yours barkin', but it was only miss jane and bart holt." "down on the beach! when?" asked martha. she had not understood a word of miss gossaway's outburst. "why, yesterday afternoon, of course--didn't i tell ye so? i'd been down to fogarty's; it's my week. miss jane and bart didn't see me--didn't want to. might a' been a pair of scissors, they was that close together." "miss jane warn't on the beach yesterday afternoon," said martha in a positive tone, still in the dark. "she warn't, warn't she? well, i guess i know miss jane cobden. she and bart was hunched up that close you couldn't get a bodkin 'tween 'em. she had that red cloak around her and the hood up ever her head. not know her, and she within ten feet o' me? well, i guess i got my eyes left, ain't i?" martha stood stunned. she knew now who it was. she had taken the red cloak from lucy's shoulders the evening before. then a cold chill crept over her as she remembered the lie lucy had told--"not a soul on the beach but meg and the sandsnipe." for an instant she stood without answering. but for the window-sill on which her hand rested she would have betrayed her emotion in the swaying of her body. she tried to collect her thoughts. to deny jane's identity too positively would only make the situation worse. if either one of the sisters were to be criticised jane could stand it best. "you got sharp eyes and ears, ann gossaway, nobody will deny you them, but still i don't think miss jane was on the beach yesterday." "don't think, don't you? maybe you think i can't tell a cloak from a bed blanket, never havin' made one, and maybe ye think i don't know my own clo'es when i see 'em on folks. i made that red cloak for miss jane two years ago, and i know every stitch in it. don't you try and teach ann gossaway how to cut and baste or you'll git worsted," and the gossip looked over her spectacles at martha and shook her side-curls in a threatening way. miss gossaway had no love for the old nurse. there had been a time when martha "weren't no better'n she oughter be, so everybody said," when she came to the village, and the dressmaker never let a chance slip to humiliate the old woman. martha's open denunciation of the dressmaker's vinegar tongue had only increased the outspoken dislike each had for the other. she saw now, to her delight, that the incident which had seemed to be only a bit of flotsam that had drifted to her shore and which but from martha's manner would have been forgotten by her the next day, might be a fragment detached from some floating family wreck. before she could press the matter to an explanation martha turned abruptly on her heel, called meg, and with the single remark, "well, i guess miss jane's of age," walked quickly across the grass-plot and out of the gate, the ball and chain closing it behind her with a clang. once on the street martha paused with her brain on fire. the lie which lucy had told frightened her. she knew why she had told it, and she knew, too, what harm would come to her bairn if that kind of gossip got abroad in the village. she was no longer the gentle, loving nurse with the soft caressing hand, but a woman of purpose. the sudden terror aroused in her heart had the effect of tightening her grip and bracing her shoulders as if the better to withstand some expected shock. she forgot meg; forgot her errand to the post-office; forgot everything, in fact, except the safety of the child she loved. that lucy had neglected and even avoided her of late, keeping out of her way even when she was in the house, and that she had received only cool indifference in place of loyal love, had greatly grieved her, but it had not lessened the idolatry with which she worshipped her bairn. hours at a time she had spent puzzling her brain trying to account for the change which had come over the girl during two short years of school. she had until now laid this change to her youth, her love of admiration, and had forgiven it. now she understood it; it was that boy bart. he had a way with him. he had even ingratiated himself into miss jane's confidence. and now this young girl had fallen a victim to his wiles. that lucy should lie to her, of all persons, and in so calm and self-possessed a manner; and about bart, of all men--sent a shudder through her heart, that paled her cheek and tightened her lips. once before she had consulted jane and had been rebuffed. now she would depend upon herself. retracing her steps and turning sharply to the right, she ordered meg home in a firm voice, watched the dog slink off and then walked straight down a side road to captain nat holt's house. that the captain occupied a different station in life from herself did not deter her. she felt at the moment that the honor of the cobden name lay in her keeping. the family had stood by her in her trouble; now she would stand by them. the captain sat on his front porch reading a newspaper. he was in his shirt-sleeves and bareheaded, his straight hair standing straight out like the bristles of a shoe-brush. since the death of his wife a few years before he had left the service, and now spent most of his days at home, tending his garden and enjoying his savings. he was a man of positive character and generally had his own way in everything. it was therefore with some astonishment that he heard martha say when she had mounted the porch steps and pushed open the front door, her breath almost gone in her hurried walk, "come inside." captain holt threw down his paper and rising hurriedly from his chair, followed her into the sitting-room. the manner of the nurse surprised him. he had known her for years, ever since his old friend, lucy's father, had died, and the tones of her voice, so different from her usual deferential air, filled him with apprehension. "ain't nobody sick, is there, martha?" "no, but there will be. are ye alone?" "yes." "then shut that door behind ye and sit down. i've got something to say." the grizzled, weather-beaten man who had made twenty voyages around cape horn, and who was known as a man of few words, and those always of command, closed the door upon them, drew down the shade on the sunny side of the room and faced her. he saw now that something of more than usual importance absorbed her. "now, what is it?" he asked. his manner had by this time regained something of the dictatorial tone he always showed those beneath him in authority. "it's about bart. you've got to send him away." she had not moved from her position in the middle of the room. the captain changed color and his voice lost its sharpness. "bart! what's he done now?" "he sneaks off with our lucy every chance he gets. they were on the beach yesterday hidin' behind the house o' refuge with their heads together. she had on miss jane's red cloak, and ann gossaway thought it was miss jane, and i let it go at that." the captain looked at martha incredulously for a moment, and then broke into a loud laugh as the absurdity of the whole thing burst upon him. then dropping back a step, he stood leaning against the old-fashioned sideboard, his elbows behind him, his large frame thrust toward her. "well, what if they were--ain't she pretty enough?" he burst out. "i told her she'd have 'em all crazy, and i hear bart ain't done nothin' but follow in her wake since he seen her launched." martha stepped closer to the captain and held her fist in his face. "he's got to stop it. do ye hear me?" she shouted. "if he don't there'll be trouble, for you and him and everybody. it's me that's crazy, not him." "stop it!" roared the captain, straightening up, the glasses on the sideboard ringing with his sudden lurch. "my boy keep away from the daughter of morton cobden, who was the best friend i ever had and to whom i owe more than any man who ever lived! and this is what you traipsed up here to tell me, is it, you mollycoddle?" again martha edged nearer; her body bent forward, her eyes searching his--so close that she could have touched his face with her knuckles. "hold your tongue and stop talkin' foolishness," she blazed out, the courage of a tigress fighting for her young in her eyes, the same bold ring in her voice. "i tell ye, captain holt, it's got to stop short off, and now! i know men; have known 'em to my misery. i know when they're honest and i know when they ain't, and so do you, if you would open your eyes. bart don't mean no good to my bairn. i see it in his face. i see it in the way he touches her hand and ties on her bonnet. i've watched him ever since the first night he laid eyes on her. he ain't a man with a heart in him; he's a sneak with a lie in his mouth. why don't he come round like any of the others and say where he's goin' and what he wants to do instead of peepin' round the gate-posts watchin' for her and sendin' her notes on the sly, and makin' her lie to me, her old nurse, who's done nothin' but love her? doctor john don't treat miss jane so--he loves her like a man ought to love a woman and he ain't got nothin' to hide--and you didn't treat your wife so. there's something here that tells me"--and she laid her hand on her bosom--"tells me more'n i dare tell ye. i warn ye now ag'in. send him to sea--anywhere, before it is too late. she ain't got no mother; she won't mind a word i say; miss jane is blind as a bat; out with him and now!" the captain straightened himself up, and with his clenched fist raised above his head like a hammer about to strike, cried: "if he harmed the daughter of morton cobden i'd kill him!" the words jumped hot from his throat with a slight hissing sound, his eyes still aflame. "well, then, stop it before it gets too late. i walk the floor nights and i'm scared to death every hour i live." then her voice broke. "please, captain, please," she added in a piteous tone. "don't mind me if i talk wild, my heart is breakin', and i can't hold in no longer," and she burst into a paroxysm of tears. the captain leaned against the sideboard again and looked down upon the floor as if in deep thought. martha's tears did not move him. the tears of few women did. he was only concerned in getting hold of some positive facts upon which he could base his judgment. "come, now," he said in an authoritative voice, "let me get that chair and set down and then i'll see what all this amounts to. sounds like a yarn of a horse-marine." as he spoke he crossed the room and, dragging a rocking-chair from its place beside the wall, settled himself in it. martha found a seat upon the sofa and turned her tear-stained face toward him. "now, what's these young people been doin' that makes ye so almighty narvous?" he continued, lying back in his chair and looking at her from under his bushy eyebrows, his fingers supporting his forehead. "everything. goes out sailin' with her and goes driftin' past with his head in her lap. fogarty's man who brings fish to the house told me." she had regained something of her old composure now. "anything else?" the captain's voice had a relieved, almost condescending tone in it. he had taken his thumb and forefinger from his eyebrow now and sat drumming with his stiffened knuckles on the arm of the rocker. "yes, a heap more--ain't that enough along with the other things i've told ye?" martha's eyes were beginning to blaze again. "no, that's just as it ought to be. boys and girls will be boys and girls the world over." the tone of the captain's voice indicated the condition of his mind. he had at last arrived at a conclusion. martha's head was muddled because of her inordinate and unnatural love for the child she had nursed. she had found a spookship in a fog bank, that was all. jealousy might be at the bottom of it or a certain nervous fussiness. whatever it was it was too trivial for him to waste his time over. the captain rose from his chair, crossed the sitting-room, and opened the door leading to the porch, letting in the sunshine. martha followed close at his heels. "you're runnin' on a wrong tack, old woman, and first thing ye know ye'll be in the breakers," he said, with his hand on the knob. "ease off a little and don't be too hard on 'em. they'll make harbor all right. you're makin' more fuss than a hen over one chicken. miss jane knows what she's about. she's got a level head, and when she tells me that my bart ain't good enough to ship alongside the daughter of morton cobden, i'll sign papers for him somewhere else, and not before. i'll have to get you to excuse me now; i'm busy. good-day," and picking up his paper, he re-entered the house and closed the door upon her. chapter vi a game of cards should miss gossaway have been sitting at her lookout some weeks after martha's interview with captain nat holt, and should she have watched the movements of doctor john's gig as it rounded into the open gate of cobden manor, she must have decided that something out of the common was either happening or about to happen inside yardley's hospitable doors. not only was the sorrel trotting at her best, the doctor flapping the lines along her brown back, his body swaying from side to side with the motion of the light vehicle, but as he passed her house he was also consulting the contents of a small envelope which he had taken from his pocket. "please come early," it read. "i have something important to talk over with you." a note of this character signed with so adorable a name as "jane cobden" was so rare in the doctor's experience that he had at once given up his round of morning visits and, springing into his waiting gig, had started to answer it in person. he was alive with expectancy. what could she want with him except to talk over some subject that they had left unfinished? as he hurried on there came into his mind half a dozen matters, any one of which it would have been a delight to revive. he knew from the way she worded the note that nothing had occurred since he had seen her--within the week, in fact--to cause her either annoyance or suffering. no; it was only to continue one of their confidential talks, which were the joy of his life. jane was waiting for him in the morning-room. her face lighted up as he entered and took her hand, and immediately relaxed again into an expression of anxiety. all his eagerness vanished. he saw with a sinking of the heart, even before she had time to speak, that something outside of his own affairs, or hers, had caused her to write the note. "i came at once," he said, keeping her hand in his. "you look troubled; what has happened?" "nothing yet," she answered, leading him to the sofa, "it is about lucy. she wants to go away for the winter." "where to?" he asked. he had placed a cushion at her back and had settled himself beside her. "to trenton, to visit her friend miss collins and study music. she says warehold bores her." "and you don't want her to go?" "no; i don't fancy miss collins, and i am afraid she has too strong an influence over lucy. her personality grates on me; she is so boisterous, and she laughs so loud; and the views she holds are unaccountable to me in so young a girl. she seems to have had no home training whatever. why lucy likes her, and why she should have selected her as an intimate friend, has always puzzled me." she spoke with her usual frankness and with that directness which always characterized her in matters of this kind. "i had no one else to talk to and am very miserable about it all. you don't mind my sending for you, do you?" "mind! why do you ask such a question? i am never so happy as when i am serving you." that she should send for him at all was happiness. not sickness this time, nor some question of investment, nor the repair of the barn or gate or out-buildings--but lucy, who lay nearest her heart! that was even better than he had expected. "tell me all about it, so i can get it right," he continued in a straightforward tone--the tone of the physician, not the lover. she had relied on him, and he intended to give her the best counsel of which he was capable. the lover could wait. "well, she received a letter a week ago from miss collins, saying she had come to trenton for the winter and had taken some rooms in a house belonging to her aunt, who would live with her. she wants to be within reach of the same music-teacher who taught the girls at miss parkham's school. she says if lucy will come it will reduce the expenses and they can both have the benefit of the tuition. at first lucy did not want to go at all, now she insists, and, strange to say, martha encourages her." "martha wants her to leave?" he asked in surprise. "she says so." the doctor's face assumed a puzzled expression. he could account for lucy's wanting the freedom and novelty of the change, but that martha should be willing to part with her bairn for the winter mystified him. he knew nothing of the flirtation, of course, and its effect on the old nurse, and could not, therefore, understand martha's delight in lucy's and bart's separation. "you will be very lonely," he said, and a certain tender tone developed in his voice. "yes, dreadfully so, but i would not mind if i thought it was for her good. but i don't think so. i may be wrong, and in the uncertainty i wanted to talk it over with you. i get so desolate sometimes. i never seemed to miss my father so much as now. perhaps it is because lucy's babyhood and childhood are over and she is entering upon womanhood with all the dangers it brings. and she frightens me so sometimes," she continued after a slight pause. "she is different; more self-willed, more self-centred. besides, her touch has altered. she doesn't seem to love me as she did--not in the same way." "but she could never do anything else but love you," he interrupted quickly, speaking for himself as well as lucy, his voice vibrating under his emotions. it was all he could do to keep his hands from her own; her sending for him alone restrained him. "i know that, but it is not in the old way. it used to be 'sister, darling, don't tire yourself,' or 'sister, dear, let me go upstairs for you,' or 'cuddle close here, and let us talk it all out together.' there is no more of that. she goes her own way, and when i chide her laughs and leaves me alone until i make some new advance. help me, please, and with all the wisdom you can give me; i have no one else in whom i can trust, no one who is big enough to know what should be done. i might have talked to mr. dellenbaugh about it, but he is away." "no; talk it all out to me," he said simply. "i so want to help you"--his whole heart was going out to her in her distress. "i know you feel sorry for me." she withdrew her hand gently so as not to hurt him; she too did not want to be misunderstood--having sent for him. "i know how sincere your friendship is for me, but put all that aside. don't let your sympathy for me cloud your judgment. what shall i do with lucy? answer me as if you were her father and mine," and she looked straight into his eyes. the doctor tightened the muscles of his throat, closed his teeth, and summoned all his resolution. if he could only tell her what was in his heart how much easier it would all be! for some moments he sat perfectly still, then he answered slowly--as her man of business would have done: "i should let her go." "why do you say so?" "because she will find out in that way sooner than in any other how to appreciate you and her home. living in two rooms and studying music will not suit lucy. when the novelty wears off she will long for her home, and when she comes back it will be with a better appreciation of its comforts. let her go, and make her going as happy as you can." and so jane gave her consent--it is doubtful whether lucy would have waited for it once her mind was made up--and in a week she was off, doctor john taking her himself as far as the junction, and seeing her safe on the road to trenton. martha was evidently delighted at the change, for the old nurse's face was wreathed in smiles that last morning as they all stood out by the gate while billy tatham loaded lucy's trunks and boxes. only once did a frown cross her face, and that was when lucy leaned over and whispering something in bart's ear, slipped a small scrap of paper between his fingers. bart crunched it tight and slid his hand carelessly into his pocket, but the gesture did not deceive the nurse: it haunted her for days thereafter. as the weeks flew by and the letters from trenton told of the happenings in maria's home, it became more and more evident to jane that the doctor's advice had been the wisest and best. lucy would often devote a page or more of her letters to recalling the comforts of her own room at yardley, so different from what she was enduring at trenton, and longing for them to come again. parts of these letters jane read to the doctor, and all of them to martha, who received them with varying comment. it became evident, too, that neither the excitement of bart's letters, nor the visits of the occasional school friends who called upon them both, nor the pursuit of her new accomplishment, had satisfied the girl. jane was not surprised, therefore, remembering the doctor's almost prophetic words, to learn of the arrival of a letter from lucy begging martha to come to her at once for a day or two. the letter was enclosed in one to bart and was handed to the nurse by that young man in person. as he did so he remarked meaningly that miss lucy wanted martha's visit to be kept a secret from everybody but miss jane, "just as a surprise," but martha answered in a positive tone that she had no secrets from those who had a right to know them, and that he could write lucy she was coming next day, and that jane and everybody else who might inquire would know of it before she started. she rather liked bart's receiving the letter. as long as that young man kept away from trenton and confined himself to warehold, where she could keep her eyes on him, she was content. to jane martha said: "oh, bless the darlin'! she can't do a day longer without her martha. i'll go in the mornin'. it's a little pettin' she wants--that's all." so the old nurse bade meg good-by, pinned her big gray shawl about her, tied on her bonnet, took a little basket with some delicacies and a pot of jelly, and like a true mother hubbard, started off, while jane, having persuaded herself that perhaps "the surprise" was meant for her, and that she might be welcoming two exiles instead of one the following night, began to put lucy's room in order and to lay out the many pretty things she loved, especially the new dressing-gown she had made for her, lined with blue silk--her favorite color. all that day and evening, and far into the next afternoon, jane went about the house with the refrain of an old song welling up into her heart--one that had been stifled for months. the thought of the round-about way in which lucy had sent for martha did not dull its melody. that ruse, she knew, came from the foolish pride of youth, the pride that could not meet defeat. underneath it she detected, with a thrill, the love of home; this, after all, was what her sister could not do without. it was not bart this time. that affair, as she had predicted and had repeatedly told martha, had worn itself out and had been replaced by her love of music. she had simply come to herself once more and would again be her old-time sister and her child. then, too--and this sent another wave of delight tingling through her--it had all been the doctor's doing! but for his advice she would never have let lucy go. half a dozen times, although the november afternoon was raw and chilly, with the wind fresh from the sea and the sky dull, she was out on the front porch without shawl or hat, looking down the path, covered now with dead leaves, and scanning closely every team that passed the gate, only to return again to her place by the fire, more impatient than ever. meg's quick ear first caught the grating of the wheels. jane followed him with a cry of joyous expectation, and flew to the door to meet the stage, which for some reason--why, she could not tell--had stopped for a moment outside the gate, dropping only one passenger, and that one the nurse. "and lucy did not come, martha!" jane exclaimed, with almost a sob in her voice. she had reached her side now, followed by meg, who was springing straight at the nurse in the joy of his welcome. the old woman glanced back at the stage, as if afraid of being overheard, and muttered under her breath: "no, she couldn't come." "oh, i am so disappointed! why not?" martha did not answer. she seemed to have lost her breath. jane put her arm about her and led her up the path. once she stumbled, her step was so unsteady, and she would have fallen but for jane's assistance. the two had now reached the hand-railing of the porch. here martha's trembling foot began to feel about for the step. jane caught her in her arms. "you're ill, martha!" she cried in alarm. "give me the bag. what's the matter?" again martha did not answer. "tell me what it is." "upstairs! upstairs!" martha gasped in reply. "quick!" "what has happened?" "not here; upstairs." they climbed the staircase together, jane half carrying the fainting woman, her mind in a whirl. "where were you taken ill? why did you try to come home? why didn't lucy come with you?" they had reached the door of jane's bedroom now, martha clinging to her arm. once inside, the nurse leaned panting against the door, put her bands to her face as if she would shut out some dreadful spectre, and sank slowly to the floor. "it is not me," she moaned, wringing her hands, "not me--not--" "who?" "oh, i can't say it!" "lucy?" "yes" "not ill?" "no; worse!" "oh, martha! not dead?" "o god, i wish she were!" an hour passed--an hour of agony, of humiliation and despair. again the door opened and jane stepped out--slowly, as if in pain, her lips tight drawn, her face ghastly white, the thin cheeks sunken into deeper hollows, the eyes burning. only the mouth preserved its lines, but firmer, more rigid, more severe, as if tightened by the strength of some great resolve. in her hand she held a letter. martha lay on the bed, her face to the wall, her head still in her palms. she had ceased sobbing and was quite still, as if exhausted. jane leaned over the banisters, called to one of the servants, and dropping the letter to the floor below, said: "take that to captain holt's. when he comes bring him upstairs here into my sitting-room." before the servant could reply there came a knock at the front door. jane knew its sound--it was doctor john's. leaning far over, grasping the top rail of the banisters to steady herself, she said to the servant in a low, restrained voice: "if that is dr. cavendish, please say to him that martha is just home from trenton, greatly fatigued, and i beg him to excuse me. when the doctor has driven away, you can take the letter." she kept her grasp on the hand-rail until she heard the tones of his voice through the open hall door and caught the note of sorrow that tinged them. "oh, i'm so sorry! poor martha!" she heard him say. "she is getting too old to go about alone. please tell miss jane she must not hesitate to send for me if i can be of the slightest service." then she re-entered the room where martha lay and closed the door. another and louder knock now broke the stillness of the chamber and checked the sobs of the nurse; captain holt had met jane's servant as he was passing the gate. he stopped for an instant in the hall, slipped off his coat, and walked straight upstairs, humming a tune as he came. jane heard his firm tread, opened the door of their room, and she and martha crossed the hall to a smaller apartment where jane always attended to the business affairs of the house. the captain's face was wreathed in a broad smile as he extended his hand to jane in welcome. "it's lucky ye caught me, miss jane. i was just goin' out, and in a minute i'd been gone for the night. hello, mother martha! i thought you'd gone to trenton." the two women made no reply to his cheery salutation, except to motion him to a seat. then jane closed the door and turned the key in the lock. when the captain emerged from the chamber he stepped out alone. his color was gone, his eyes flashing, his jaw tight set. about his mouth there hovered a savage, almost brutal look, the look of a bulldog who bares his teeth before he tears and strangles--a look his men knew when someone of them purposely disobeyed his orders. for a moment he stood as if dazed. all he remembered clearly was the white, drawn face of a woman gazing at him with staring, tear-drenched eyes, the slow dropping of words that blistered as they fell, and the figure of the nurse wringing her hands and moaning: "oh, i told ye so! i told ye so! why didn't ye listen?" with it came the pain of some sudden blow that deadened his brain and stilled his heart. with a strong effort, like one throwing off a stupor, he raised his head, braced his shoulders, and strode firmly along the corridor and down the stairs on his way to the front door. catching up his coat, he threw it about him, pulled his hat on, with a jerk, slamming the front door, plunged along through the dry leaves that covered the path, and so on out to the main road. once beyond the gate he hesitated, looked up and down, turned to the right and then to the left, as if in doubt, and lunged forward in the direction of the tavern. it was sunday night, and the lounging room was full. one of the inmates rose and offered him a chair--he was much respected in the village, especially among the rougher class, some of whom had sailed with him--but he only waved his hand in thanks. "i don't want to sit down; i'm looking for bart. has he been here?" the sound came as if from between closed teeth. "not as i know of, cap'n," answered the landlord; "not since sundown, nohow." "do any of you know where he is?" the look in the captain's eyes and the sharp, cutting tones of his voice began to be noticed. "do ye want him bad?" asked a man tilted back in a chair against the wall. "yes." "well, i kin tell ye where to find him," "where?" "down on the beach in the refuge shanty. he and the boys have a deck there sunday nights. been at it all fall--thought ye knowed it." out into the night again, and without a word of thanks, down the road and across the causeway to the hard beach, drenched with the ceaseless thrash of the rising sea. he followed no path, picked out no road. stumbling along in the half-gloom of the twilight, he could make out the heads of the sand-dunes, bearded with yellow grass blown flat against their cheeks. soon he reached the prow of the old wreck with its shattered timbers and the water-holes left by the tide. these he avoided, but the smaller objects he trampled upon and over as he strode on, without caring where he stepped or how often he stumbled. outlined against the sand-hills, bleached white under the dull light, he looked like some evil presence bent on mischief, so direct and forceful was his unceasing, persistent stride. when the house of refuge loomed up against the gray froth of the surf he stopped and drew breath. bending forward, he scanned the beach ahead, shading his eyes with his hand as he would have done on his own ship in a fog. he could make out now some streaks of yellow light showing through the cracks one above the other along the side of the house and a dull patch of red. he knew what it meant. bart and his fellows were inside, and were using one of the ship lanterns to see by. this settled in his mind, the captain strode on, but at a slower pace. he had found his bearings, and would steer with caution. hugging the dunes closer, he approached the house from the rear. the big door was shut and a bit of matting had been tacked over the one window to deaden the light. this was why the patch of red was dull. he stood now so near the outside planking that he could hear the laughter and talk of those within. by this time the wind had risen to half a gale and the moan on the outer bar could be heard in the intervals of the pounding surf. the captain crept under the eaves of the roof and listened. he wanted to be sure of bart's voice before he acted. at this instant a sudden gust of wind burst in the big door, extinguishing the light of the lantern, and bart's voice rang out: "stay where you are, boys! don't touch the cards. i know the door, and can fix it; it's only the bolt that's slipped." as bart passed out into the gloom the captain darted forward, seized him with a grip of steel, dragged him clear of the door, and up the sand-dunes out of hearing. then he flung him loose and stood facing the cowering boy. "now stand back and keep away from me, for i'm afraid i'll kill you!" "what have i done?" cringed bart, shielding his face with his elbow as if to ward off a blow. the suddenness of the attack had stunned him. "don't ask me, you whelp, or i'll strangle you. look at me! that's what you been up to, is it?" bart straightened himself, and made some show of resistance. his breath was coming back to him. "i haven't done anything--and if i did--" "you lie! martha's back from trenton and lucy told her. you never thought of me. you never thought of that sister of hers whose heart you've broke, nor of the old woman who nursed her like a mother. you thought of nobody but your stinkin' self. you're not a man! you're a cur! a dog! don't move! keep away from me, i tell ye, or i may lose hold of myself." bart was stretching out his hands now as if in supplication. he had never seen his father like this--the sight frightened him. "father, will you listen--" he pleaded. "i'll listen to nothin'--" "will you, please? it's not all my fault. she ought to have kept out of my way--" "stop! take that back! you'd blame her, would ye--a child just out of school, and as innocent as a baby? by god, you'll do right by her or you'll never set foot inside my house again!" bart faced his father again. "i want to tell you the whole story before you judge me. i want to--" "you'll tell me nothin'! will you act square with her?" "i must tell you first. you wouldn't understand unless--" "you won't? that's what you mean--you mean you won't! damn ye!" the captain raised his clenched fist, quivered for an instant as if struggling against something beyond his control, dropped it slowly to his side and whirling suddenly, strode back up the beach. bart staggered back against the planking, threw out his hand to keep from falling, and watched his father's uncertain, stumbling figure until he was swallowed up in the gloom. the words rang in his ears like a knell. the realization of his position and what it meant, and might mean, rushed over him. for an instant he leaned heavily against the planking until he had caught his breath. then, with quivering lips and shaking legs, he walked slowly back into the house, shutting the big door behind him. "boys," he said with a forced smile, "who do you think's been outside? my father! somebody told him, and he's just been giving me hell for playing cards on sunday." chapter vii the eyes of an old portrait before another sunday night had arrived warehold village was alive with two important pieces of news. the first was the disappearance of bart holt. captain nat, so the story ran, had caught him carousing in the house of refuge on sunday night with some of his boon companions, and after a stormy interview in which the boy pleaded for forgiveness, had driven him out into the night. bart had left town the next morning at daylight and had shipped as a common sailor on board a british bark bound for brazil. no one had seen him go--not even his companions of the night before. the second announcement was more startling. the cobden girls were going to paris. lucy cobden had developed an extraordinary talent for music during her short stay in trenton with her friend maria collins, and miss jane, with her customary unselfishness and devotion to her younger sister, had decided to go with her. they might be gone two years or five--it depended on lucy's success. martha would remain at yardley and take care of the old home. bart's banishment coming first served as a target for the fire of the gossip some days before jane's decision had reached the ears of the villagers. "i always knew he would come to no good end," miss gossaway called out to a passer-by from her eyrie; "and there's more like him if their fathers would look after 'em. guess sea's the best place for him." billy tatham, the stage-driver, did not altogether agree with the extremist. "you hearn tell, i s'pose, of how captain nat handled his boy t'other night, didn't ye?" he remarked to the passenger next to him on the front seat. "it might be the way they did things 'board the black ball line, but 'tain't human and decent, an' i told cap'n nat so to-day. shut his door in his face an' told him he'd kill him if he tried to come in, and all because he ketched him playin' cards on sunday down on the beach. bart warn't no worse than the others he run with, but ye can't tell what these old sea-dogs will do when they git riled. i guess it was the rum more'n the cards. them fellers used to drink a power o' rum in that shanty. i've seen 'em staggerin' home many a monday mornin' when i got down early to open up for my team. it's the rum that riled the cap'n, i guess. he wouldn't stand it aboard ship and used to put his men in irons, i've hearn tell, when they come aboard drunk. what gits me is that the cap'n didn't know them fellers met there every night they could git away, week-days as well as sundays. everybody 'round here knew it 'cept him and the light-keeper, and he's so durned lazy he never once dropped on to 'em. he'd git bounced if the gov'ment found out he was lettin' a gang run the house o' refuge whenever they felt like it. fogarty, the fisherman's, got the key, or oughter have it, but the light-keeper's responsible, so i hearn tell. git-up, billy," and the talk drifted into other channels. the incident was soon forgotten. one young man more or less did not make much difference in warehold. as to captain nat, he was known to be a scrupulously honest, exact man who knew no law outside of his duty. he probably did it for the boy's good, although everybody agreed that he could have accomplished his purpose in some more merciful way. the other sensation--the departure of the two cobden girls, and their possible prolonged stay abroad--did not subside so easily. not only did the neighbors look upon the manor house as the show-place of the village, but the girls themselves were greatly beloved, jane being especially idolized from warehold to barnegat and the sea. to lose jane's presence among them was a positive calamity entailing a sorrow that most of her neighbors could not bring themselves to face. no one could take her place. pastor dellenbaugh, when he heard the news, sank into his study chair and threw up his hands as if to ward off some blow. "miss jane going abroad!" he cried; "and you say nobody knows when she will come back! i can't realize it! we might as well close the school; no one else in the village can keep it together." the cromartins and the others all expressed similar opinions, the younger ladies' sorrow being aggravated when they realized that with lucy away there would be no one to lead in their merrymakings. martha held her peace; she would stay at home, she told mrs. dellenbaugh, and wait for their return and look after the place. her heart was broken with the loneliness that would come, she moaned, but what was best for her bairn she was willing to bear. it didn't make much difference either way; she wasn't long for this world. the doctor's mother heard the news with ill-concealed satisfaction. "a most extraordinary thing has occurred here, my dear," she said to one of her philadelphia friends who was visiting her--she was too politic to talk openly to the neighbors. "you have, of course, met that miss cobden who lives at yardley--not the pretty one--the plain one. well, she is the most quixotic creature in the world. only a few weeks ago she wanted to become a nurse in the public hospital here, and now she proposes to close her house and go abroad for nobody knows how long, simply because her younger sister wants to study music, as if a school-girl couldn't get all the instruction of that kind here that is necessary. really, i never heard of such a thing." to mrs. benson, a neighbor, she said, behind her hand and in strict confidence: "miss cobden is morbidly conscientious over trifles. a fine woman, one of the very finest we have, but a little too strait-laced, and, if i must say it, somewhat commonplace, especially for a woman of her birth and education." to herself she said: "never while i live shall jane cobden marry my john! she can never help any man's career. she has neither the worldly knowledge, nor the personal presence, nor the money." jane gave but one answer to all inquiries--and there were many. "yes, i know the move is a sudden one," she would say, "but it is for lucy's good, and there is no one to go with her but me." no one saw beneath the mask that hid her breaking heart. to them the drawn face and the weary look in her eyes only showed her grief at leaving home and those who loved her: to mrs. cavendish it seemed part of jane's peculiar temperament. nor could they watch her in the silence of the night tossing on her bed, or closeted with martha in her search for the initial steps that had led to this horror. had the philadelphia school undermined her own sisterly teachings or had her companions been at fault? perhaps it was due to the blood of some long-forgotten ancestor, which in the cycle of years had cropped out in this generation, poisoning the fountain of her youth. bart, she realized, had played the villain and the ingrate, but yet it was also true that bart, and all his class, would have been powerless before a woman of a different temperament. who, then, had undermined this citadel and given it over to plunder and disgrace? then with merciless exactness she searched her own heart. had it been her fault? what safeguard had she herself neglected? wherein had she been false to her trust and her promise to her dying father? what could she have done to avert it? these ever-haunting, ever-recurring doubts maddened her. one thing she was determined upon, cost what it might--to protect her sister's name. no daughter of morton cobden's should be pointed at in scorn. for generations no stain of dishonor had tarnished the family name. this must be preserved, no matter who suffered. in this she was sustained by martha, her only confidante. doctor john heard the news from jane's lips before it was known to the villagers. he had come to inquire after martha. she met him at the porch entrance, and led him into the drawing-room, without a word of welcome. then shutting the door, she motioned him to a seat opposite her own on the sofa. the calm, determined way with which this was done--so unusual in one so cordial--startled him. he felt that something of momentous interest, and, judging from jane's face, of serious import, had happened. he invariably took his cue from her face, and his own spirits always rose or fell as the light in her eyes flashed or dimmed. "is there anything the matter?" he asked nervously. "martha worse?" "no, not that; martha is around again--it is about lucy and me." the voice did not sound like jane's. the doctor looked at her intently, but he did not speak. jane continued, her face now deathly pale, her words coming slowly. "you advised me some time ago about lucy's going to trenton, and i am glad i followed it. you thought it would strengthen her love for us all and teach her to love me the better. it has--so much so that hereafter we will never be separated. i hope now you will also approve of what i have just decided upon. lucy is going abroad to live, and i am going with her." as the words fell from her lips her eyes crept up to his face, watching the effect of her statement. it was a cold, almost brutal way of putting it, she knew, but she dared not trust herself with anything less formal. for a moment he sat perfectly still, the color gone from his cheeks, his eyes fixed on hers, a cold chill benumbing the roots of his hair. the suddenness of the announcement seemed to have stunned him. "for how long?" he asked in a halting voice. "i don't know. not less than two years; perhaps longer." "two years? is lucy ill?" "no; she wants to study music, and she couldn't go alone." "have you made up your mind to this?" he asked, in a more positive tone. his self-control was returning now. "yes." doctor john rose from his chair, paced the room slowly for a moment, and crossing to the fireplace with his back to jane, stood under her father's portrait, his elbows on the mantel, his head in his hand. interwoven with the pain which the announcement had given him was the sharper sorrow of her neglect of him. in forming her plans she had never once thought of her lifelong friend. "why did you not tell me something of this before?" the inquiry was not addressed to jane, but to the smouldering coals. "how have i ever failed you? what has my daily life been but an open book for you to read, and here you leave me for years, and never give me a thought." jane started in her seat. "forgive me, my dear friend!" she answered quickly in a voice full of tenderness. "i did not mean to hurt you. it is not that i love all my friends here the less--and you know how truly i appreciate your own friendship--but only that i love my sister more; and my duty is with her. i only decided last night. don't turn your back on me. come and sit by me, and talk to me," she pleaded, holding out her hand. "i need all your strength." as she spoke the tears started to her eyes and her voice sank almost to a whisper. the doctor lifted his head from his palm and walked quickly toward her. the suffering in her voice had robbed him of all resentment. "forgive me, i did not mean it. tell me," he said, in a sudden burst of tenderness--all feeling about himself had dropped away--"why must you go so soon? why not wait until spring?" he had taken his seat beside her now and sat looking into her eyes. "lucy wants to go at once," she replied, in a tone as if the matter did not admit of any discussion. "yes, i know. that's just like her. what she wants she can never wait a minute for, but she certainly would sacrifice some pleasure of her own to please you. if she was determined to be a musician it would be different, but it is only for her pleasure, and as an accomplishment." he spoke earnestly and impersonally, as he always did when she consulted him on any of her affairs, he was trying, too, to wipe from her mind all remembrance of his impatience. jane kept her eyes on the carpet for a moment, and then said quietly, and he thought in rather a hopeless tone: "it is best we go at once." the doctor looked at her searchingly--with the eye of a scientist, this time, probing for a hidden meaning. "then there is something else you have not told me; someone is annoying her, or there is someone with whom you are afraid she will fall in love. who is it? you know how i could help in a matter of that kind." "no; there is no one." doctor john leaned back thoughtfully and tapped the arm of the sofa with his fingers. he felt as if a door had been shut in his face. "i don't understand it," he said slowly, and in a baffled tone. "i have never known you to do a thing like this before. it is entirely unlike you. there is some mystery you are keeping from me. tell me, and let me help." "i can tell you nothing more. can't you trust me to do my duty in my own way?" she stole a look at him as she spoke and again lowered her eyelids. "and you are determined to go?" he asked in his former cross-examining tone. "yes." again the doctor kept silence. despite her assumed courage and determined air, his experienced eye caught beneath it all the shrinking helplessness of the woman. "then i, too, have reached a sudden resolve," he said in a manner almost professional in its precision. "you cannot and shall not go alone." "oh, but lucy and i can get along together," she exclaimed with nervous haste. "there is no one we could take but martha, and she is too old. besides she must look after the house while we are away." "no; martha will not do. no woman will do. i know paris and its life; it is not the place for two women to live in alone, especially so pretty and light-hearted a woman as lucy." "i am not afraid." "no, but i am," he answered in a softened voice, "very much afraid." it was no longer the physician who spoke, but the friend. "of what?" "of a dozen things you do not understand, and cannot until you encounter them," he replied, smoothing her hand tenderly. "yes, but it cannot be helped. there is no one to go with us." this came with some positiveness, yet with a note of impatience in her voice. "yes, there is," he answered gently. "who?" she asked slowly, withdrawing her hand from his caress, an undefined fear rising in her mind. "me. i will go with you." jane looked at him with widening eyes. she knew now. she had caught his meaning in the tones of his voice before he had expressed it, and had tried to think of some way to ward off what she saw was coming, but she was swept helplessly on. "let us go together, jane," he burst out, drawing closer to her. all reserve was gone. the words which had pressed so long for utterance could no longer be held back. "i cannot live here alone without you. you know it, and have always known it. i love you so--don't let us live apart any more. if you must go, go as my wife." a thrill of joy ran through her. her lips quivered. she wanted to cry out, to put her arms around his neck, to tell him everything in her heart. then came a quick, sharp pain that stifled every other thought. for the first time the real bitterness of the situation confronted her. this phase of it she had not counted upon. she shrank back a little. "don't ask me that!" she moaned in a tone almost of pain. "i can stand anything now but that. not now--not now!" her hand was still under his, her fingers lying limp, all the pathos of her suffering in her face: determination to do her duty, horror over the situation, and above them all her overwhelming love for him. he put his arm about her shoulders and drew her to him. "you love me, jane, don't you?" "yes, more than all else in the world," she answered simply. "too well"--and her voice broke--"to have you give up your career for me or mine." "then why should we live apart? i am willing to do as much for lucy as you would. let me share the care and responsibility. you needn't, perhaps, be gone more than a year, and then we will all come back together, and i take up my work again. i need you, my beloved. nothing that i do seems of any use without you. you are my great, strong light, and have always been since the first day i loved you. let me help bear these burdens. you have carried them so long alone." his face lay against hers now, her hand still clasped tight in his. for an instant she did not answer or move; then she straightened a little and lifted her cheek from his. "john," she said--it was the first time in all her life she had called him thus--"you wouldn't love me if i should consent. you have work to do here and i now have work to do on the other side. we cannot work together; we must work apart. your heart is speaking, and i love you for it, but we must not think of it now. it may come right some time--god only knows! my duty is plain--i must go with lucy. neither you nor my dead father would love me if i did differently." "i only know that i love you and that you love me and nothing else should count," he pleaded impatiently. "nothing else shall count. there is nothing you could do would make me love you less. you are practical and wise about all your plans. why has this whim of lucy's taken hold of you as it has? and it is only a whim; lucy will want something else in six months. oh, i cannot--cannot let you go. i'm so desolate without you--my whole life is yours--everything i do is for you. o jane, my beloved, don't shut me out of your life! i will not let you go without me!" his voice vibrated with a certain indignation, as if he had been unjustly treated. she raised one hand and laid it on his forehead, smoothing his brow as a mother would that of a child. the other still lay in his. "don't, john," she moaned, in a half-piteous tone. "don't! don't talk so! i can only bear comforting words to-day. i am too wretched--too utterly broken and miserable. please! please, john!" he dropped her hand and leaning forward put both of his own to his head. he knew how strong was her will and how futile would be his efforts to change her mind unless her conscience agreed. "i won't," he answered, as a strong man answers who is baffled. "i did not mean to be impatient or exacting." then he raised his head and looked steadily into her eyes. "what would you have me do, then?" "wait." "but you give me no promise." "no, i cannot--not now. i am like one staggering along, following a dim light that leads hither and thither, and which may any moment go out and leave me in utter darkness." "then there is something you have not told me?" "o john! can't you trust me?" "and yet you love me?" "as my life, john." when he had gone and she had closed the door upon him, she went back to the sofa where the two had sat together, and with her hands clasped tight above her head, sank down upon its cushions. the tears came like rain now, bitter, blinding tears that she could not check. "i have hurt him," she moaned. "he is so good, and strong, and helpful. he never thinks of himself; it is always of me--me, who can do nothing. the tears were in his eyes--i saw them. oh, i've hurt him--hurt him! and yet, dear god, thou knowest i could not help it." maddened with the pain of it all she sprang up, determined to go to him and tell him everything. to throw herself into his arms and beg forgiveness for her cruelty and crave the protection of his strength. then her gaze fell upon her father's portrait! the cold, steadfast eyes were looking down upon her as if they could read her very soul. "no! no!" she sobbed, putting her hands over her eyes as if to shut out some spectre she had not the courage to face. "it must not be--it cannot be," and she sank back exhausted. when the paroxysm was over she rose to her feet, dried her eyes, smoothed her hair with both hands, and then, with lips tight pressed and faltering steps, walked upstairs to where martha was getting lucy's things ready for the coming journey. crossing the room, she stood with her elbows on the mantel, her cheeks tight pressed between her palms, her eyes on the embers. martha moved from the open trunk and stood behind her. "it was doctor john, wasn't it?" she asked in a broken voice that told of her suffering. "yes," moaned jane from between her hands. "and ye told him about your goin'?" "yes, martha." her frame was shaking with her sobs. "and about lucy?" "no, i could not." martha leaned forward and laid her hand on jane's shoulder. "poor lassie!" she said, patting it softly. "poor lassie! that was the hardest part. he's big and strong and could 'a' comforted ye. my heart aches for ye both!" chapter viii an arrival with the departure of jane and lucy the old homestead took on that desolate, abandoned look which comes to most homes when all the life and joyousness have gone from them. weeds grew in the roadway between the lilacs, dandelions flaunted themselves over the grass-plots; the shutters of the porch side of the house were closed, and the main gate always thrown wide day and night in ungoverned welcome, was seldom opened except to a few intimate friends of the old nurse. at first pastor dellenbaugh had been considerate enough to mount the long path to inquire for news of the travelers and to see how martha was getting along, but after the receipt of the earlier letters from jane telling of their safe arrival and their sojourn in a little village but a short distance out of paris, convenient to the great city, even his visits ceased. captain holt never darkened the door; nor did he ever willingly stop to talk to martha when he met her on the road. she felt the slight, and avoided him when she could. this resulted in their seldom speaking to each other, and then only in the most casual way. she fancied he might think she wanted news of bart, and so gave him no opportunity to discuss him or his whereabouts; but she was mistaken. the captain never mentioned his name to friend or stranger. to him the boy was dead for all time. nor had anyone of his companions heard from him since that stormy night on the beach. doctor john's struggle had lasted for months, but he had come through it chastened and determined. for the first few days he went about his work as one in a dream, his mind on the woman he loved, his hand mechanically doing its duty. jane had so woven herself into his life that her sudden departure had been like the upwrenching of a plant, tearing out the fibres twisted about his heart, cutting off all his sustenance and strength. the inconsistencies of her conduct especially troubled him. if she loved him--and she had told him that she did, and with their cheeks touching--how could she leave him in order to indulge a mere whim of her sister's? and if she loved him well enough to tell him so, why had she refused to plight him her troth? such a course was unnatural, and out of his own and everyone else's experience. women who loved men with a great, strong, healthy love, the love he could give her, and the love he knew she could give him, never permitted such trifles to come between them and their life's happiness. what, he asked himself a thousand times, had brought this change? as the months went by these doubts and speculations one by one passed out of his mind, and only the image of the woman he adored, with all her qualities--loyalty to her trust, tenderness over lucy and unquestioned love for himself--rose clear. no, he would believe in her to the end! she was still all he had in life. if she would not be his wife she should be his friend. that happiness was worth all else to him in the world. his was not to criticise, but to help. help as she wanted it; preserving her standard of personal honor, her devotion to her ideals, her loyalty, her blind obedience to her trust. mrs. cavendish had seen the change in her son's demeanor and had watched him closely through his varying moods, but though she divined their cause she had not sought to probe his secret. his greatest comfort was in his visits to martha. he always dropped in to see her when he made his rounds in the neighborhood; sometimes every day, sometimes once a week, depending on his patients and their condition--visits which were always prolonged when a letter came from either of the girls, for at first lucy wrote to the old nurse as often as did jane. apart from this the doctor loved the patient caretaker, both for her loyalty and for her gentleness. and she loved him in return; clinging to him as an older woman clings to a strong man, following his advice (he never gave orders) to the minutest detail when something in the management or care of house or grounds exceeded her grasp. consulting him, too, and this at jane's special request--regarding any financial complications which needed prompt attention, and which, but for his services, might have required jane's immediate return to disentangle. she loved, too, to talk of lucy and of miss jane's goodness to her bairn, saying she had been both a sister and a mother to her, to which the doctor would invariably add some tribute of his own which only bound the friendship the closer. his main relief, however, lay in his work, and in this he became each day more engrossed. he seemed never to be out of his gig unless at the bedside of some patient. so long and wearing had the routes become--often beyond barnegat and as far as westfield--that the sorrel gave out, and he was obliged to add another horse to his stable. his patients saw the weary look in his eyes--as of one who had often looked on sorrow--and thought it was the hard work and anxiety over them that had caused it. but the old nurse knew better. "his heart's breakin' for love of her," she would say to meg, looking down into his sleepy eyes--she cuddled him more than ever these days--"and i don't wonder. god knows how it'll all end." jane wrote to him but seldom; only half a dozen letters in all during the first year of her absence among them one to tell him of their safe arrival, another to thank him for his kindness to martha, and a third to acknowledge the receipt of a letter of introduction to a student friend of his who was now a prominent physician in paris, and who might be useful in case either of them fell ill. he had written to his friend at the same time, giving the address of the two girls, but the physician had answered that he had called at the street and number, but no one knew of them. the doctor reported this to jane in his next letter, asking her to write to his friend so that he might know of their whereabouts should they need his services, for which jane, in a subsequent letter, thanked him, but made no mention of sending to his friend should occasion require. these subsequent letters said very little about their plans and carefully avoided all reference to their daily life or to lucy's advancement in her studies, and never once set any time for their coming home. he wondered at her neglect of him, and when no answer came to his continued letters, except at long intervals, he could contain himself no longer, and laid the whole matter before martha. "she means nothing, doctor, dear," she had answered, taking his hand and looking up into his troubled face. "her heart is all right; she's goin' through deep waters, bein' away from everybody she loves--you most of all. don't worry; keep on lovin' her, ye'll never have cause to repent it." that same night martha wrote to jane, giving her every detail of the interview, and in due course of time handed the doctor a letter in which jane wrote: "he must not stop writing to me; his letters are all the comfort i have"--a line not intended for the doctor's eyes, but which the good soul could not keep from him, so eager was she to relieve his pain. jane's letter to him in answer to his own expressing his unhappiness over her neglect was less direct, but none the less comforting to him. "i am constantly moving about," the letter ran, "and have much to do and cannot always answer your letters, so please do not expect them too often. but i am always thinking of you and your kindness to dear martha. you do for me when you do for her." after this it became a settled habit between them, he writing by the weekly steamer, telling her every thought of his life, and she replying at long intervals. in these no word of love was spoken on her side; nor was any reference made to their last interview. but this fact did not cool the warmth of his affection nor weaken his faith. she had told him she loved him, and with her own lips. that was enough--enough from a woman like jane. he would lose faith when she denied it in the same way. in the meantime she was his very breath and being. one morning two years after jane's departure, while the doctor and his mother sat at breakfast, mrs. cavendish filling the tea-cups, the spring sunshine lighting up the snow-white cloth and polished silver, the mail arrived and two letters were laid at their respective plates, one for the doctor and the other for his mother. as doctor john glanced at the handwriting his face flushed, and his eyes danced with pleasure. with eager, trembling fingers he broke the seal and ran his eyes hungrily over the contents. it had been his habit to turn to the bottom of the last page before he read the preceding ones, so that he might see the signature and note the final words of affection or friendship, such as "ever your friend," or "affectionately yours," or simply "your friend," written above jane's name. these were to him the thermometric readings of the warmth of her heart. half way down the first page--before he had time to turn the leaf--he caught his breath in an effort to smother a sudden outburst of joy. then with a supreme effort he regained his self-control and read the letter to the end. (he rarely mentioned jane's name to his mother, and he did not want his delight over the contents of the letter to be made the basis of comment.) mrs. cavendish's outburst over the contents of her own envelope broke the silence and relieved his tension. "oh, how fortunate!" she exclaimed. "listen, john; now i really have good news for you. you remember i told you that i met old dr. pencoyd the last time i was in philadelphia, and had a long talk with him. i told him how you were buried here and how hard you worked and how anxious i was that you should leave barnegat, and he promised to write to me, and he has. here's his letter. he says he is getting too old to continue his practice alone, that his assistant has fallen ill, and that if you will come to him at once he will take you into partnership and give you half his practice. i always knew something good would come out of my last visit to philadelphia. aren't you delighted, my son?" "yes, perfectly overjoyed," answered the doctor, laughing. he was more than delighted--brimming over with happiness, in fact--but not over his mother's news; it was the letter held tight in his grasp that was sending electric thrills through him. "a fine old fellow is dr. pencoyd--known him for years," he continued; "i attended his lectures before i went abroad. lives in a musty old house on chestnut street, stuffed full of family portraits and old mahogany furniture, and not a comfortable chair or sofa in the place; wears yellow nankeen waist-coats, takes snuff, and carries a fob. oh, yes, same old fellow. very kind of him, mother, but wouldn't you rather have the sunlight dance in upon you as it does here and catch a glimpse of the sea through the window than to look across at your neighbors' back walls and white marble steps?" it was across that same sea that jane was coming, and the sunshine would come with her! "yes; but, john, surely you are not going to refuse this without looking into it?" she argued, eyeing him through her gold-rimmed glasses. "go and see him, and then you can judge. it's his practice you want, not his house." "no; that's just what i don't want. i've got too much practice now. somehow i can't keep my people well. no, mother, dear, don't bother your dear head over the old doctor and his wants. write him that i am most grateful, but that the fact is i need an assistant myself, and if he will be good enough to send someone down here, i'll keep him busy every hour of the day and night. then, again," he continued, a more serious tone in his voice, "i couldn't possibly leave here now, even if i wished to, which i do not." mrs. cavendish eyed him intently. she had expected just such a refusal nothing that she ever planned for his advancement did he agree to. "why not?" she asked, with some impatience. "the new hospital is about finished, and i am going to take charge of it." "do they pay you for it?" she continued, in an incisive tone. "no, i don't think they will, nor can. it's not, that kind of a hospital," answered the doctor gravely. "and you will look after these people just as you do after fogarty and the branscombs, and everybody else up and down the shore, and never take a penny in pay!" she retorted with some indignation. "i am afraid i will, mother. a disappointing son, am i not? but there's no one to blame but yourself, old lady," and with a laugh he rose from his seat, jane's letter in his hand, and kissed his mother on the cheek. "but, john, dear," she exclaimed in a pleading petulance as she looked into his face, still holding on to the sleeve of his coat to detain him the longer, "just think of this letter of pencoyd's; nothing has ever been offered you better than this. he has the very best people in philadelphia on his list, and you would get--" the doctor slipped his hand under his mother's chin, as he would have done to a child, and said with a twinkle in his eye--he was very happy this morning: "that's precisely my case--i've got the very best people in three counties on my list. that's much better than the old doctor." "who are they, pray?" she was softening under her son's caress. "well, let me think. there's the distinguished mr. tatham, who attends to the transportation of the cities of warehold and barnegat; and the right honorable mr. tipple, and mrs. and miss gossaway, renowned for their toilets--" mrs. cavendish bit her lip. when her son was in one of these moods it was all she could do to keep her temper. "and the wonderful mrs. malmsley, and--" mrs. cavendish looked up. the name had an aristocratic sound, but it was unknown to her. "who is she?" "why, don't you know the wonderful mrs. malmsley?" inquired the doctor, with a quizzical smile. "no, i never heard of her." "well, she's just moved into warehold. poor woman, she hasn't been out of bed for years! she's the wife of the new butcher, and--" "the butcher's wife?" "the butcher's wife, my dear mother, a most delightful old person, who has brought up three sons, and each one a credit to her." mrs. cavendish let go her hold on the doctor's sleeve and settled back in her chair. "and you won't even write to dr. pencoyd?" she asked in a disheartened way, as if she knew he would refuse. "oh, with pleasure, and thank him most kindly, but i couldn't leave barnegat; not now. not at any time, so far as i can see." "and i suppose when jane cobden comes home in a year or so she will work with you in the hospital. she wanted to turn nurse the last time i talked to her." this special arrow in her maternal quiver, poisoned with her jealousy, was always ready. "i hope so," he replied, with a smile that lighted up his whole face; "only it will not be a year. miss jane will be here on the next steamer." mrs. cavendish put down her tea-cup and looked at her son in astonishment. the doctor still kept his eyes on her face. "be here by the next steamer! how do you know?" the doctor held up the letter. "lucy will remain," he added. "she is going to germany to continue her studies." "and jane is coming home alone?" "no, she brings a little child with her, the son of a friend, she writes. she asks that i arrange to have martha meet them at the dock." "somebody, i suppose, she has picked up out of the streets. she is always doing these wild, unpractical things. whose child is it?" "she doesn't say, but i quite agree with you that it was helpless, or she wouldn't have protected it." "why don't lucy come with her?" the doctor shrugged his shoulders. "and i suppose you will go to the ship to meet her?" the doctor drew himself up, clicked his heels together with the air of an officer saluting his superior--really to hide his joy--and said with mock gravity, his hand on his heart: "i shall, most honorable mother, be the first to take her ladyship's hand as she walks down the gangplank." then he added, with a tone of mild reproof in his voice: "what a funny, queer old mother you are! always worrying yourself over the unimportant and the impossible," and stooping down, he kissed her again on the cheek and passed out of the room on the way to his office. "that woman always comes up at the wrong moment," mrs. cavendish said to herself in a bitter tone. "i knew he had received some word from her, i saw it in his face. he would have gone to philadelphia but for jane cobden." chapter ix the spread of fire the doctor kept his word. his hand was the first that touched jane's when she came down the gangplank, martha beside him, holding out her arms for the child, cuddling it to her bosom, wrapping her shawl about it as if to protect it from the gaze of the inquisitive. "o doctor! it was so good of you!" were jane's first words. it hurt her to call him thus, but she wanted to establish the new relation clearly. she had shouldered her cross and must bear its weight alone and in her own way. "you don't know what it is to see a face from home! i am so glad to get here. but you should not have left your people; i wrote martha and told her so. all i wanted you to do was to have her meet me here. thank you, dear friend, for coming." she had not let go his hand, clinging to him as a timid woman in crossing a narrow bridge spanning an abyss clings to the strong arm of a man. he helped her to the dock as tenderly as if she had been a child; asking her if the voyage had been a rough one, whether she had been ill in her berth, and whether she had taken care of the baby herself, and why she had brought no nurse with her. she saw his meaning, but she did not explain her weakness or offer any explanation of the cause of her appearance or of the absence of a nurse. in a moment she changed the subject, asking after his mother and his own work, and seemed interested in what he told her about the neighbors. when the joy of hearing her voice and of looking into her dear face once more had passed, his skilled eyes probed the deeper. he noted with a sinking at the heart the dark circles under the drooping lids, the drawn, pallid skin and telltale furrows that had cut their way deep into her cheeks. her eyes, too, had lost their lustre, and her step lacked the spring and vigor of her old self. the diagnosis alarmed him. even the mould of her face, so distinguished, and to him so beautiful, had undergone a change; whether through illness, or because of some mental anguish, he could not decide. when he pressed his inquiries about lucy she answered with a half-stifled sigh that lucy had decided to remain abroad for a year longer; adding that it had been a great relief to her, and that at first she had thought of remaining with her, but that their affairs, as he knew, had become so involved at home that she feared their means of living might be jeopardized if she did not return at once. the child, however, would be a comfort to both martha and herself until lucy came. then she added in a constrained voice: "its mother would not, or could not care for it, and so i brought it with me." once at home and the little waif safely tucked away in the crib that had sheltered lucy in the old days, the neighbors began to flock in; uncle ephraim among the first. "my, but i'm glad you're back!" he burst out. "martha's been lonelier than a cat in a garret, and down at our house we ain't much better. and so that bunch of roses is going to stay over there, is she, and set those frenchies crazy?" pastor dellenbaugh took both of jane's hands into his own and looking into her face, said: "ah, but we've missed you! there has been no standard, my dear miss jane, since you've been gone. i have felt it, and so has everyone in the church. it is good to have you once more with us." mrs. cavendish could hardly conceal her satisfaction, although she was careful what she said to her son. her hope was that the care of the child would so absorb jane that john would regain his freedom and be no longer subservient to miss cobden's whims. "and so lucy is to stay in paris?" she said, with one of her sweetest smiles. "she is so charming and innocent, that sweet sister of yours, my dear miss jane, and so sympathetic. i quite lost my heart to her. and to study music, too? a most noble accomplishment, my dear. my grandmother, who was an erskine, you know, played divinely on the harp, and many of my ancestors, especially the dagworthys, were accomplished musicians. your sister will look lovely bending over a harp. my grandmother had her portrait painted that way by peale, and it still hangs in the old house in trenton. and they tell me you have brought a little angel with you to bring up and share your loneliness? how pathetic, and how good of you!" the village women--they came in groups--asked dozens of questions before jane had had even time to shake each one by the hand. was lucy so in love with the life abroad that she would never come back? was she just as pretty as ever? what kind of bonnets were being worn? etc., etc. the child in martha's arms was, of course, the object of special attention. they all agreed that it was a healthy, hearty, and most beautiful baby; just the kind of a child one would want to adopt if one had any such extraordinary desires. this talk continued until they had gained the highway, when they also agreed--and this without a single dissenting voice--that in all the village jane cobden was the only woman conscientious enough to want to bring up somebody else's child, and a foreigner at that, when there were any quantity of babies up and down the shore that could be had for the asking. the little creature was, no doubt, helpless, and appealed to miss jane's sympathies, but why bring it home at all? were there not places enough in france where it could be brought up? etc., etc. this sort of gossip went on for days after jane's return, each dropper-in at tea-table or village gathering having some view of her own to express, the women doing most of the talking. the discussion thus begun by friends was soon taken up by the sewing societies and church gatherings, one member in good standing remarking loud enough to be heard by everybody: "as for me, i ain't never surprised at nothin' jane cobden does. she's queerer than dick's hat-band, and allus was, and i've knowed her ever since she used to toddle up to my house and i baked cookies for her. i've seen her many a time feed the dog with what i give her, just because she said he looked hungry, which there warn't a mite o' truth in, for there ain't nothin' goes hungry round my place, and never was. she's queer, i tell ye." "quite true, dear mrs. pokeberry," remarked pastor dellenbaugh in his gentlest tone--he had heard the discussion as he was passing through the room and had stopped to listen--"especially when mercy and kindness is to be shown. some poor little outcast, no doubt, with no one to take care of it, and so this grand woman brings it home to nurse and educate. i wish there were more jane cobdens in my parish. many of you talk good deeds, and justice, and christian spirit; here is a woman who puts them into practice." this statement having been made during the dispersal of a wednesday night meeting, and in the hearing of half the congregation, furnished the key to the mystery, and so for a time the child and its new-found mother ceased to be an active subject of discussion. ann gossaway, however, was not satisfied. the more she thought of the pastor's explanation the more she resented it as an affront to her intelligence. "if folks wants to pick up stray babies," she shouted to her old mother on her return home one night, "and bring 'em home to nuss, they oughter label 'em with some sort o' pedigree, and not keep the village a-guessin' as to who they is and where they come from. i don't believe a word of this outcast yarn. guess miss lucy is all right, and she knows enough to stay away when all this tomfoolery's goin' on. she doesn't want to come back to a child's nussery." to all of which her mother nodded her head, keeping it going like a toy mandarin long after the subject of discussion had been changed. little by little the scandal spread: by innuendoes; by the wise shakings of empty heads; by nods and winks; by the piecing out of incomplete tattle. for the spread of gossip is like the spread of fire: first a smouldering heat--some friction of ill-feeling, perhaps, over a secret sin that cannot be smothered, try as we may; next a hot, blistering tongue of flame creeping stealthily; then a burst of scorching candor and the roar that ends in ruin. sometimes the victim is saved by a dash of honest water--the outspoken word of some brave friend. more often those who should stamp out the burning brand stand idly by until the final collapse and then warm themselves at the blaze. here in warehold it began with some whispered talk: bart holt had disappeared; there was a woman in the case somewhere; bart's exile had not been entirely caused by his love of cards and drink. reference was also made to the fact that jane had gone abroad but a short time after bart's disappearance, and that knowing how fond she was of him, and how she had tried to reform him, the probability was that she had met him in paris. doubts having been expressed that no woman of jane cobden's position would go to any such lengths to oblige so young a fellow as bart holt, the details of their intimacy were passed from mouth to mouth, and when this was again scouted, reference was made to miss gossaway, who was supposed to know more than she was willing to tell. the dressmaker denied all responsibility for the story, but admitted that she had once seen them on the beach "settin' as close together as they could git, with the red cloak she had made for miss jane wound about 'em. "'twarn't none o' my business, and i told martha so, and 'tain't none o' my business now, but i'd rather die than tell a lie or scandalize anybody, and so if ye ask me if i saw 'em i'll have to tell ye i did. i don't believe, howsomever, that miss jane went away to oblige that good-for-nothin' or that she's ever laid eyes on him since. lucy is what took her. she's one o' them flyaways. i see that when she was home, and there warn't no peace up to the cobdens' house till they'd taken her somewheres where she could git all the runnin' round she wanted. as for the baby, there ain't nobody knows where miss jane picked that up, but there ain't no doubt but what she loves it same's if it was her own child. she's named it archie, after her grandfather, anyhow. that's what martha and she calls it. so they're not ashamed of it." when the fire had spent itself, only one spot remained unscorched: this was the parentage of little archie. that mystery still remained unsolved. those of her own class who knew jane intimately admired her kindness of heart and respected her silence; those who did not soon forgot the boy's existence. the tavern loungers, however, some of whom only knew the cobden girls by reputation, had theories of their own; theories which were communicated to other loungers around other tavern stoves, most of whom would not have known either of the ladies on the street. the fact that both women belonged to a social stratum far above them gave additional license to their tongues; they could never be called in question by anybody who overheard, and were therefore safe to discuss the situation at their will. condensed into illogical shape, the story was that jane had met a foreigner who had deserted her, leaving her to care for the child alone; that lucy had refused to come back to warehold, had taken what money was coming to her, and, like a sensible woman, had stayed away. that there was not the slightest foundation for this slander did not lessen its acceptance by a certain class; many claimed that it offered the only plausible solution to the mystery, and must, therefore, be true. it was not long before the echoes of these scandals reached martha's ears. the gossips dare not affront miss jane with their suspicions, but martha was different. if they could irritate her by speaking lightly of her mistress, she might give out some information which would solve the mystery. one night a servant of one of the neighbors stopped martha on the road and sent her flying home; not angry, but terrified. "they're beginnin' to talk," she broke out savagely, as she entered jane's room, her breath almost gone from her run to the house. "i laughed at it and said they dare not one of 'em say it to your face or mine, but they're beginnin' to talk." "is it about barton holt? have they heard anything from him?" asked jane. the fear of his return had always haunted her. "no, and they won't. he'll never come back here ag'in. the captain would kill him." "it isn't about lucy, then, is it?" cried jane, her color going. martha shook her head in answer to save her breath. "who, then?" cried jane, nervously. "not archie?" "yes, archie and you." "what do they say?" asked jane, her voice fallen to a whisper. "they say it's your child, and that ye're afraid to tell who the father is." jane caught at the chair for support and then sank slowly into her seat. "who says so?" she gasped. "nobody that you or i know; some of the beach-combers and hide-by-nights, i think, started it. pokeberry's girl told me; her brother works in the shipyard." jane sat looking at martha with staring eyes. "how dare they--" "they dare do anything, and we can't answer back. that's what's goin' to make it hard. it's nobody's business, but that don't satisfy 'em. i've been through it meself; i know how mean they can be." "they shall never know--not while i have life left in me," jane exclaimed firmly. "yes, but that won't keep 'em from lyin'." the two sat still for some minutes, martha gazing into vacancy, jane lying back in her chair, her eyes closed. one emotion after another coursed through her with lightning rapidity--indignation at the charge, horror at the thought that any of her friends might believe it, followed by a shivering fear that her father's good name, for all her care and suffering, might be smirched at last. suddenly there arose the tall image of doctor john, with his frank, tender face. what would he think of it, and how, if he questioned her, could she answer him? then there came to her that day of parting in paris. she remembered lucy's willingness to give up the child forever, and so cover up all traces of her sin, and her own immediate determination to risk everything for her sister's sake. as this last thought welled up in her mind and she recalled her father's dying command, her brow relaxed. come what might, she was doing her duty. this was her solace and her strength. "cruel, cruel people!" she said to martha, relaxing her hands. "how can they be so wicked? but i am glad it is i who must take the brunt of it all. if they would treat me so, who am innocent, what would they do to my poor lucy?" chapter x a late visitor these rumors never reached the doctor. no scandalmonger ever dared talk gossip to him. when he first began to practise among the people of warehold, and some garrulous old dame would seek to enrich his visit by tittle-tattle about her neighbors, she had never tried it a second time. doctor john of barnegat either received the news in silence or answered it with some pleasantry; even ann gossaway held her peace whenever the doctor had to be called in to prescribe for her oversensitive throat. he was aware that jane had laid herself open to criticism in bringing home a child about which she had made no explanation, but he never spoke of it nor allowed anyone to say so to him. he would have been much happier, of course, if she had given him her confidence in this as she had in many other matters affecting her life; but he accepted her silence as part of her whole attitude toward him. knowing her as he did, he was convinced that her sole incentive was one of loving kindness, both for the child and for the poor mother whose sin or whose poverty she was concealing. in this connection, he remembered how in one of her letters to martha she had told of the numberless waifs she had seen and how her heart ached for them; especially in the hospitals which she had visited and among the students. he recalled that he himself had had many similar experiences in his paris days, in which a woman like jane cobden would have been a veritable angel of mercy. mrs. cavendish's ears were more easily approached by the gossips of warehold and vicinity; then, again she was always curious over the inmates of the cobden house, and any little scraps of news, reliable or not, about either jane or her absent sister were eagerly listened to. finding it impossible to restrain herself any longer, she had seized the opportunity one evening when she and her son were sitting together in the salon, a rare occurrence for the doctor, and only possible when his patients were on the mend. "i'm sorry jane cobden was so foolish as to bring home that baby," she began. "why?" said the doctor, without lifting his eyes from the book he was reading. "oh, she lays herself open to criticism. it is, of course, but one of her eccentricities, but she owes something to her position and birth and should not invite unnecessary comment." "who criticises her?" asked the doctor, his eyes still on the pages. "oh, you can't tell; everybody is talking about it. some of the gossip is outrageous, some i could not even repeat." "i have no doubt of it," answered the doctor quietly. "all small places like warehold and barnegat need topics of conversation, and miss jane for the moment is furnishing one of them. they utilize you, dear mother, and me, and everybody else in the same way. but that is no reason why we should lend our ears or our tongues to spread and encourage it." "i quite agree with you, my son, and i told the person who told me how foolish and silly it was, but they will talk, no matter what you say to them." "what do they say?" asked the doctor, laying down his book and rising from his chair. "oh, all sorts of things. one rumor is that captain holt's son, barton, the one that quarrelled with his father and who went to sea, could tell something of the child, if he could be found." the doctor laughed. "he can be found," he answered. "i saw his father only last week, and he told me bart was in brazil. that is some thousand of miles from paris, but a little thing like that in geography doesn't seem to make much difference to some of our good people. why do you listen to such nonsense?" he added as he kissed her tenderly and, with a pat on her cheek, left the room for his study. his mother's talk had made but little impression upon him. gossip of this kind was always current when waifs like archie formed the topic; but it hurt nobody, he said to himself--nobody like jane. sitting under his study lamp looking up some complicated case, his books about him, jane's sad face came before him. "has she not had trouble enough," he said to himself, "parted from lucy and with her unsettled money affairs, without having to face these gnats whose sting she cannot ward off?" with this came the thought of his own helplessness to comfort her. he had taken her at her word that night before she left for paris, when she had refused to give him her promise and had told him to wait, and he was still ready to come at her call; loving her, watching ever her, absorbed in every detail of her daily life, and eager to grant her slightest wish, and yet he could not but see that she had, since her return, surrounded herself with a barrier which he could neither understand nor break down whenever he touched on their personal relations. had he loved her less he would, in justice to himself, have faced all her opposition and demanded an answer--yes or no--as to whether she would yield to his wishes. but his generous nature forbade any such stand and his reverence for her precluded any such mental attitude. lifting his eyes from his books and gazing dreamily into the space before him, he recalled, with a certain sinking of the heart, a conversation which had taken place between jane and himself a few days after her arrival--an interview which had made a deep impression upon him. the two, in the absence of martha--she had left the room for a moment--were standing beside the crib watching the child's breathing. seizing the opportunity, one he had watched for, he had told her how much he had missed her during the two years, and how much happier his life was now that he could touch her hand and listen to her voice. she had evaded his meaning, making answer that his pleasure, was nothing compared to her own when she thought how safe the baby would be in his hands; adding quickly that she could never thank him enough for remaining in barnegat and not leaving her helpless and without a "physician." the tone with which she pronounced the word had hurt him. he thought he detected a slight inflection, as if she were making a distinction between his skill as an expert and his love as a man, but he was not sure. still gazing into the shadows before him, his unread book in his hand, he recalled a later occasion when she appeared rather to shrink from him than to wish to be near him, speaking to him with downcast eyes and without the frank look in her face which was always his welcome. on this day she was more unstrung and more desolate than he had ever seen her. at length, emboldened by his intense desire to help, and putting aside every obstacle, he had taken her hand and had said with all his heart in his voice: "jane, you once told me you loved me. is it still true?" he remembered how at first she had not answered, and how after a moment she had slowly withdrawn her hand and had replied in a voice almost inarticulate, so great was her emotion. "yes, john, and always will be, but it can never go beyond that--never, never. don't ask many more questions. don't talk to me about it. not now, john--not now! don't hate me! let us be as we have always been--please, john! you would not refuse me if you knew." he had started forward to take her in his arms; to insist that now every obstacle was removed she should give him at once the lawful right to protect her, but she had shrunk back, the palms of her hands held out as barriers, and before he could reason with her martha had entered with something for little archie, and so the interview had come to an end. then, still absorbed in his thoughts, his eyes suddenly brightened and a certain joy trembled in his heart as he remembered that with all these misgivings and doubts there were other times--and their sum was in the ascendency--when she showed the same confidence in his judgement and the same readiness to take his advice; when the old light would once more flash in her eyes as she grasped his hand and the old sadness again shadow her face when his visits came to an end. with this he must be for a time content. these and a hundred other thoughts raced through doctor john's mind as he sat to-night in his study chair, the lamplight falling on his open books and thin, delicately modelled hands. once he rose from his seat and began pacing his study floor, his hands behind his back, his mind on jane, on her curious and incomprehensible moods, trying to solve them as he walked, trusting and leaning upon him one day and shrinking from him the next. baffled for the hundredth time in this mental search, he dropped again into his chair, and adjusting the lamp, pulled his books toward him to devote his mind to their contents. as the light flared up he caught the sound of a step upon the gravel outside, and then a heavy tread upon the porch. an instant later his knocker sounded. doctor cavendish gave a sigh--he had hoped to have one night at home--and rose to open the door. captain nat holt stood outside. his pea-jacket was buttoned close up under his chin, his hat drawn tight down over his forehead. his weather-beaten face, as the light fell upon it, looked cracked and drawn, with dark hollows under the eyes, which the shadows from the lamplight deepened. "it's late, i know, doctor," he said in a hoarse, strained voice; "ten o'clock, maybe, but i got somethin' to talk to ye about," and he strode into the room. "alone, are ye?" he continued, as he loosened his coat and laid his hat on the desk. "where's the good mother? home, is she?" "yes, she's inside," answered the doctor, pointing to the open door leading to the salon and grasping the captain's brawny hand in welcome. "why? do you want to see her?" "no, i don't want to see her; don't want to see nobody but you. she can't hear, can she? 'scuse me--i'll close this door." the doctor looked at him curiously. the captain seemed to be laboring under a nervous strain, unusual in one so stolid and self-possessed. the door closed, the captain moved back a cushion, dropped into a corner of the sofa, and sat looking at the doctor, with legs apart, his open palms resting on his knees. "i got bad news, doctor--awful bad news for everybody," as he spoke he reached into his pocket and produced a letter with a foreign postmark. "you remember my son bart, of course, don't ye, who left home some two years ago?" he went on. the doctor nodded. "well, he's dead." "your son bart dead!" cried the doctor, repeating his name in the surprise of the announcement. "how do you know?" "this letter came by to-day's mail. it's from the consul at rio. bart come in to see him dead broke and he helped him out. he'd run away from the ship and was goin' up into the mines to work, so the consul wrote me. he was in once after that and got a little money, and then he got down with yellow fever and they took him to the hospital, and he died in three days. there ain't no doubt about it. here's a list of the dead in the paper; you kin read his name plain as print." doctor john reached for the letter and newspaper clipping and turned them toward the lamp. the envelope was stamped "rio janeiro" and the letter bore the official heading of the consulate. "that's dreadful, dreadful news, captain," said the doctor in sympathetic tones. "poor boy! it's too bad. perhaps, however, there may be some mistake, after all. foreign hospital registers are not always reliable," added the doctor in a hopeful tone. "no, it's all true, or benham wouldn't write me what he has. i've known him for years. he knows me, too, and he don't go off half-cocked. i wrote him to look after bart and sent him some money and give him the name of the ship, and he watched for her and sent for him all right. i was pretty nigh crazy that night he left, and handled him, maybe, rougher'n i ou'ter, but i couldn't help it. there's some things i can't stand, and what he done was one of 'em. it all comes back to me now, but i'd do it ag'in." as he spoke the rough, hard sailor leaned forward and rested his chin on his hand. the news had evidently been a great shock to him. the doctor reached over and laid his hand on the captain's knee. "i'm very, very sorry, captain, for you and for bart; and the only son you have, is it not?" "yes, and the only child we ever had. that makes it worse. thank god, his mother's dead! all this would have broken her heart." for a moment the two men were silent, then the captain continued in a tone as if he were talking to himself, his eyes on the lamp: "but i couldn't have lived with him after that, and i told him so--not till he acted fair and square, like a man. i hoped he would some day, but that's over now." "we're none of us bad all the way through, captain," reasoned the doctor, "and don't you think of him in that way. he would have come to himself some day and been a comfort to you. i didn't know him as well as i might, and only as i met him at yardley, but he must have had a great many fine qualities or the cobdens wouldn't have liked him. miss jane used often to talk to me about him. she always believed in him. she will be greatly distressed over this news." "that's what brings me here. i want you to tell her, and not me. i'm afraid it'll git out and she'll hear it, and then she'll be worse off than she is now. maybe it's best to say nothin' 'bout it to nobody and let it go. there ain't no one but me to grieve for him, and they don't send no bodies home, not from rio, nor nowheres along that coast. maybe, too, it ain't the time to say it to her. i was up there last week to see the baby, and she looked thinner and paler than i ever see her. i didn't know what to do, so i says to myself, 'there's doctor john, he's at her house reg'lar and knows the ins and outs of her, and i'll go and tell him 'bout it and ask his advice.' i'd rather cut my hand off than hurt her, for if there's an angel on earth she's one. she shakes so when i mention bart's name and gits so flustered, that's why i dar'n't tell her. now he's dead there won't be nobody to do right by archie. i can't; i'm all muzzled up tight. she made me take an oath, same as she has you, and i ain't goin' to break it any more'n you would. the little feller'll have to git 'long best way he kin now." doctor john bent forward in his chair and looked at the captain curiously. his words convey no meaning to him. for an instant he thought that the shock of his son's death had unsettled the man's mind. "take an oath! what for?" "'bout archie and herself." "but i've taken no oath!" "well, perhaps it isn't your habit; it ain't some men's. i did." "what about?" it was the captain's turn now to look searchingly into his companion's face. the doctor's back was toward the lamp, throwing his face into shadow, but the captain could read its expression plainly. "you mean to tell me, doctor, you don't know what's goin' on up at yardley? you do, of course, but you won't say--that's like you doctors!" "yes, everything. but what has your son bart got to do with it?" "got to do with it! ain't jane cobden motherin' his child?" the doctor lunged forward in his seat, his eyes staring straight at the captain. had the old sailor struck him in the face he could not have been more astounded. "his child!" he cried savagely. "certainly! whose else is it? you knew, didn't ye?" the doctor settled back in his chair with the movement of an ox felled by a sudden blow. with the appalling news there rang in his ears the tones of his mother's voice retailing the gossip of the village. this, then, was what she could not repeat. after a moment he raised his head and asked in a low, firm voice: "did bart go to paris after he left here?" "no, of course not! went 'board the corsair bound for rio, and has been there ever since. i told you that before. there weren't no necessity for her to meet him in paris." the doctor sprang from his chair and with eyes biasing and fists tightly clenched, stood over the captain. "and you dare to sit there and tell me that miss jane cobden is that child's mother?" the captain struggled to his feet, his open hands held up to the doctor as if to ward off a blow. "miss jane! no, by god! no! are you crazy? sit down, sit down, i tell ye!" "who, then? speak!" "lucy! that's what i drove bart out for. mort cobden's daughter--mort, mind ye, that was a brother to me since i was a boy! jane that that child's mother! yes, all the mother poor archie's got! ask miss jane, she'll tell ye. tell ye how she sits and eats her heart out to save her sister that's too scared to come home. i want to cut my tongue out for tellin' ye, but i thought ye knew. martha told me you loved her and that she loved you, and i thought she'd told ye. jane cobden crooked! no more'n the angels are. now, will you tell her bart's dead, or shall i?" "i will tell her," answered the doctor firmly, "and to-night." chapter xi morton cobden's daughter the cold wind from the sea freighted with the raw mist churned by the breakers cut sharply against doctor john's cheeks as he sprang into his gig and dashed out of his gate toward yardley. under the shadow of the sombre pines, along the ribbon of a road, dull gray in the light of the stars, and out on the broader highway leading to warehold, the sharp click of the mare's hoofs striking the hard road echoed through the night. the neighbors recognized the tread and the speed, and uncle ephraim threw up a window to know whether it was a case of life or death, an accident, or both; but the doctor only nodded and sped on. it was life and death--life for the woman he loved, death for all who traduced her. the strange news that had dropped from the captain's lips did not affect him except as would the ending of any young life; neither was there any bitterness in his heart against the dead boy who had wrecked lucy's career and brought jane humiliation and despair. all he thought of was the injustice of jane's sufferings. added to this was an overpowering desire to reach her side before her misery should continue another moment; to fold her in his arms, stand between her and the world; help her to grapple with the horror which was slowly crushing out her life. that it was past her hour for retiring, and that there might be no one to answer his summons, made no difference to him. he must see her at all hazards before he closed his eyes. as he whirled into the open gates of yardley and peered from under the hood of the gig at the outlines of the old house, looming dimly through the avenue of bushes, he saw that the occupants were asleep; no lights shone from the upper windows and none burned in the hall below. this discovery checked to some extent the impetus with which he had flung himself into the night, his whole being absorbed and dominated by one idea. the cool wind, too, had begun to tell upon his nerves. he drew rein on the mare and stopped. for the first time since the captain's story had reached his ears his reason began to work. he was never an impetuous man; always a thoughtful and methodical one, and always overparticular in respecting the courtesies of life. he began suddenly to realize that this midnight visit was at variance with every act of his life. then his better judgment became aroused. was it right for him to wake jane and disturb the house at this hour, causing her, perhaps, a sleepless night, or should he wait until the morning, when he could break the news to her in a more gentle and less sensational way? while he sat thus wondering, undetermined whether to drive lightly out of the gate again or to push forward in the hope that someone would be awake, his mind unconsciously reverted to the figure of jane making her way with weary steps down the gangplank of the steamer, the two years of her suffering deep cut into every line of her face. he recalled the shock her appearance had given him, and his perplexity over the cause. he remembered her refusal to give him her promise, her begging him to wait, her unaccountable moods since her return. then lucy's face came before him, her whole career, in fact (in a flash, as a drowning man's life is pictured), from the first night after her return from school until he had bade her good-by to take the train for trenton. little scraps of talk sounded in his ears, and certain expressions about the corners of her eyes revealed themselves to his memory. he thought of her selfishness, of her love of pleasure, of her disregard of jane's wishes, of her recklessness. everything was clear now. "what a fool i have been!" he said to himself. "what a fool--fool! i ought to have known!" next the magnitude of the atonement, and the cruelty and cowardice of the woman who had put her sister into so false a position swept over him. then there arose, like the dawning of a light, the grand figure of the woman he loved, standing clear of all entanglements, a madonna among the saints, more precious than ever in the radiance of her own sacrifice. with this last vision his mind was made up. no, he would not wait a moment. once this terrible secret out of the way, jane would regain her old self and they two fight the world together. as he loosened the reins over the sorrel a light suddenly flashed from one of the upper windows disappeared for a moment, and reappeared again at one of the smaller openings near the front steps. he drew rein again. someone was moving about--who he did not know; perhaps jane, perhaps one of the servants. tying the lines to the dashboard, he sprang from the gig, tethered the mare to one of the lilac bushes, and walked briskly toward the house. as he neared the steps the door was opened and martha's voice rang clear: "meg, you rascal, come in, or shall i let ye stay out and freeze?" doctor john stepped upon the porch, the light of martha's candle falling on his face and figure. "it's i, martha, don't be frightened; it's late, i know, but i hoped miss jane would be up. has she gone to bed?" the old nurse started back. "lord, how ye skeered me! i don't know whether she's asleep or not. she's upstairs with archie, anyhow. i come out after this rapscallion that makes me look him up every night. i've talked to him till i'm sore, and he's promised me a dozen times, and here he is out ag'in. here! where are ye? in with ye, ye little beast!" the dog shrank past her and darted into the hall. "now, then, doctor, come in out of the cold." doctor john stepped softly inside and stood in the flare of the candle-light. he felt that he must give some reason for his appearance at this late hour, even if he did not see jane. it would be just as well, therefore, to tell martha of bart's death at once, and not let her hear it, as she was sure to do, from someone on the street. then again, he had kept few secrets from her where jane was concerned; she had helped him many times before, and her advice was always good. he knew that she was familiar with every detail of the captain's story, but he did not propose to discuss lucy's share in it with the old nurse. that he would reserve for jane's ears alone. "bring your candle into the sitting-room, martha; i have something to tell you," he said gravely, loosening the cape of his overcoat and laying his hat on the hall table. the nurse followed. the measured tones of the doctor's voice, so unlike his cheery greetings, especially to her, unnerved her. this, in connection with the suppressed excitement under which he seemed to labor and the late hour of his visit, at once convinced her that something serious had happened. "is there anything the matter?" she asked in a trembling voice. "yes." "is it about lucy? there ain't nothin' gone wrong with her, doctor dear, is there?" "no, it is not about lucy. it's about barton holt." "ye don't tell me! is he come back?" "no, nor never will. he's dead! "that villain dead! how do you know?" her face paled and her lips quivered, but she gave no other sign of the shock the news had been to her. "captain nat, his father, has just left my office. i promised i would tell miss jane to-night. he was too much broken up and too fearful of its effect upon her to do it himself. i drove fast, but perhaps i'm too late to see her." "well, ye could see her no doubt,--she could throw somethin' around her--but ye mustn't tell her that news. she's been downhearted all day and is tired out. bart's dead, is he?" she repeated with an effort at indifference. "well, that's too bad. i s'pose the captain's feelin' putty bad over it. where did he die?" "he died in rio janeiro of yellow fever," said the doctor slowly, wondering at the self-control of the woman. wondering, too, whether she was glad or sorry over the event, her face and manner showing no index to her feelings. "and will he be brought home to be buried?" she asked with a quick glance at the doctor's face. "no; they never bring them home with yellow fever." "and is that all ye come to tell her?" she was scrutinizing doctor john's face, her quick, nervous glances revealing both suspicion and fear. "i had some other matters to talk about, but if she has retired, perhaps i had better come to-morrow," answered the doctor in undecided tones, as he gazed abstractedly at the flickering candle. the old woman hesitated. she saw that the doctor knew more than he intended to tell her. her curiosity and her fear that some other complication had arisen--one which he was holding back--got the better of her judgment. if it was anything about her bairn, she could not wait until the morning. she had forgotten meg now. "well, maybe if ye break it to her easy-like she can stand it. i don't suppose she's gone to bed yet. her door was open on a crack when i come down, and she always shuts it 'fore she goes to sleep. i'll light a couple o' lamps so ye can see, and then i'll send her down to ye if she'll come. wait here, doctor, dear." the lamps lighted and martha gone, doctor john looked about the room, his glance resting on the sofa where he had so often sat with her; on the portrait of morton cobden, the captain's friend; on the work-basket filled with needlework that jane had left on a small table beside her chair, and upon the books her hands had touched. he thought he had never loved her so much as now. no one he had ever known or heard of had made so great a sacrifice. not for herself this immolation, but for a sister who had betrayed her confidence and who had repaid a life's devotion with unforgivable humiliation and disgrace. this was the woman whose heart he held. this was the woman he loved with every fibre of his being. but her sufferings were over now. he was ready to face the world and its malignity beside her. whatever sins her sister had committed, and however soiled were lucy's garments, jane's robes were as white as snow, he was glad he had yielded to the impulse and had come at once. the barrier between them once broken down and the terrible secret shared, her troubles would end. the whispering of her skirts on the stairs announced her coming before she entered the room. she had been sitting by archie's crib and had not waited to change her loose white gown, whose clinging folds accentuated her frail, delicate form. her hair had been caught up hastily and hung in a dark mass, concealing her small, pale ears and making her face all the whiter by contrast. "something alarming has brought you at this hour," she said, with a note of anxiety in her voice, walking rapidly toward him. "what can i do? who is ill?" doctor john sprang forward, held out both hands, and holding tight to her own, drew her close to him. "has martha told you?" he said tenderly. "no; only that you wanted me. i came as soon as i could." "it's about barton holt. his father has just left my office. i have very sad news for you. the poor boy--" jane loosened her hands from his and drew back. the doctor paused in his recital. "is he ill?" she inquired, a slight shiver running through her. "worse than ill! i'm afraid you'll never see him again." "you mean that he is dead? where?" "yes, dead, in rio. the letter arrived this morning." "and you came all the way up here to tell me this?" she asked, with an effort to hide her astonishment. her eyes dropped for a moment and her voice trembled. then she went on. "what does his father say?" "i have just left him. he is greatly shaken. he would not tell you himself, he said; he was afraid it might shock you too much, and asked me to come up. but it is not altogether that, jane. i have heard something to-night that has driven me half out of my mind. that you should suffer this way alone is torture to me. you cannot, you shall not live another day as you have! let me help!" instantly there flashed into her mind the story martha had brought in from the street. "he has heard it," she said to herself, "but he does not believe it, and he comes to comfort me. i cannot tell the truth without betraying lucy." she drew a step farther from him. "you refer to what the people about us call a mystery--that poor little child upstairs?" she said slowly, all her self-control in her voice. "you think it is a torture for me to care for this helpless baby? it is not a torture; it is a joy--all the joy i have now." she stood looking at him as she spoke with searching eyes, wondering with the ever-questioning doubt of those denied love's full expression. "but i know--" "you know nothing--nothing but what i have told you; and what i have told you is the truth. what i have not told you is mine to keep. you love me too well to probe it any further, i am sorry for the captain. he has an iron will and a rough exterior, but he has a warm heart underneath. if you see him before i do give him my deepest sympathy. now, my dear friend, i must go back to archie; he is restless and needs me. good-night," and she held out her hand and passed out of the room. she was gone before he could stop her. he started forward as her hand touched the door, but she closed it quickly behind her, as if to leave no doubt of her meaning. he saw that she had misunderstood him. he had intended to talk to her of archie's father, and of lucy, and she had supposed he had only come to comfort her about the village gossip. for some minutes he stood like one dazed. then a feeling of unspeakable reverence stole over him. not only was she determined to suffer alone and in silence, but she would guard her sister's secret at the cost of her own happiness. inside that sacred precinct he knew he could never enter; that wine-press she intended to tread alone. then a sudden indignation, followed by a contempt of his own weakness took possession of him. being the older and stronger nature, he should have compelled her to listen. the physician as well as the friend should have asserted himself. no woman could be well balanced who would push away the hand of a man held out to save her from ruin and misery. he would send martha for her again and insist upon her listening to him. he started for the door and stopped irresolute. a new light broke in upon his heart. it was not against himself and her own happiness that she had taken this stand, but to save her father's and her sister's name. he knew how strong was her devotion to her duty, how blind her love for lucy, how sacred she held the trust given to her by her dead father. no; she was neither obstinate nor quixotic. hers was the work of a martyr, not a fanatic. no one he had ever known or heard of had borne so great a cross or made so noble a sacrifice. it was like the deed of some grand old saint, the light of whose glory had shone down the ages. he was wrong, cruelly wrong. the only thing left for him to do was to wait. for what he could not tell. perhaps god in his mercy would one day find the way. martha's kindly voice as she opened the door awoke him from his revery. "did she take it bad?" she asked. "no," he replied aimlessly, without thinking of what he said. "she sent a message to the captain. i'll go now. no, please don't bring a light to the door. the mare's only a short way down the road." when the old nurse had shut the front door after him she put out the lamps and ascended the stairs. the other servants were in bed. jane's door was partly open. martha pushed it gently with her hand and stepped in. jane had thrown herself at full length on the bed and lay with her face buried in her hands. she was talking to herself and had not noticed martha's footsteps. "o god! what have i done that this should be sent to me?" martha heard her say between her sobs. "you would be big enough, my beloved, to bear it all for my sake; to take the stain and wear it; but i cannot hurt you--not you, not you, my great, strong, sweet soul. your heart aches for me and you would give me all you have, but i could not bear your name without telling you. you would forgive me, but i could never forgive myself. no, no, you shall stand unstained if god will give me strength!" martha walked softly to the bed and bent over jane's prostrate body. "it's me, dear. what did he say to break your heart?" jane slipped her arm about the old nurse's neck, drawing her closer, and without lifting her own head from the pillow talked on. "nothing, nothing. he came to comfort me, not to hurt me." "do ye think it's all true 'bout bart?" martha whispered. jane raised her body from the bed and rested her head on martha's shoulder. "yes, it's all true about bart," she answered in a stronger and more composed tone. "i have been expecting it. poor boy, he had nothing to live for, and his conscience must have given him no rest." "did the captain tell him about--" and martha pointed toward the bed of the sleeping child. she could never bring herself to mention lucy's name when speaking either of bart or archie. jane sat erect, brushed the tears from her eyes, smoothed her hair back from her temples, and said with something of her customary poise: "no, i don't think so. the captain gave me his word, and he will not break it. then, again, he will never discredit his own son. the doctor doesn't know, and there will be nobody to tell him. that's not what he came to tell me. it was about the stories you heard last week and which have only just reached his ears. that's all. he wanted to protect me from their annoyance, but i would not listen to him. there is trouble enough without bringing him into it. now go to bed, martha." as she spoke jane regained her feet, and crossing the room, settled into a chair by the boy's crib. long after martha had closed her own door for the night jane sat watching the sleeping child. one plump pink hand lay outside the cover; the other little crumpled rose-leaf was tucked under the cheek, the face half-hidden in a tangle of glossy curls, now spun-gold in the light of the shaded lamp. "poor little waif," she sighed, "poor little motherless, fatherless waif! why didn't you stay in heaven? this world has no place for you." then she rose wearily, picked up the light, carried it across the room to her desk, propped a book in front of it so that its rays would not fall upon the sleeping child, opened her portfolio, and sat down to write. when she had finished and had sealed her letter it was long past midnight. it was addressed to lucy in dresden, and contained a full account of all the doctor had told her of bart's death. chapter xii a letter from paris for the first year jane watched archie's growth and development with the care of a self-appointed nurse temporarily doing her duty by her charge. later on, as the fact became burned into her mind that lucy would never willingly return to warehold, she clung to him with that absorbing love and devotion which an unmarried woman often lavishes upon a child not her own. in his innocent eyes she saw the fulfilment of her promise to her father. he would grow to be a man of courage and strength, the stain upon his birth forgotten, doing honor to himself, to her, and to the name he bore. in him, too, she sought refuge from that other sorrow which was often greater than she could bear--the loss of the closer companionship of doctor john--a companionship which only a wife's place could gain for her. the true mother-love--the love which she had denied herself, a love which had been poured out upon lucy since her father's death--found its outlet, therefore, in little archie. under martha's watchful care the helpless infant grew to be a big, roly-poly boy, never out of her arms when she could avoid it. at five he had lost his golden curls and short skirts and strutted about in knee-trousers. at seven he had begun to roam the streets, picking up his acquaintances wherever he found them. chief among them was tod fogarty, the son of the fisherman, now a boy of ten, big for his age and bubbling over with health and merriment, and whose life doctor john had saved when he was a baby. tod had brought a basket of fish to yardley, and sneaking meg, who was then alive--he died the year after--had helped himself to part of the contents, and the skirmish over its recovery had resulted in a friendship which was to last the boys all their lives. the doctor believed in tod, and always spoke of his pluck and of his love for his mother, qualities which jane admired--but then technical class distinctions never troubled jane--every honest body was jane's friend, just as every honest body was doctor john's. the doctor loved archie with the love of an older brother; not altogether because he was jane's ward, but for the boy's own qualities--for his courage, for his laugh--particularly for his buoyancy. often, as he looked into the lad's eyes brimming with fun, he would wish that he himself had been born with the same kind of temperament. then again the boy satisfied to a certain extent the longing in his heart for home, wife, and child--a void which he knew now would never be filled. fate had decreed that he and the woman he loved should live apart--with this he must be content. not that his disappointments had soured him; only that this ever-present sorrow had added to the cares of his life, and in later years had taken much of the spring and joyousness out of him. this drew him all the closer to archie, and the lad soon became his constant companion; sitting beside him in his gig, waiting for him at the doors of the fishermen's huts, or in the cabins of the poor on the outskirts of barnegat and warehold. "there goes doctor john of barnegat and his curly-head," the neighbors would say; "when ye see one ye see t'other." newcomers in barnegat and warehold thought archie was his son, and would talk to the doctor about him: "fine lad you got, doctor--don't look a bit like you, but maybe he will when he gets his growth." at which the doctor would laugh and pat the boy's head. during all these years lucy's letters came but seldom. when they did arrive, most of them were filled with elaborate excuses for her prolonged stay. the money, she wrote, which jane had sent her from time to time was ample for her needs; she was making many valuable friends, and she could not see how she could return until the following spring--a spring which never came. in no one of them had she ever answered jane's letter about bart's death, except to acknowledge its receipt. nor, strange to say, had she ever expressed any love for archie. jane's letters were always filled with the child's doings; his illnesses and recoveries; but whenever lucy mentioned his name, which was seldom, she invariably referred to him as "your little ward" or "your baby," evidently intending to wipe that part of her life completely out. neither did she make any comment on the child's christening--a ceremony which took place in the church, pastor dellenbaugh officiating--except to write that perhaps one name was as good as another, and that she hoped he would not disgrace it when he grew up. these things, however, made but little impression on jane. she never lost faith in her sister, and never gave up hope that one day they would all three be reunited; how or where she could not tell or foresee, but in some way by which lucy would know and love her son for himself alone, and the two live together ever after--his parentage always a secret. when lucy once looked into her boy's face she was convinced she would love and cling to him. this was her constant prayer. all these hopes were dashed to the ground by the receipt of a letter from lucy with a geneva postmark. she had not written for months, and jane broke the seal with a murmur of delight, martha leaning forward, eager to hear the first word from her bairn. as she read jane's face grew suddenly pale. "what is it?" martha asked in a trembling voice. for some minutes jane sat staring into space, her hand pressed to her side. she looked like one who had received a death message. then, without a word, she handed the letter to martha. the old woman adjusted her glasses, read the missive to the end without comment, and laid it back on jane's lap. the writing covered but part of the page, and announced lucy's coming marriage with a frenchman: "a man of distinction; some years older than myself, and of ample means. he fell in love with me at aix." there are certain crises in life with conclusions so evident that no spoken word can add to their clearness. there is no need of comment; neither is there room for doubt. the bare facts stand naked. no sophistry can dull their outlines nor soften the insistence of their high lights; nor can any reasoning explain away the results that will follow. both women, without the exchange of a word, knew instantly that the consummation of this marriage meant the loss of lucy forever. now she would never come back, and archie would be motherless for life. they foresaw, too, that all their yearning to clasp lucy once more in their arms would go unsatisfied. in this marriage she had found a way to slip as easily from out the ties that bound her to yardley as she would from an old dress. martha rose from her chair, read the letter again to the end, and without opening her lips left the room. jane kept her seat, her head resting on her hand, the letter once more in her lap. the revulsion of feeling had paralyzed her judgment, and for a time had benumbed her emotions. all she saw was archie's eyes looking into hers as he waited for an answer to that question he would one day ask and which now she knew she could never give. then there rose before her, like some disembodied spirit from a long-covered grave, the spectre of the past. an icy chill crept over her. would lucy begin this new life with the same deceit with which she had begun the old? and if she did, would this frenchman forgive her when he learned the facts? if he never learned them--and this was most to be dreaded--what would lucy's misery be all her life if she still kept the secret close? then with a pathos all the more intense because of her ignorance of the true situation--she fighting on alone, unconscious that the man she loved not only knew every pulsation of her aching heart, but would be as willing as herself to guard its secret, she cried: "yes, at any cost she must be saved from this living death! i know what it is to sit beside the man i love, the man whose arm is ready to sustain me, whose heart is bursting for love of me, and yet be always held apart by a spectre which i dare not face." with this came the resolve to prevent the marriage at all hazards, even to leaving yardley and taking the first steamer to europe, that she might plead with lucy in person. while she sat searching her brain for some way out of the threatened calamity, the rapid rumbling of the doctor's gig was heard on the gravel road outside her open window. she knew from the speed with which he drove that something out of the common had happened. the gig stopped and the doctor's voice rang out: "come as quick as you can, jane, please. i've got a bad case some miles out of warehold, and i need you; it's a compound fracture, and i want you to help with the chloroform." all her indecision vanished and all her doubts were swept away as she caught the tones of his voice. who else in the wide world understood her as he did, and who but he should guide her now? had he ever failed her? when was his hand withheld or his lips silent? how long would her pride shut out his sympathy? if he could help in the smaller things of life why not trust him in this larger sorrow?--one that threatened to overwhelm her, she whose heart ached for tenderness and wise counsel. perhaps she could lean upon him without betraying her trust. after all, the question of archie's birth--the one secret between them--need not come up. it was lucy's future happiness which was at stake. this must be made safe at any cost short of exposure. "better put a few things in a bag," doctor john continued. "it may be a case of hours or days--i can't tell till i see him. the boy fell from the roof of the stable and is pretty badly hurt; both legs are broken, i hear; the right one in two places." she was upstairs in a moment, into her nursing dress, always hanging ready in case the doctor called for her, and down again, standing beside the gig, her bag in her hand, before he had time to turn his horse and arrange the seat and robes for her comfort. "who is it?" she asked hurriedly, resting her hand in his as he helped her into the seat and took the one beside her, martha and archie assisting with her bag and big driving cloak. "burton's boy. his father was coming for me and met me on the road. i have everything with me, so we will not lose any time. good-by, my boy," he called to archie. "one day i'll make a doctor of you, and then i won't have to take your dear mother from you so often. good-by, martha. you want to take care of that cough, old lady, or i shall have to send up some of those plasters you love so." they were off and rattling down the path between the lilacs before either archie or the old woman could answer. to hearts like jane's and the doctor's, a suffering body, no matter how far away, was a sinking ship in the clutch of the breakers. until the lifeboat reached her side everything was forgotten. the doctor adjusted the robe over jane's lap and settled himself in his seat. they had often driven thus together, and jane's happiest hours had been spent close to his side, both intent on the same errand of mercy, and both working together. that was the joy of it! they talked of the wounded boy and of the needed treatment and what part each should take in the operation; of some new cases in the hospital and the remedies suggested for their comfort; of archie's life on the beach and how ruddy and handsome he was growing, and of his tender, loving nature; and of the thousand and one other things that two people who know every pulsation of each other's hearts are apt to discuss--of everything, in fact, but the letter in her pocket. "it is a serious case," she said to herself--"this to which we are hurrying--and nothing must disturb the sureness of his sensitive hand." now and then, as he spoke, the two would turn their heads and look into each other's eyes. when a man's face lacks the lines and modellings that stand for beauty the woman who loves him is apt to omit in her eager glance every feature but his eyes. his eyes are the open doors to his soul; in these she finds her ideals, and in these she revels. but with jane every feature was a joy--the way the smoothly cut hair was trimmed about his white temples; the small, well-turned ears lying flat to his head; the lines of his eyebrows; the wide, sensitive nostrils and the gleam of the even teeth flashing from between well-drawn, mobile lips; the white, smooth, polished skin. not all faces could boast this beauty; but then not all souls shone as clearly as did doctor john's through the thin veil of his face. and she was equally young and beautiful to him. her figure was still that of her youth; her face had not changed--he still caught the smile of the girl he loved. often, when they had been driving along the coast, the salt wind in their faces, and he had looked at her suddenly, a thrill of delight had swept through him as he noted how rosy were her cheeks and how ruddy the wrists above the gloves, hiding the dear hands he loved so well, the tapering fingers tipped with delicate pink nails. he could, if he sought them, find many telltale wrinkles about the corners of the mouth and under the eyelids (he knew and loved them all), showing where the acid of anxiety had bitten deep into the plate on which the record of her life was being daily etched, but her beautiful gray eyes still shone with the same true, kindly light, and always flashed the brighter when they looked into his own. no, she was ever young and ever beautiful to him! to-day, however, there was a strange tremor in her voice and an anxious, troubled expression in her face--one that he had not seen for years. nor had she once looked into his eyes in the old way. "something worries you, jane," he said, his voice echoing his thoughts. "tell me about it." "no--not now--it is nothing," she answered quickly. "yes, tell me. don't keep any troubles from me. i have nothing else to do in life but smooth them out. come, what is it?" "wait until we get through with burton's boy. he may be hurt worse than you think." the doctor slackened the reins until they rested on the dashboard, and with a quick movement turned half around and looked searchingly into jane's eyes. "it is serious, then. what has happened?" "only a letter from lucy." "is she coming home?" "no, she is going to be married." the doctor gave a low whistle. instantly archie's laughing eyes looked into his; then came the thought of the nameless grave of his father. "well, upon my soul! you don't say so! who to, pray?" "to a frenchman." jane's eyes were upon his, reading the effect of her news. his tone of surprise left an uncomfortable feeling behind it. "how long has she known him?" he continued, tightening the reins again and chirruping to the mare.. "she does not say--not long, i should think." "what sort of a frenchman is he? i've known several kinds in my life--so have you, no doubt," and a quiet smile overspread his face. "come, bess! hurry up, old girl." "a gentleman, i should think, from what she writes. he is much older than lucy, and she says very well off." "then you didn't meet him on the other side?" "and never heard of him before?" "not until i received this letter." the doctor reached for his whip and flecked off a fly that had settled on the mare's neck. "lucy is about twenty-seven, is she not?" "yes, some eight years younger than i am. why do you ask, john?" "because it is always a restless age for a woman. she has lost the protecting ignorance of youth and she has not yet gained enough of the experience of age to steady her. marriage often comes as a balance-weight. she is coming home to be married, isn't she?" "no; they are to be married in geneva at his mother's." "i think that part of it is a mistake," he said in a decided tone. "there is no reason why she should not be married here; she owes that to you and to herself." then he added in a gentler tone, "and this worries you?" "more than i can tell you, john." there was a note in her voice that vibrated through him. he knew now how seriously the situation affected her. "but why, jane? if lucy is happier in it we should do what we can to help her." "yes, but not in this way. this will make her all the more miserable. i don't want this marriage; i want her to come home and live with me and archie. she makes me promises every year to come, and now it is over six years since i left her and she has always put me off. this marriage means that she will never come. i want her here, john. it is not right for her to live as she does. please think as i do!" the doctor patted jane's hand--it was the only mark of affection he ever allowed himself--not in a caressing way, but more as a father would pat the hand of a nervous child. "well, let us go over it from the beginning. maybe i don't know all the facts. have you the letter with you?" she handed it to him. he passed the reins to her and read it carefully to the end. "have you answered it yet?" "no, i wanted to talk to you about it. what do you think now?" "i can't see that it will make any difference. she is not a woman to live alone. i have always been surprised that she waited so long. you are wrong, jane, about this. it is best for everybody and everything that lucy should be married." "john, dear," she said in a half-pleading tone--there were some times when this last word slipped out--"i don't want this marriage at all. i am so wretched about it that i feel like taking the first steamer and bringing her home with me. she will forget all about him when she is here; and it is only her loneliness that makes her want to marry. i don't want her married; i want her to love me and martha and--archie--and she will if she sees him." "is that better than loving a man who loves her?" the words dropped from his lips before he could recall them--forced out, as it were, by the pressure of his heart. jane caught her breath and the color rose in her cheeks. she knew he did not mean her, and yet she saw he spoke from his heart. doctor john's face, however, gave no sign of his thoughts. "but, john, i don't know that she does love him. she doesn't say so--she says he loves her. and if she did, we cannot all follow our own hearts." "why not?" he replied calmly, looking straight ahead of him: at the bend in the road, at the crows flying in the air, at the leaden sky between the rows of pines. if she wanted to give him her confidence he was ready now with heart and arms wide open. perhaps his hour had come at last. "because--because," she faltered, "our duty comes in. that is holier than love." then her voice rose and steadied itself--"lucy's duty is to come home." he understood. the gate was still shut; the wall still confronted him. he could not and would not scale it. she had risked her own happiness--even her reputation--to keep this skeleton hidden, the secret inviolate. only in the late years had she begun to recover from the strain. she had stood the brunt and borne the sufferings of another's sin without complaint, without reward, giving up everything in life in consecration to her trust. he, of all men, could not tear the mask away, nor could he stoop by the more subtle paths of friendship, love, or duty to seek to look behind it--not without her own free and willing hand to guide him. there was nothing else in all her life that she had not told him. every thought was his, every resolve, every joy. she would entrust him with this if it was hers to give. until she did his lips would be sealed. as to lucy, it could make no difference. bart lying in a foreign grave would never trouble her again, and archie would only be a stumbling-block in her career. she would never love the boy, come what might. if this frenchman filled her ideal, it was best for her to end her days across the water--best certainly for jane, to whom she had only brought unhappiness. for some moments he busied himself with the reins, loosening them from where they were caught in the harness; then he bent his head and said slowly, and with the tone of the physician in consultation: "your protest will do no good, jane, and your trip abroad will only be a waste of time and money. if lucy has not changed, and this letter shows that she has not, she will laugh at your objections and end by doing as she pleases. she has always been a law unto herself, and this new move of hers is part of her life-plan. take my advice: stay where you are; write her a loving, sweet letter and tell her how happy you hope she will be, and send her your congratulations. she will not listen to your objections, and your opposition might lose you her love." before dark they were both on their way back to yardley. burton's boy had not been hurt as badly as his father thought; but one leg was broken, and this was soon in splints, and without jane's assistance. before they had reached her door her mind was made up. the doctor's words, as they always did, had gone down deep into her mind, and all thoughts of going abroad, or of even protesting against lucy's marriage, were given up. only the spectre remained. that the doctor knew nothing of, and that she must meet alone. martha took jane's answer to the post-office herself. she had talked its contents over with the old nurse, and the two had put their hearts into every line. "tell him everything," jane wrote. "don't begin a new life with an old lie. with me it is different. i saved you, my sister, because i loved you, and because i could not bear that your sweet girlhood should be marred. i shall live my life out in this duty. it came to me, and i could not put it from me, and would not now if i could, but i know the tyranny of a secret you cannot share with the man who loves you. i know, too, the cruelty of it all. for years i have answered kindly meant inquiry with discourteous silence, bearing insinuations, calumny, insults--and all because i cannot speak. don't, i beseech you, begin your new life in this slavery. but whatever the outcome, take him into your confidence. better have him leave you now than after you are married. remember, too, that if by this declaration you should lose his love you will at least gain his respect. perhaps, if his heart is tender and he feels for the suffering and wronged, you may keep both. forgive me, dear, but i have only your happiness at heart, and i love you too dearly not to warn you against any danger which would threaten you. martha agrees with me in the above, and knows you will do right by him." when lucy's answer arrived weeks afterward--after her marriage, in fact--jane read it with a clutching at her throat she had not known since that fatal afternoon when martha returned from trenton. "you dear, foolish sister," lucy's letter began, "what should i tell him for? he loves me devotedly and we are very happy together, and i am not going to cause him any pain by bringing any disagreeable thing into his life. people don't do those wild, old-fashioned things over here. and then, again, there is no possibility of his finding out. maria agrees with me thoroughly, and says in her funny way that men nowadays know too much already." then followed an account of her wedding. this letter jane did not read to the doctor--no part of it, in fact. she did not even mention its receipt, except to say that the wedding had taken place in geneva, where the frenchman's mother lived, it being impossible, lucy said, for her to come home, and that maria collins, who was staying with her, had been the only one of her old friends at the ceremony. neither did she read it all to martha. the old nurse was growing more feeble every year and she did not wish her blind faith in her bairn disturbed. for many days she kept the letter locked in her desk, not having the courage to take it out again and read it. then she sent for captain holt, the only one, beside martha, with whom she could discuss the matter. she knew his strong, honest nature, and his blunt, outspoken way of giving vent to his mind, and she hoped that his knowledge of life might help to comfort her. "married to one o' them furriners, is she?" the captain blurted out; "and goin' to keep right on livin' the lie she's lived ever since she left ye? you'll excuse me, miss jane,--you've been a mother, and a sister and everything to her, and you're nearer the angels than anybody i know. that's what i think when i look at you and archie. i say it behind your back and i say it now to your face, for it's true. as to lucy, i may be mistaken, and i may not. i don't want to condemn nothin' 'less i'm on the survey and kin look the craft over; that's why i'm partic'lar. maybe bart was right in sayin' it warn't all his fault, whelp as he was to say it, and maybe he warn't. it ain't up before me and i ain't passin' on it,--but one thing is certain, when a ship's made as many voyages as lucy has and ain't been home for repairs nigh on to seven years--ain't it?" and he looked at jane for confirmation--"she gits foul and sometimes a little mite worm-eaten--especially her bilge timbers, unless they're copper-fastened or pretty good stuff. i've been thinkin' for some time that you ain't got lucy straight, and this last kick-up of hers makes me sure of it. some timber is growed right and some timber is growed crooked; and when it's growed crooked it gits leaky, and no 'mount o' tar and pitch kin stop it. every twist the ship gives it opens the seams, and the pumps is goin' all the time. when your timber is growed right you kin all go to sleep and not a drop o' water'll git in. your sister lucy ain't growed right. maybe she kin help it and maybe she can't, but she'll leak every time there comes a twist. see if she don't." but jane never lost faith nor wavered in her trust. with the old-time love strong upon her she continued to make excuses for this thoughtless, irresponsible woman, so easily influenced. "it is maria collins who has written the letter, and not lucy," she kept saying to herself. "maria has been her bad angel from her girlhood, and still dominates her. the poor child's sufferings have hardened her heart and destroyed for a time her sense of right and wrong--that is all." with this thought uppermost in her mind she took the letter from her desk, and stirring the smouldering embers, laid it upon the coals. the sheet blazed and fell into ashes. "no one will ever know," she said with a sigh. chapter xiii scootsy's epithet lying on barnegat beach, within sight of the house of refuge and fogarty's cabin, was the hull of a sloop which had been whirled in one night in a southeaster, with not a soul on board, riding the breakers like a duck, and landing high and dry out of the hungry clutch of the surf-dogs. she was light at the time and without ballast, and lay stranded upright on her keel. all attempts by the beach-combers to float her had proved futile; they had stripped her of her standing rigging and everything else of value, and had then abandoned her. only the evenly balanced hull was left, its bottom timbers broken and its bent keelson buried in the sand. this hulk little tod fogarty, aged ten, had taken possession of; particularly the after-part of the hold, over which he had placed a trusty henchman armed with a cutlass made from the hoop of a fish barrel. the henchman--aged seven--wore knee-trousers and a cap and answered to the name of archie. the refuge itself bore the title of "the bandit's home." this new hulk had taken the place of the old schooner which had served captain holt as a landmark on that eventful night when he strode barnegat beach in search of bart, and which by the action of the ever-changing tides, had gradually settled until now only a hillock marked its grave--a fate which sooner or later would overtake this newly landed sloop itself. these barnegat tides are the sponges that wipe clean the slate of the beach. each day a new record is made and each day it is wiped out: records from passing ships, an empty crate, broken spar or useless barrel grounded now and then by the tide in its flow as it moves up and down the sand at the will of the waters. records, too, of many footprints,--the lagging steps of happy lovers; the dimpled feet of joyous children; the tread of tramp, coast-guard or fisherman--all scoured clean when the merciful tide makes ebb. other records are strewn along the beach; these the tide alone cannot efface--the bow of some hapless schooner it may be, wrenched from its hull, and sent whirling shoreward; the shattered mast and crosstrees of a stranded ship beaten to death in the breakers; or some battered capstan carried in the white teeth of the surf-dogs and dropped beyond the froth-line. to these with the help of the south wind, the tides extend their mercy, burying them deep with successive blankets of sand, hiding their bruised bodies, covering their nakedness and the marks of their sufferings. all through the restful summer and late autumn these battered derelicts lie buried, while above their graves the children play and watch the ships go by, or stretch themselves at length, their eyes on the circling gulls. with the coming of the autumn all this is changed. the cruel north wind now wakes, and with a loud roar joins hands with the savage easter; the startled surf falls upon the beach like a scourge. under their double lash the outer bar cowers and sinks; the frightened sand flees hither and thither. soon the frenzied breakers throw themselves headlong, tearing with teeth and claws, burrowing deep into the hidden graves. now the forgotten wrecks, like long-buried sins, rise and stand naked, showing every scar and stain. this is the work of the sea-puss--the revolving maniac born of close-wed wind and tide; a beast so terrible that in a single night, with its auger-like snout, it bites huge inlets out of farm lands--mouthfuls deep enough for ships to sail where but yesterday the corn grew. in the hull of this newly stranded sloop, then--sitting high and dry, out of the reach of the summer surf,--tod and archie spent every hour of the day they could call their own; sallying forth on various piratical excursions, coming back laden with driftwood for a bonfire, or hugging some bottle, which was always opened with trembling, eager fingers in the inmost recesses of the home, in the hope that some tidings of a lost ship might be found inside; or with their pockets crammed with clam-shells and other sea spoils with which to decorate the inside timbers of what was left of the former captain's cabin. jane had protested at first, but the doctor had looked the hull over, and found that there was nothing wide enough, nor deep enough, nor sharp enough to do them harm, and so she was content. then again, the boys were both strong for their age, and looked it, tod easily passing for a lad of twelve or fourteen, and archie for a boy of ten. the one danger discovered by the doctor lay in its height, the only way of boarding the stranded craft being by means of a hand-over-hand climb up the rusty chains of the bowsprit, a difficult and trousers-tearing operation. this was obviated by tod's father, who made a ladder for the boys out of a pair of old oars, which the two pirates pulled up after them whenever an enemy hove in sight. when friends approached it was let down with more than elaborate ceremony, the guests being escorted by archie and welcomed on board by tod. once captain holt's short, sturdy body was descried in the offing tramping the sand-dunes on his way to fogarty's, and a signal flag--part of mother fogarty's flannel petticoat, and blood-red, as befitted the desperate nature of the craft over which it floated, was at once set in his honor. the captain put his helm hard down and came up into the wind and alongside the hulk. "well! well! well!" he cried in his best quarterdeck voice--"what are you stowaways doin' here?" and he climbed the ladder and swung himself over the battered rail. archie took his hand and led him into the most sacred recesses of the den, explaining to him his plans for defence, his armament of barrel hoops, and his ammunition of shells and pebbles, tod standing silently by and a little abashed, as was natural in one of his station; at which the captain laughed more loudly than before, catching archie in his arms, rubbing his curly head with his big, hard hand, and telling him he was a chip of the old block, every inch of him--none of which did either archie or tod understand. before he climbed down the ladder he announced with a solemn smile that he thought the craft was well protected so far as collisions on foggy nights were concerned, but he doubted if their arms were sufficient and that he had better leave them his big sea knife which had been twice around cape horn, and which might be useful in lopping off arms and legs whenever the cutthroats got too impudent and aggressive; whereupon archie threw his arms around his grizzled neck and said he was a "bully commodore," and that if he would come and live with them aboard the hulk they would obey his orders to a man. archie leaned over the rotten rail and saw the old salt stop a little way from the hulk and stand looking at them for some minutes and then wave his hand, at which the boys waved back, but the lad did not see the tears that lingered for an instant on the captain's eyelids, and which the sea-breeze caught away; nor did he hear the words, as the captain resumed his walk: "he's all i've got left, and yet he don't know it and i can't tell him. ain't it hell?" neither did they notice that he never once raised his eyes toward the house of refuge as he passed its side. a new door and a new roof had been added, but in other respects it was to him the same grewsome, lonely hut as on that last night when he had denounced his son outside its swinging door. often the boys made neighborly visits to friendly tribes and settlers. fogarty was one of these, and doctor cavendish was another. the doctor's country was a place of buttered bread and preserves and a romp with rex, who was almost as feeble as meg had been in his last days. but fogarty's cabin was a mine of never-ending delight. in addition to the quaint low house of clapboards and old ship-timber, with its sloping roof and little toy windows, so unlike his own at yardley, and smoked ceilings, there was a scrap heap piled up and scattered over the yard which in itself was a veritable treasure-house. here were rusty chains and wooden figure-heads of broken-nosed, blind maidens and tailless dolphins. here were twisted iron rods, fish-baskets, broken lobster-pots, rotting seines and tangled, useless nets--some used as coverings for coops of restless chickens--old worn-out rope, tangled rigging--everything that a fisherman who had spent his life on barnegat beach could pull from the surf or find stranded on the sand. besides all these priceless treasures, there was an old boat lying afloat in a small lagoon back of the house, one of those seepage pools common to the coast--a boat which fogarty had patched with a bit of sail-cloth, and for which he had made two pairs of oars, one for each of the "crew," as he called the lads, and which archie learned to handle with such dexterity that the old fisherman declared he would make a first-class boatman when he grew up, and would "shame the whole bunch of 'em." but these two valiant buccaneers were not to remain in undisturbed possession of the bandit's home with its bewildering fittings and enchanting possibilities--not for long. the secret of the uses to which the stranded craft bad been put, and the attendant fun which commodore tod and his dauntless henchman, archibald cobden, esquire, were daily getting out of its battered timbers, had already become public property. the youth of barnegat--the very young youth, ranging from nine to twelve, and all boys--received the news at first with hilarious joy. this feeling soon gave way to unsuppressed indignation, followed by an active bitterness, when they realized in solemn conclave--the meeting was held in an open lot on saturday morning--that the capture of the craft had been accomplished, not by dwellers under barnegat light, to whom every piece of sea-drift from a tomato-can to a full-rigged ship rightfully belonged, but by a couple of aliens, one of whom wore knee-pants and a white collar,--a distinction in dress highly obnoxious to these lords of the soil. all these denizens of barnegat had at one time or another climbed up the sloop's chains and peered down the hatchway to the sand covering the keelson, and most of them had used it as a shelter behind which, in swimming-time, they had put on or peeled off such mutilated rags as covered their nakedness, but no one of them had yet conceived the idea of turning it into a bandit's home. that touch of the ideal, that gilding of the commonplace, had been reserved for the brain of the curly-haired boy who, with dancing eyes, his sturdy little legs resting on tod's shoulder, had peered over the battered rail, and who, with a burst of enthusiasm, had shouted: "oh, cracky! isn't it nice, tod! it's got a place we can fix up for a robbers' den; and we'll be bandits and have a flag. oh, come up here! you never saw anything so fine," etc., etc. when, therefore, scootsy mulligan, aged nine, son of a ship-caulker who worked in martin farguson's ship-yard, and sandy plummer, eldest of three, and their mother a widow--plain washing and ironing, two doors from the cake-shop--heard that that french "spad," arch cobden what lived up to yardley, and that red-headed irish cub, tod fogarty--tod's hair had turned very red--had pre-empted the black tub, as the wreck was irreverently called, claiming it as their very own, "and-a-sayin' they wuz pirates and bloody turks and sich," these two quarrelsome town rats organized a posse in lower barnegat for its recapture. archie was sweeping the horizon from his perch on the "poop-deck" when his eagle eye detected a strange group of what appeared to be human beings advancing toward the wreck from the direction of barnegat village. one, evidently a chief, was in the lead, the others following bunched together. all were gesticulating wildly. the trusty henchman immediately gave warning to tod, who was at work in the lower hold arranging a bundle of bean-poles which had drifted inshore the night before--part of the deck-load, doubtless, of some passing vessel. "ay, ay, sir!" cried the henchman with a hoist of his knee-pants, as a prelude to his announcement. "ay, ay, yerself!" rumbled back the reply. "what's up?" the commodore had not read as deeply in pirate lore as had archie, and was not, therefore, so ready with its lingo. "band of savages, sir, approaching down the beach." "where away?" thundered back the commodore, his authority now asserting itself in the tones of his voice. "on the starboard bow, sir--six or seven of 'em." "armed or peaceable?" "armed, sir. scootsy mulligan is leadin' 'em." "scootsy mulligan! crickety! he's come to make trouble," shouted back tod, climbing the ladder in a hurry--it was used as a means of descent into the shallow hold when not needed outside. "where are they? oh, yes! i see 'em--lot of 'em, ain't they? saturday, and they ain't no school. say, arch, what are we goin' to do?" the terminal vowels softening his henchman's name were omitted in grave situations; so was the pirate lingo. "do!" retorted archie, his eyes snapping. "why, we'll fight 'em; that's what we are pirates for. fight 'em to the death. hurray! they're not coming aboard--no sir-ee! you go down, toddy [the same free use of terminals], and get two of the biggest bean-poles and i'll run up the death flag. we've got stones and shells enough. hurry--big ones, mind you!" the attacking party, their leader ahead, had now reached the low sand heap marking the grave of the former wreck, but a dozen yards away--the sand had entombed it the year before. "you fellers think yer durned smart, don't ye?" yelled mr. william mulligan, surnamed "scootsy" from his pronounced fleetness of foot. "we're goin' to run ye out o' that tub. 'tain't yourn, it's ourn--ain't it, fellers?" a shout went up in answer from the group on the hillock. "you can come as friends, but not as enemies," cried archie grandiloquently. "the man who sets foot on this ship without permission dies like a dog. we sail under the blood-red flag!" and archie struck an attitude and pointed to the fragment of mother fogarty's own nailed to a lath and hanging limp over the rail. "hi! hi! hi!" yelled the gang in reply. "oh, ain't he a beauty! look at de cotton waddin' on his head!" (archie's cropped curls.) "say, sissy, does yer mother know ye're out? throw that ladder down; we're comin' up there--don't make no diff'rence whether we got yer permish or not--and we'll knock the stuffin' out o' ye if ye put up any job on us. h'ist out that ladder!" "death and no quarter!" shouted back archie, opening the big blade of captain holt's pocket knife and grasping it firmly in his wee hand. "we'll defend this ship with the last drop of our blood!" "ye will, will ye!" retorted scootsy. "come on, fellers--go for 'em! i'll show 'em," and he dodged under the sloop's bow and sprang for the overhanging chains. tod had now clambered up from the hold. under his arm were two stout hickory saplings. one he gave to archie, the other he kept himself. "give them the shells first," commanded archie, dodging a beach pebble; "and when their hands come up over the rail let them have this," and he waved the sapling over his head. "run, tod,--they're trying to climb up behind. i'll take the bow. avast there, ye lubbers!" with this archie dropped to his knees and crouched close to the heel of the rotting bowsprit, out of the way of the flying missiles--each boy's pockets were loaded--and looking cautiously over the side of the hulk, waited until scootsy's dirty fingers--he was climbing the chain hand over hand, his feet resting on a boy below him--came into view. "off there, or i'll crack your fingers!" "crack and be--" bang! went archie's hickory and down dropped the braggart, his oath lost in his cries. "he smashed me fist! he smashed me fist! oh! oh!" whined scootsy, hopping about with the pain, sucking the injured hand and shaking its mate at archie, who was still brandishing the sapling and yelling himself hoarse in his excitement. the attacking party now drew off to the hillock for a council of war. only their heads could be seen--their bodies lay hidden in the long grass of the dune. archie and tod were now dancing about the deck in a delirium of delight--calling out in true piratical terms, "we die, but we never surrender!" tod now and then falling into his native vernacular to the effect that he'd "knock the liver and lights out o' the hull gang," an expression the meaning of which was wholly lost on archie, he never having cleaned a fish in his life. here a boy in his shirt-sleeves straightened up in the yellow grass and looked seaward. then sandy plummer gave a yell and ran to the beach, rolling up what was left of his trousers legs, stopping now and then to untie first one shoe and then the other. two of the gang followed on a run. when the three reached the water's edge they danced about like crusoe's savages, waving their arms and shouting. sandy by this time had stripped off his clothes and had dashed into the water. a long plank from some lumber schooner was drifting up the beach in the gentle swell of the tide. sandy ran abreast of it for a time, sprang into the surf, threw himself upon it flat like a frog, and then began paddling shoreward. the other two now rushed into the water, grasping the near end of the derelict, the whole party pushing and paddling until it was hauled clean of the brine and landed high on the sand. a triumphant yell here came from the water's edge, and the balance of the gang--there were seven in all--rushed to the help of the dauntless three. archie heaped a pile of pebbles within reach of his hand and waited the attack. what the savages were going to do with the plank neither he nor tod could divine. the derelict was now dragged over the sand to the hulk, tod and archie pelting its rescuers with stones and shells as they came within short range. "up with her, fellers!" shouted sandy, who, since scootsy's unmanly tears, had risen to first place. "run it under the bowsprit--up with her--there she goes! altogether!" archie took his stand, his long sapling in his hand, and waited. he thought first he would unseat the end of the plank, but it was too far below him and then again he would be exposed to their volleys of stones, and if he was hurt he might not get back on his craft. tod, who had resigned command in favor of his henchman after archie's masterly defence in the last fight, stood behind him. thermopylae was a narrow place, and so was the famous bridge of horatius. he and his faithful tod would now make the fight of their lives. both of these close shaves for immortality were closed books to tod, but archie knew every line of their records, doctor john having spent many an hour reading to him, the boy curled up in his lap while jane listened. sandy, emboldened by the discovery of the plank, made the first rush up and was immediately knocked from his perch by tod, whose pole swung around his head like a flail. then scootsy tried it, crawling up, protecting his head by ducking it under his elbows, holding meanwhile by his hand. tod's blows fell about his back, but the boy struggled on until archie reached over the gunwale, and with a twist of his wrist, using all his strength, dropped the invader to the sand below. the success of this mode of attack was made apparent, provided they could stick to the plank. five boys now climbed up. archie belabored the first one with the pole and tod grappled with the second, trying to throw him from the rail to the sand, some ten feet below, but the rat close behind him, in spite of their efforts, reached forward, caught the rail, and scrambled up to his mate's assistance. in another instant both had leaped to the sloop's deck. "back! back! run, toddy!" screamed archie, waving his arms. "get on the poop-deck; we can lick them there. run!" tod darted back, and the two defenders clearing the intervening rotten timbers with a bound, sprang upon the roof of the old cabin--archie's "poop." with a whoop the savages followed, jumping over the holes in the planking and avoiding the nails in the open beams. in the melee archie had lost his pole, and was now standing, hat off, his blue eves flashing, all the blood of his overheated little body blazing in his face. the tears of defeat were trembling under his eyelids, he had been outnumbered, but he would die game. in his hand he carried, unconsciously to himself, the big-bladed pocket knife the captain had given him. he would as soon have used it on his mother as upon one of his enemies, but the barnegat invaders were ignorant of that fact, knives being the last resort in their environment. "look out, sandy!" yelled scootsy to his leader, who was now sneaking up to archie with the movement of an indian in ambush;--"he's drawed a knife." sandy stopped and straightened himself within three feet of archie. his hand still smarted from the blow archie had given it. the "spad" had not stopped a second in that attack, and he might not in this; the next thing he knew the knife might be between his ribs. "drawed a knife, hev ye!" he snarled. "drawed a knife, jes' like a spad that ye are! ye oughter put yer hair in curl-papers!" archie looked at the harmless knife in his hand. "i can fight you with my fists if you are bigger than me," he cried, tossing the knife down the open hatchway into the sand below. "hold my coat, tod," and he began stripping off his little jacket. "i ain't fightin' no spads," sneered sandy. he didn't want to fight this one. "yer can't skeer nobody. you'll draw a pistol next. yer better go home to yer mammy, if ye kin find her." "he ain't got no mammy," snarled scootsy. "he's a pick-up--me father says so." archie sprang forward to avenge the insult, but before he could reach scootsy's side a yell arose from the bow of the hulk. "yi! yi! run, fellers! here comes old man fogarty! he's right on top o' ye! not that side--this way. yi! yi!" the invaders turned and ran the length of the deck, scrambled over the side and dropped one after the other to the sand below just as the fogarty head appeared at the bow. it was but a step and a spring for him, and with a lurch he gained the deck of the wreck. "by jiminy, boys, mother thought ye was all killed! has them rats been botherin' ye? ye oughter broke the heads of 'em. where did they get that plank? come 'shore, did it? here, tod, catch hold of it; i jes' wanted a piece o' floorin' like that. why, ye're all het up, archie! come, son, come to dinner; ye'll git cooled off, and mother's got a mess o' clams for ye. never mind 'bout the ladder; i'll lift it down." on the way over to the cabin, fogarty and tod carrying the plank and archie walking beside them, the fisherman gleaned from the boys the details of the fight. archie had recovered the captain's knife and it was now in his hand. "called ye a 'pick-up' did he, the rat, and said ye didn't have no mother. he's a liar! if ye ain't got a mother, and a good one, i don't know who has. that's the way with them town-crabs, allus cussin' somebody better'n themselves." when fogarty had tilted the big plank against the side of the cabin and the boys had entered the kitchen in search of the mess of clams, the fisherman winked to his wife, jerked his head meaningly over one shoulder, and mrs. fogarty, in answer, followed him out to the woodshed. "them sneaks from barnegat, mulligan's and farguson's boys, and the rest of 'em, been lettin' out on archie: callin' him names, sayin' he ain't got no mother and he's one o' them pass-ins ye find on yer doorstep in a basket. i laughed it off and he 'peared to forgit it, but i thought he might ask ye, an' so i wanted to tip ye the wink." "well, ye needn't worry. i ain't goin' to tell him what i don't know," replied the wife, surprised that he should bring her all the way out to the woodshed to tell her a thing like that. "but ye do know, don't ye?" "all i know is what uncle ephraim told me four or five years ago, and he's so flighty half the time and talks so much ye can't believe one-half he says--something about miss jane comin' across archie's mother in a horsepital in paris, or some'er's and promisin' her a-dyin' that she'd look after the boy, and she has. she'd do that here if there was women and babies up to doctor john's horsepital 'stead o' men. it's jes' like her," and mrs. fogarty, not to lose her steps, stooped over a pile of wood and began gathering up an armful. "well, she ain't his mother, ye know," rejoined fogarty, helping his wife with the sticks. "that's what they slammed in his face to-day, and he'll git it ag'in as he grows up. but he don't want to hear it from us." "and he won't. miss jane ain't no fool. she knows more about him than anybody else, and when she gits ready to tell him she'll tell him. don't make no difference who his mother was--the one he's got now is good enough for anybody. tod would have been dead half a dozen times if it hadn't been for her and doctor john, and there ain't nobody knows it better'n me. it's just like her to let archie come here so much with tod; she knows i ain't goin' to let nothin' happen to him. and as for mothers, sam fogarty," here mrs. fogarty lifted her free hand and shook her finger in a positive way--"when archie gits short of mothers he's got one right here, don't make no difference what you or anybody else says," and she tapped her broad bosom meaningly. contrary, however, to fogarty's hopes and surmises, archie had forgotten neither sandy's insult nor scootsy's epithet. "he's a pick-up" and "he ain't got no mammy" kept ringing in his ears as he walked back up the beach to his home. he remembered having heard the words once before when he was some years younger, but then it had come from a passing neighbor and was not intended for him. this time it was flung square in his face. every now and then as he followed the trend of the beach on his way home he would stop and look out over the sea, watching the long threads of smoke being unwound from the spools of the steamers and the sails of the fishing-boats as they caught the light of the setting sun. the epithet worried him. it was something to be ashamed of, he knew, or they would not have used it. jane, standing outside the gate-post, shading her eyes with her hand, scanning the village road, caught sight of his sturdy little figure the moment he turned the corner and ran to meet him. "i got so worried--aren't you late, my son?" she asked, putting her arm about him and kissing him tenderly. "yes, it's awful late. i ran all the way from the church when i saw the clock. i didn't know it was past six. oh, but we've had a bully day, mother! and we've had a fight. tod and i were pirates, and scootsy mulligan tried to--" jane stopped the boy's joyous account with a cry of surprise. they were now walking back to yardley's gate, hugging the stone wall. "a fight! oh, my son!" "yes, a bully fight; only there were seven of them and only two of us. that warn't fair, but mr. fogarty says they always fight like that. i could have licked 'em if they come on one at a time, but they got a plank and crawled up--" "crawled up where, my son?" asked jane in astonishment. all this was an unknown world to her. she had seen the wreck and had known, of course, that the boys were making a playhouse of it, but this latter development was news to her. "why, on the pirate ship, where we've got our bandit's home. tod is commodore and i'm first mate. tod and i did all we could, but they didn't fight fair, and scootsy called me a 'pick-up' and said i hadn't any mother. i asked mr. fogarty what he meant, but he wouldn't tell me. what's a 'pick-up,' dearie?" and he lifted his face to jane's, his honest blue eyes searching her own. jane caught her hand to her side and leaned for a moment against the stone wall. this was the question which for years she had expected him to ask--one to which she had framed a hundred imaginary answers. when as a baby he first began to talk she had determined to tell him she was not his mother, and so get him gradually accustomed to the conditions of his birth. but every day she loved him the more, and every day she had put it off. to-day it was no easier. he was too young, she knew, to take in its full meaning, even if she could muster up the courage to tell him the half she was willing to tell him--that his mother was her friend and on her sick-bed had entrusted her child to her care. she had wanted to wait until he was old enough to understand, so that she should not lose his love when he came to know the truth. there had been, moreover, always this fear--would he love her for shielding his mother, or would he hate lucy when he came to know? she had once talked it all over with captain holt, but she could never muster up the courage to take his advice. "tell him," he had urged. "it'll save you a lot o' trouble in the end. that'll let me out and i kin do for him as i want to. you've lived under this cloud long enough--there ain't nobody can live a lie a whole lifetime, miss jane. i'll take my share of the disgrace along of my dead boy, and you ain't done nothin', god knows, to be ashamed of. tell him! it's grease to yer throat halyards and everything'll run smoother afterward. take my advice, miss jane." all these things rushed through her mind as she stood leaning against the stone wall, archie's hand in hers, his big blue eyes still fixed on her own. "who said that to you, my son?" she asked in assumed indifference, in order to gain time in which to frame her answer and recover from the shock. "scootsy mulligan." "is he a nice boy?" "no, he's a coward, or he wouldn't fight as he does." "then i wouldn't mind him, my boy," and she smoothed back the hair from his forehead, her eyes avoiding the boy's steady gaze. it was only when someone opened the door of the closet concealing this spectre that jane felt her knees give way and her heart turn sick within her. in all else she was fearless and strong. "was he the boy who said you had no mother?" "yes. i gave him an awful whack when he came up the first time, and he went heels over head." "well, you have got a mother, haven't you, darling?" she continued, with a sigh of relief, now that archie was not insistent. "you bet i have!" cried the boy, throwing his arms around her. "then we won't either of us bother about those bad boys and what they say," she answered, stooping over and kissing him. and so for a time the remembrance of scootsy's epithet faded out of the boy's mind. chapter xiv high water at yardley ten years have passed away. the sturdy little fellow in knee-trousers is a lad of seventeen, big and strong for his age; tod is three years older, and the two are still inseparable. the brave commander of the pirate ship is now a full-fledged fisherman and his father's main dependence. archie is again his chief henchman, and the two spend many a morning in tod's boat when the blue-fish are running. old fogarty does not mind it; he rather likes it, and mother fogarty is always happier when the two are together. "if one of 'em gits overboard," she said one day to her husband, "t'other kin save him." "save him! well, i guess!" he replied. "salt water skims off archie same's if he was a white bellied gull; can't drown him no more'n you kin a can buoy." the boy has never forgotten scootsy's epithet, although he has never spoken of it to his mother--no one knows her now by any other name. she thought the episode had passed out of his mind, but she did not know everything that lay in the boy's heart. he and tod had discussed it time and again, and had wondered over his own name and that of his nameless father, as boys wonder, but they had come to no conclusion. no one in the village could tell them, for no one ever knew. he had asked the doctor, but had only received a curious answer. "what difference does it make, son, when you have such a mother? you have brought her only honor, and the world loves her the better because of you. let it rest until she tells you; it will only hurt her heart if you ask her now." the doctor had already planned out the boy's future; he was to be sent to philadelphia to study medicine when his schooling was over, and was then to come into his office and later on succeed to his practice. captain holt would have none of it. "he don't want to saw off no legs," the bluff old man had blurted out when he heard of it. "he wants to git ready to take a ship 'round cape horn. if i had my way i'd send him some'er's where he could learn navigation, and that's in the fo'c's'le of a merchantman. give him a year or two before the mast. i made that mistake with bart--he loafed round here too long and when he did git a chance he was too old." report had it that the captain was going to leave the lad his money, and had therefore a right to speak; but no one knew. he was closer-mouthed than ever, though not so gruff and ugly as he used to be; archie had softened him, they said, taking the place of that boy of his he "druv out to die a good many years ago." jane's mind wavered. neither profession suited her. she would sacrifice anything she had for the boy provided they left him with her. philadelphia was miles away, and she would see him but seldom. the sea she shrank from and dreaded. she had crossed it twice, and both times with an aching heart. she feared, too, its treachery and cruelty. the waves that curled and died on barnegat beach--messengers from across the sea--brought only tidings fraught with suffering. archie had no preferences--none yet. his future was too far off to trouble him much. nor did anything else worry him. one warm september day archie turned into yardley gate, his so'wester still on his head framing his handsome, rosy face; his loose jacket open at the throat, the tarpaulins over his arm. he had been outside the inlet with tod--since daybreak, in fact--fishing for bass and weakfish. jane had been waiting for him for hours. she held an open letter in her hand, and her face was happier, archie thought as he approached her, than he had seen it for months. there are times in all lives when suddenly and without warning, those who have been growing quietly by our side impress their new development upon us. we look at them in full assurance that the timid glance of the child will be returned, and are astounded to find instead the calm gaze of the man; or we stretch out our hand to help the faltering step and touch a muscle that could lead a host. such changes are like the breaking of the dawn; so gradual has been their coming that the full sun of maturity is up and away flooding the world with beauty and light before we can recall the degrees by which it rose. jane realized this--and for the first time--as she looked at archie swinging through the gate, waving his hat as he strode toward her. she saw that the sailor had begun to assert itself. he walked with an easy swing, his broad shoulders--almost as broad as the captain's and twice as hard--thrown back, his head up, his blue eyes and white teeth laughing out of a face brown and ruddy with the sun and wind, his throat and neck bare except for the silk handkerchief--one of tod's--wound loosely about it; a man really, strong and tough, with hard sinews and capable thighs, back, and wrists--the kind of sailorman that could wear tarpaulins or broadcloth at his pleasure and never lose place in either station. in this rude awakening jane's heart-strings tightened. she became suddenly conscious that the cobden look had faded out of him; lucy's eyes and hair were his, and so was her rounded chin, with its dimple, but there was nothing else about him that recalled either her own father or any other cobden she remembered. as he came near enough for her to look into his eyes she began to wonder how he would impress lucy, what side of his nature would she love best--his courage and strength or his tenderness? the sound of his voice shouting her name recalled her to herself, and a thrill of pride illumined her happy face like a burst of sunlight as he tossed his tarpaulins on the grass and put his strong arms about her. "mother, dear! forty black bass, eleven weakfish, and half a barrel of small fry--what do you think of that?" "splendid, archie. tod must be proud as a peacock. but look at this!" and she held up the letter. "who do you think it's from? guess now," and she locked one arm through his, and the two strolled back to the house. "guess now!" she repeated, holding the letter behind her back. the two were often like lovers together. "let me see," he coaxed. "what kind of a stamp has it got?" "never you mind about the stamp." "uncle john--and it's about my going to philadelphia." jane laughed. "uncle john never saw it." "then it's from--oh, you tell me, mother!" "no--guess. think of everybody you ever heard of. those you have seen and those you--" "oh, i know--aunt lucy." "yes, and she's coming home. home, archie, think of it, after all these years!" "well, that's bully! she won't know me, will she? i never saw her, did i?" "yes, when you were a little fellow." it was difficult to keep the tremor out of her voice. "will she bring any dukes and high daddies with her?" "no," laughed jane, "only her little daughter ellen, the sweetest little girl you ever saw, she writes." "how old is she?" he had slipped his arm around his mother's waist now and the two were "toeing it" up the path, he stopping every few feet to root a pebble from its bed. the coming of the aunt was not a great event in his life. "just seven her last birthday." "all right, she's big enough. we'll take her out and teach her to fish. hello, granny!" and the boy loosened his arm as he darted up the steps toward martha. "got the finest mess of fish coming up here in a little while you ever laid your eyes on," he shouted, catching the old nurse's cap from her head and clapping it upon his own, roaring with laughter, as he fled in the direction of the kitchen. jane joined in the merriment and, moving a chair from the hall, took her seat on the porch to await the boy's return. she was too happy to busy herself about the house or to think of any of her outside duties. doctor john would not be in until the afternoon, and so she would occupy herself in thinking out plans to make her sister's home-coming a joyous one. as she looked down over the garden as far as the two big gate-posts standing like grim sentinels beneath the wide branches of the hemlocks, and saw how few changes had taken place in the old home since her girl sister had left it, her heart thrilled with joy. nothing really was different; the same mass of tangled rose-vines climbed over the porch--now quite to the top of the big roof, but still the same dear old vines that lucy had loved in her childhood; the same honeysuckle hid the posts; the same box bordered the paths. the house was just as she left it; her bedroom had really never been touched. what few changes had taken place she would not miss. meg would not run out to meet her, and rex was under a stone that the doctor had placed over his grave; nor would ann gossaway peer out of her eyrie of a window and follow her with her eyes as she drove by; her tongue was quiet at last, and she and her old mother lay side by side in the graveyard. doctor john had exhausted his skill upon them both, and martha, who had forgiven her enemy, had sat by her bedside until the end, but nothing had availed. mrs. cavendish was dead, of course, but she did not think lucy would care very much. she and doctor john had nursed her for months until the end came, and had then laid her away near the apple-trees she was so fond of. but most of the faithful hearts who had loved her were still beating, and all were ready with a hearty welcome. archie was the one thing new--new to lucy. and yet she had no fear either for him or for lucy. when she saw him she would love him, and when she had known him a week she would never be separated from him again. the long absence could not have wiped out all remembrance of the boy, nor would the new child crowd him from her heart. when doctor john sprang from his gig (the custom of his daily visits had never been broken) she could hardly wait until he tied his horse--poor bess had long since given out--to tell him the joyful news. he listened gravely, his face lighting up at her happiness. he was glad for jane and said so frankly, but the situation did not please him. he at heart really dreaded the effect of lucy's companionship on the woman he loved. although it had been years since he had seen her, he had followed her career, especially since her marriage, with the greatest interest and with the closest attention. he had never forgotten, nor had he forgiven her long silence of two years after her marriage, during which time she had never written jane a line, nor had he ever ceased to remember jane's unhappiness over it. jane had explained it all to him on the ground that lucy was offended because she had opposed the marriage, but the doctor knew differently. nor had he ceased to remember the other letters which followed, and how true a story they told of lucy's daily life and ambitions. he could almost recall the wording of one of them. "my husband is too ill," it had said, "to go south with me, and so i will run down to rome for a month or so, for i really need the change." and a later one, written since his death, in which she wrote of her winter in paris and at monte carlo, and "how good my mother-in-law is to take care of ellen." this last letter to her sister, just received--the one he then held in his hand, and which gave jane such joy, and which he was then reading as carefully as if it had been a prescription--was to his analytical mind like all the rest of its predecessors. one sentence sent a slight curl to his lips. "i cannot stay away any longer from my precious sister," it said, "and am coming back to the home i adore. i have no one to love me, now that my dear husband is dead, but you and my darling ellen." the news of lucy's expected return spread rapidly. old martha in her joy was the mouthpiece. she gave the details out at church the sunday morning following the arrival of lucy's letter. she was almost too ill to venture out, but she made the effort, stopping the worshippers as they came down the board walk; telling each one of the good news, the tears streaming down her face. to the children and the younger generation the announcement made but little difference; some of them had never heard that miss jane had a sister, and others only that she lived abroad. their mothers knew, of course, and so did the older men, and all were pleased over the news. those of them who remembered the happy, joyous girl with her merry eyes and ringing laugh were ready to give her a hearty welcome; they felt complimented that the distinguished lady--fifteen years' residence abroad and a rich husband had gained her this position--should be willing to exchange the great paris for the simple life of warehold. it touched their civic pride. great preparations were accordingly made. billy tatham's successor (his son)--in his best open carriage--was drawn up at the station, and lucy's drive through the village with some of her numerous boxes covered with foreign labels piled on the seat beside the young man--who insisted on driving lucy and the child himself--was more like the arrival of a princess revisiting her estates than anything else. martha and archie and jane filled the carriage, with little ellen on archie's lap, and more than one neighbor ran out of the house and waved to them as they drove through the long village street and turned into the gate. archie threw his arms around lucy when he saw her, and in his open, impetuous way called her his "dear aunty," telling her how glad he was that she had come to keep his good mother from getting so sad at times, and adding that she and granny had not slept for days before she came, so eager were they to see her. and lucy kissed him in return, but with a different throb at her heart. she felt a thrill when she saw how handsome and strong he was, and for an instant there flashed through her a feeling of pride that he was her own flesh and blood. then there had come a sudden revulsion, strangling every emotion but the one of aversion--an aversion so overpowering that she turned suddenly and catching ellen in her arms kissed her with so lavish a display of affection that those at the station who witnessed the episode had only praise for the mother's devotion. jane saw the kiss lucy had given archie, and a cry of joy welled up in her heart, but she lost the shadow that followed. my lady of paris was too tactful for that. her old room was all ready. jane, with martha helping, had spent days in its preparation. white dimity curtains starched stiff as a petticoat had been hung at the windows; a new lace cover spread on the little mahogany, brass-mounted dressing-table--her great grandmother's, in fact--with its tiny swinging mirror and the two drawers (martha remembered when her bairn was just high enough to look into the mirror), and pots of fresh flowers placed on the long table on which her hooks used to rest. two easy-chairs had also been brought up from the sitting-room below, covered with new chintz and tied with blue ribbons, and, more wonderful still, a candle-box had been covered with cretonne and studded with brass tacks by the aid of martha's stiff fingers that her bairn might have a place in which to put her dainty shoes and slippers. when the trunks had been carried upstairs and martha with her own hands had opened my lady's gorgeous blue morocco dressing-case with its bottles capped with gold and its brushes and fittings emblazoned with cupids swinging in garlands of roses, the poor woman's astonishment knew no bounds. the many scents and perfumes, the dainty boxes, big and little, holding various powders--one a red paste which the old nurse thought must be a salve, but about which, it is needless to say, she was greatly mistaken--as well as a rabbit's foot smirched with rouge (this she determined to wash at once), and a tiny box of court-plaster cut in half moons. so many things, in fact, did the dear old nurse pull from this wonderful bag that the modest little bureau could not hold half of them, and the big table had to be brought up and swept of its plants and belongings. the various cosmetics and their uses were especial objects of comment. "did ye break one of the bottles, darlin'?" she asked, sniffing at a peculiar perfume which seemed to permeate everything. "some of 'em must have smashed; it's awful strong everywhere--smell that"--and she held out a bit of lace which she had taken from the case, a dressing-sacque that lucy had used on the steamer. lucy laughed. "and you don't like it? how funny, you dear old thing! that was made specially for me; no one else in paris has a drop." and then the dresses! particularly the one she was to wear the first night--a dress flounced and furbelowed and of a creamy white (she still wore mourning--delicate purples shading to white--the exact tone for a husband six months dead). and the filmy dressing-gowns, and, more wonderful than all, the puff of smoke she was to sleep in, held together by a band of violet ribbon; to say nothing of the dainty slippers bound about with swan's-down, and the marvellous hats, endless silk stockings of mauve, white, and black, and long and short gloves. in all her life martha had never seen or heard of such things. the room was filled with them and the two big closets crammed to overflowing, and yet a dozen trunks were not yet unpacked, including the two small boxes holding little ellen's clothes. the night was one long to be remembered. everyone said the manor house had not been so gay for years. and they were all there--all her old friends and many of jane's new ones, who for years had looked on lucy as one too far above them in station to be spoken of except with bated breath. the intimates of the house came early. doctor john first, with his grave manner and low voice--so perfectly dressed and quiet: lucy thought she had never seen his equal in bearing and demeanor, nor one so distinguished-looking--not in any circle in europe; and uncle ephraim, grown fat and gouty, leaning on a cane, but still hearty and wholesome, and overjoyed to see her; and pastor dellenbaugh--his hair was snow-white now--and his complacent and unruffled wife; and the others, including captain holt, who came in late. it was almost a repetition of that other home-coming years before, when they had gathered to greet her, then a happy, joyous girl just out of school. lucy in their honor wore the dress that had so astonished martha, and a diamond-studded ornament which she took from her jewel-case and fastened in her hair. the dress followed the wonderful curves of her beautiful body in all its dimpled plumpness and the jewel set off to perfection the fresh, oval face, laughing blue eyes--wet forget-me-nots were the nearest their color--piquant, upturned nose and saucy mouth. the color of the gown, too, harmonized both with the delicate pink of her cheeks and with the tones of her rather too full throat showing above the string of pearls that clasped it. jane wore a simple gray silk gown which followed closely the slender and almost attenuated lines of her figure. this gown the doctor always loved because, as he told her, it expressed so perfectly the simplicity of her mind and life. her only jewels were her deep, thoughtful eyes, and these, to-night, were brilliant with joy over her sister's return. as jane moved about welcoming her guests the doctor, whose eyes rarely left her face, became conscious that at no time in their lives had the contrast between the two sisters been greater. one, a butterfly of thirty-eight, living only in the glow of the sunlight, radiant in plumage, alighting first on one flower and then on another, but always on flowers, never on weeds; gathering such honey as suited her taste; never resting where she might by any chance be compelled to use her feet, but always poised in air; a woman, rich, brilliant, and beautiful, and--here was the key-note of her life--always, year in and year out, warmed by somebody's admiration, whose she didn't much mind nor care, so that it gratified her pride and relieved her of ennui. the other--and this one he loved with his whole soul--a woman of forty-six, with a profound belief in her creeds; quixotic sometimes in her standards, but always sincere; devoted to her traditions, to her friends and to her duty; unselfish, tender-hearted, and self-sacrificing; whose feet, though often tired and bleeding, had always trodden the earth. as lucy greeted first one neighbor and then another, sometimes with one hand, sometimes with two, offering her cheek now and then to some old friend who had known her as a child, jane's heart swelled with something of the pride she used to have when lucy was a girl. her beautiful sister, she saw, had lost none of the graciousness of her old manner, nor of her tact in making her guests feel perfectly at home. jane noticed, too--and this was new to her--a certain well-bred condescension, so delicately managed as never to be offensive--more the air of a woman accustomed to many sorts and conditions of men and women, and who chose to be agreeable as much to please herself as to please her guests. and yet with all this poise of manner and condescending graciousness, there would now and then dart from lucy's eyes a quick, searching glance of inquiry, as she tried to read her guests' thoughts, followed by a relieved look on her own face as she satisfied herself that no whisper of her past had ever reached them. these glances jane never caught. doctor john was most cordial in his greeting and talked to her a long time about some portions of europe, particularly a certain cafe in dresden where he used to dine, and another in paris frequented by the beau monde. she answered him quite frankly, telling him of some of her own experiences in both places, quite forgetting that she was giving him glimpses of her own life while away--glimpses which she had kept carefully concealed from jane or martha. she was conscious, however, after he had left her of a certain uncomfortable feeling quivering through her as his clear, steadfast eyes looked into hers, he listened, and yet she thought she detected his brain working behind his steadfast gaze. it was as if he was searching for some hidden disease. "he knows something," she said to herself, when the doctor moved to let someone else take his place. "how much i can't tell. i'll get it all out of sister." blunt and bluff captain holt, white-whiskered and white-haired now, but strong and hearty, gave her another and a different shock. what his first words would be when they met and how she would avoid discussing the subject uppermost in their minds if, in his rough way, he insisted on talking about it, was one of the things that had worried her greatly when she decided to come home, for there was never any doubt in her mind as to his knowledge. but she misjudged the captain, as had a great many others who never looked beneath the rugged bark covering his heart of oak. "i'm glad you've come at last," he said gravely, hardly touching her hand in welcome, "you ought to have been here before. jane's got a fine lad of her own that she's bringin' up; when you know him ye'll like him." she did not look at him when she answered, but a certain feeling of relief crept over her. she saw that the captain had buried the past and intended never to revive it. the stern look on his face only gave way when little ellen came to him of her own accord and climbing up into his lap said in her broken english that she heard he was a great captain and that she wanted him to tell her some stories like her good papa used to tell her. "he was gray like you," she said, "and big," and she measured the size with her plump little arms that showed out of her dainty french dress. with doctor john and captain holt out of the way lucy's mind was at rest. "nobody else round about yardley except these two knows," she kept saying to herself with a bound of relief, "and for these i don't care. the doctor is jane's slave, and the captain is evidently wise enough not to uncover skeletons locked up in his own closet." these things settled in her mind, my lady gave herself up to whatever enjoyment, compatible with her rapidly fading mourning, the simple surroundings afforded, taking her cue from the conditions that confronted her and ordering her conduct accordingly and along these lines: archie was her adopted nephew, the son of an old friend of jane's, and one whom she would love dearly, as, in fact, she would anybody else whom jane had brought up; she herself was a gracious widow of large means recovering from a great sorrow; one who had given up the delights of foreign courts to spend some time among her dear people who had loved her as a child. here for a time would she bring up and educate her daughter. "to be once more at home, and in dear old warehold, too!" she had said with upraised madonna-like eyes and clasped hands to a group of women who were hanging on every word that dropped from her pretty lips. "do you know what that is to me? there is hardly a day i have not longed for it. pray, forgive me if i do not come to see you as often as i would, but i really hate to be an hour outside of the four walls of my precious home." chapter xv a package of letters under the influence of the new arrival it was not at all strange that many changes were wrought in the domestic life at cobden manor. my lady was a sensuous creature, loving color and flowers and the dainty appointments of life as much in the surroundings of her home as in the adornment of her person, and it was not many weeks before the old-fashioned sitting-room had been transformed into a french boudoir. in this metamorphosis she had used but few pieces of new furniture--one or two, perhaps, that she had picked up in the village, as well as some bits of mahogany and brass that she loved--but had depended almost entirely upon the rearrangement of the heirlooms of the family. with the boudoir idea in view, she had pulled the old tables out from the walls, drawn the big sofa up to the fire, spread a rug--one of her own--before the mantel, hung new curtains at the windows and ruffled their edges with lace, banked the sills with geraniums and begonias, tilted a print or two beside the clock, scattered a few books and magazines over the centre-table, on which she had placed a big, generous lamp, under whose umbrella shade she could see to read as she sat in her grandmother's rocking-chair--in fact, had, with that taste inherent in some women--touched with a knowing hand the dead things about her and made them live and mean something;--her talisman being an unerring sense of what contributed to personal comfort. heretofore doctor john had been compelled to drag a chair halfway across the room in order to sit and chat with jane, or had been obliged to share her seat on the sofa, too far from the hearth on cold days to be comfortable. now he could either stand on the hearth-rug and talk to her, seated in one corner of the pulled-up sofa, her work-basket on a small table beside her, or he could drop into a big chair within reach of her hand and still feel the glow of the fire. jane smiled at the changes and gave lucy free rein to do as she pleased. her own nature had never required these nicer luxuries; she had been too busy, and in these last years of her life too anxious, to think of them, and so the room had been left as in the days of her father. the effect of the rearrangement was not lost on the neighbors. they at once noticed the sense of cosiness everywhere apparent, and in consequence called twice as often, and it was not long before the old-fashioned sitting-room became a stopping-place for everybody who had half an hour to spare. these attractions, with the aid of a generous hospitality, lucy did her best to maintain, partly because she loved excitement and partly because she intended to win the good-will of her neighbors--those who might be useful to her. the women succumbed at once. not only were her manners most gracious, but her jewels of various kinds, her gowns of lace and frou-frou, her marvellous hats, her assortment of parasols, her little personal belongings and niceties--gold scissors, thimbles, even the violet ribbons that rippled through her transparent underlaces--so different from those of any other woman they knew--were a constant source of wonder and delight. to them she was a beautiful lady bountiful who had fluttered down among them from heights above, and whose departure, should it ever take place, would leave a gloom behind that nothing could illumine. to the men she was more reserved. few of them ever got beyond a handshake and a smile, and none of them ever reached the borders of intimacy. popularity in a country village could never, she knew, be gained by a pretty woman without great discretion. she explained her foresight to jane by telling her that there was no man of her world in warehold but the doctor, and that she wouldn't think of setting her cap for him as she would be gray-haired before he would have the courage to propose. then she kissed jane in apology, and breaking out into a rippling laugh that martha heard upstairs, danced out of the room. little ellen, too, had her innings; not only was she prettily dressed, presenting the most joyous of pictures, as with golden curls flying about her shoulders she flitted in and out of the rooms like a sprite, but she was withal so polite in her greetings, dropping to everyone a little french courtesy when she spoke, and all in her quaint, broken dialect, that everybody fell in love with her at sight. none of the other mothers had such a child, and few of them knew that such children existed. jane watched the workings of lucy's mind with many misgivings. she loved her lightheartedness and the frank, open way with which she greeted everybody who crossed their threshold. she loved, too, to see her beautifully gowned and equipped and to hear the flattering comments of the neighbors on her appearance and many charms; but every now and then her ear caught an insincere note that sent a shiver through her. she saw that the welcome lucy gave them was not from her heart, but from her lips; due to her training, no doubt, or perhaps to her unhappiness, for jane still mourned over the unhappy years of lucy's life--an unhappiness, had she known it, which had really ended with archie's safe adoption and bart's death. another cause of anxiety was lucy's restlessness. every day she must have some new excitement--a picnic with the young girls and young men, private theatricals in the town hall, or excursions to barnegat beach, where they were building a new summer hotel. now and then she would pack her bag and slip off to new york or philadelphia for days at a time to stay with friends she had met abroad, leaving ellen with jane and martha. to the older sister she seemed like some wild, untamable bird of brilliant plumage used to long, soaring flights, perching first on one dizzy height and then another, from which she could watch the world below. the thing, however, which distressed jane most was lucy's attitude towards archie. she made every allowance for her first meeting at the station, and knew that necessarily it must be more or less constrained, but she had not expected the almost cold indifference with which she had treated the boy ever since. as the days went by and lucy made no effort to attach archie to her or to interest herself either in his happiness or welfare, jane became more and more disturbed. she had prayed for this home-coming and had set her heart on the home-building which was sure to follow, and now it seemed farther off than ever. one thing troubled and puzzled her: while lucy was always kind to archie indoors, kissing him with the others when she came down to breakfast, she never, if she could help it, allowed him to walk with her in the village, and she never on any occasion took him with her when visiting the neighbors. "why not take archie with you, dear?" jane had said one morning to lucy, who had just announced her intention of spending a few days in philadelphia with max feilding's sister sue, whom she had met abroad when max was studying in dresden--max was still a bachelor, and his sister kept house for him. he was abroad at the time, but was expected by every steamer. "archie isn't invited, you old goosie, and he would be as much out of place in max's house as uncle ephraim tipple would be in parliament." "but they would be glad to see him if you took him. he is just the age now when a boy gets impressions which last him through--" "yes, the gawky and stumble-over-things age! piano-stools, rugs, anything that comes in his way. and the impressions wouldn't do him a bit of good. they might, in fact, do him harm," and she laughed merrily and spread her fingers to the blaze. a laugh was often her best shield. she had in her time dealt many a blow and then dodged behind a laugh to prevent her opponent from striking back. "but, lucy, don't you want to do something to help him?" jane asked in a pleading tone. "yes, whatever i can, but he seems to me to be doing very well as he is. doctor john is devoted to him and the captain idolizes him. he's a dear, sweet boy, of course, and does you credit, but he's not of my world, jane, dear, and i'd have to make him all over again before he could fit into my atmosphere. besides, he told me this morning that he was going off for a week with some fisherman on the beach--some person by the name of fogarty, i think." "yes, a fine fellow; they have been friends from their boyhood." she was not thinking of fogarty, but of the tone of lucy's voice when speaking of her son. "yes--most estimable gentleman, no doubt, this mr. fogarty, but then, dear, we don't invite that sort of people to dinner, do we?" and another laugh rippled out. "yes, sometimes," answered jane in all sincerity. "not fogarty, because he would be uncomfortable if he came, but many of the others just as humble. we really have very few of any other kind. i like them all. many of them love me dearly." "not at all strange; nobody can help loving you," and she patted jane's shoulder with her jewelled fingers. "but you like them, too, don't you? you treat them as if you did." lucy lifted her fluted petticoat, rested her slippered foot on the fender, glanced down at the embroidered silk stocking covering her ankle, and said in a graver tone: "i like all kinds of people--in their proper place. this is my home, and it is wise to get along with one's neighbors. besides, they all have tongues in their heads like the rest of the human race, and it is just as well to have them wag for you as against you." jane paused for a moment, her eyes watching the blazing logs, and asked with almost a sigh: "you don't mean, dear, that you never intend to help archie, do you?" "never is a long word, jane. wait till he grows up and i see what he makes of himself. he is now nothing but a great animal, well built as a young bull, and about as awkward." jane's eyes flashed and her shoulders straightened. the knife had a double edge to its blade. "he is your own flesh and blood, lucy," she said with a ring of indignation in her voice. "you don't treat ellen so; why should you archie?" lucy took her foot from the fender, dropped her skirts, and looked at jane curiously. from underneath the half-closed lids of her eyes there flashed a quick glance of hate--a look that always came into lucy's eyes whenever jane connected her name with archie's. "let us understand each other, sister," she said icily. "i don't dislike the boy. when he gets into trouble i'll help him in any way i can, but please remember he's not my boy--he's yours. you took him from me with that understanding and i have never asked him back. he can't love two mothers. you say he has been your comfort all these years. why, then, do you want to unsettle his mind?" jane lifted her head and looked at lucy with searching eyes--looked as a man looks when someone he must not strike has flung a glove in his face. "do you really love anything, lucy?" she asked in a lower voice, her eyes still fastened on her sister's. "yes, ellen and you." "did you love her father?" she continued in the same direct tone. "y-e-s, a little-- he was the dearest old man in the world and did his best to please me; and then he was never very well. but why talk about him, dear?" "and you never gave him anything in return for all his devotion?" jane continued in the same cross-examining voice and with the same incisive tone. "yes, my companionship--whenever i could. about what you give doctor john," and she looked at jane with a sly inquiry as she laughed gently to herself. jane bit her lips and her face flushed scarlet. the cowardly thrust had not wounded her own heart. it had only uncovered the love of the man who lay enshrined in its depths. a sudden sense of the injustice done him arose in her mind and then her own helplessness in it all. "i would give him everything i have, if i could," she answered simply, all her insistency gone, the tears starting to her eyes. lucy threw her arms about her sister and held her cheek to her own. "dear, i was only in fun; please forgive me. everything is so solemn to you. now kiss me and tell me you love me." that night when captain holt came in to play with the little "pond lily," as he called ellen, jane told him of her conversation with lucy, not as a reflection on her sister, but because she thought he ought to know how she felt toward archie. the kiss had wiped out the tears, but the repudiation of archie still rankled in her breast. the captain listened patiently to the end. then he said with a pause between each word: "she's sailin' without her port and starboard lights, miss jane. one o' these nights with the tide settin' she'll run up ag'in somethin' solid in a fog, and then--god help her! if bart had lived he might have come home and done the decent thing, and then we could git her into port some'er's for repairs, but that's over now. she better keep her lights trimmed. tell her so for me." what this "decent thing" was he never said--perhaps he had but a vague idea himself. bart had injured lucy and should have made reparation, but in what way except by marriage--he, perhaps, never formulated in his own mind. jane winced under the captain's outburst, but she held her peace. she knew how outspoken he was and how unsparing of those who differed from him and she laid part of his denunciation to this cause. some weeks after this conversation the captain started for yardley to see jane on a matter of business, and incidentally to have a romp with the pond lily. it was astonishing how devoted the old sea-dog was to the child, and how she loved him in return. "my big bear," she used to call him, tugging away at his gray whiskers. on his way he stopped at the post-office for his mail. it was mid-winter and the roads were partly blocked with snow, making walking difficult except for sturdy souls like captain nat. "here, cap'n holt, yer jest the man i been a-waitin' for," cried miss tucher, the postmistress, from behind the sliding window. "if you ain't goin' up to the cobdens, ye kin, can't ye? here's a lot o' letters jest come that i know they're expectin'. miss lucy's" (many of the village people still called her miss lucy, not being able to pronounce her dead husband's name) "come in yesterday and seems as if she couldn't wait. this storm made everything late and the mail got in after she left. there ain't nobody comin' out to-day and here's a pile of 'em--furrin' most of 'em. i'd take 'em myself if the snow warn't so deep. don't mind, do ye? i'd hate to have her disapp'inted, for she's jes' 's sweet as they make 'em." "don't mind it a mite, susan tucher," cried the captain. "goin' there, anyhow. got some business with miss jane. lord, what a wad o' them!" "that ain't half what she gits sometimes," replied the postmistress, "and most of 'em has seals and crests stamped on 'em. some o' them furrin lords, i guess, she met over there." these letters the captain held in his hand when he pushed open the door of the sitting-room and stood before the inmates in his rough pea-jacket, his ruddy face crimson with the cold, his half-moon whiskers all the whiter by contrast. "good-mornin' to the hull o' ye!" he shouted. "cold as blue blazes outside, i tell ye, but ye look snug enough in here. hello, little pond lily! why ain't you out on your sled? put two more roses in your cheeks if there was room for 'em. there, ma'am," and he nodded to lucy and handed her the letters, "that's 'bout all the mail that come this mornin'. there warn't nothin' else much in the bag. susan tucher asked me to bring 'em up to you count of the weather and 'count o' your being in such an all-fired hurry to read 'em." little ellen was in his arms before this speech was finished and everybody else on their feet shaking hands with the old salt, except poor, deaf old martha, who called out, "good-mornin', captain holt," in a strong, clear voice, and in rather a positive way, but who kept her seat by the fire and continued her knitting; and complacent mrs. dellenbaugh, the pastor's wife, who, by reason of her position, never got up for anybody. the captain advanced to the fire, ellen still in his arms, shook hands with mrs. dellenbaugh and extended three fingers, rough as lobster's claws and as red, to the old nurse. of late years he never met martha without feeling that he owed her an apology for the way he had treated her the day she begged him to send bart away. so he always tried to make it up to her, although he had never told her why. "hope you're better, martha? heard ye was under the weather; was that so? ye look spry 'nough now," he shouted in his best quarter-deck voice. "yes, but it warn't much. doctor john fixed me up," martha replied coldly. she had no positive animosity toward the captain--not since he had shown some interest in archie--but she could never make a friend of him. during this greeting lucy, who had regained her chair, sat with the letters unopened in her lap. none of the eagerness miss tucher had indicated was apparent. she seemed more intent on arranging the folds of her morning-gown accentuating the graceful outlines of her well-rounded figure. she had glanced through the package hastily, and had found the one she wanted and knew that it was there warm under her touch--the others did not interest her. "what a big mail, dear," remarked jane, drawing up a chair. "aren't you going to open it?" the captain had found a seat by the window and the child was telling him everything she had done since she last saw him. "oh, yes, in a minute," replied lucy. "there's plenty of time." with this she picked up the bunch of letters, ran her eye through the collection, and then, with the greatest deliberation, broke one seal after another, tossing the contents on the table. some she merely glanced at, searching for the signatures and ignoring the contents; others she read through to the end. one was from dresden, from a student she had known there the year before. this was sealed with a wafer and bore the address of the cafe where he took his meals. another was stamped with a crest and emitted a slight perfume; a third was enlivened by a monogram in gold and began: "ma chere amie," in a bold round hand. the one under her hand she did not open, but slipped into the pocket of her dress. the others she tore into bits and threw upon the blazing logs. "i guess if them fellers knew how short a time it would take ye to heave their cargo overboard," blurted out the captain, "they'd thought a spell 'fore they mailed their manifests." lucy laughed good-naturedly and jane watched the blaze roar up the wide chimney. the captain settled back in his chair and was about to continue his "sea yarn," as he called it, to little ellen, when he suddenly loosened the child from his arms, and leaning forward in his seat toward where jane sat, broke out with: "god bless me! i believe i'm wool-gathering. i clean forgot what i come for. it is you, miss jane, i come to see, not this little curly head that'll git me ashore yet with her cunnin' ways. they're goin' to build a new life-saving station down barnegat way. that dutch brig that come ashore last fall in that so'easter and all them men drownded could have been saved if we'd had somethin' to help 'em with. we did all we could, but that house of refuge ain't half rigged and most o' the time ye got to break the door open to git at what there is if ye're in a hurry, which you allus is. they ought to have a station with everything 'bout as it ought to be and a crew on hand all the time; then, when somethin' comes ashore you're right there on top of it. that one down to squam is just what's wanted here." "will it be near the new summer hotel?" asked lucy carelessly, just as a matter of information, and without raising her eyes from the rings on her beautiful hands. "'bout half a mile from the front porch, ma'am"--he preferred calling her so--"from what i hear. 'tain't located exactly yet, but some'er's along there. i was down with the gov'ment agent yesterday." "who will take charge of it, captain?" inquired jane, reaching over her basket in search of her scissors. "well, that's what i come up for. they're talkin' about me," and the captain put his hands behind ellen's head and cracked his big knuckles close to her ear, the child laughing with delight as she listened. the announcement was received with some surprise. jane, seeing martha's inquiring face, as if she wanted to hear, repeated the captain's words to her in a loud voice. martha laid down her knitting and looked at the captain over her spectacles. "why, would you take it, captain?" jane asked in some astonishment, turning to him again. "don't know but i would. ain't no better job for a man than savin' lives. i've helped kill a good many; 'bout time now i come 'bout on another tack. i'm doin' nothin'--haven't been for years. if i could get the right kind of a crew 'round me--men i could depend on--i think i could make it go." "if you couldn't nobody could, captain," said jane in a positive way. "have you picked out your crew?" "yes, three or four of 'em. isaac polhemus and tom morgan--tom sailed with me on my last voyage--and maybe tod." "archie's tod?" asked jane, replacing her scissors and searching for a spool of cotton. "archie's tod," repeated the captain, nodding his head, his big hand stroking ellen's flossy curls. "that's what brought me up. i want tod, and he won't go without archie. will ye give him to me?" "my archie!" cried jane, dropping her work and staring straight at the captain. "your archie, miss jane, if that's the way you put it," and he stole a look at lucy. she was conscious of his glance, but she did not return it; she merely continued listening as she twirled one of the rings on her finger. "well, but, captain, isn't it very dangerous work? aren't the men often drowned?" protested jane. "anything's dangerous 'bout salt water that's worth the doin'. i've stuck to the pumps seventy-two hours at a time, but i'm here to tell the tale." "have you talked to archie?" "no, but tod has. they've fixed it up betwixt 'em. the boy's dead set to go." "well, but isn't he too young?" "young or old, he's tough as a marline-spike--a , and copper fastened throughout. there ain't a better boatman on the beach. been that way ever since he was a boy. won't do him a bit of harm to lead that kind of life for a year or two. if he was mine it wouldn't take me a minute to tell what i'd do." jane leaned back in her chair, her eyes on the crackling logs, and began patting the carpet with her foot. lucy became engrossed in a book that lay on the table beside her. she didn't intend to take any part in the discussion. if jane wanted archie to serve as a common sailor that was jane's business. then again, it was, perhaps, just as well for a number of reasons to have him under the captain's care. he might become so fond of the sea as to want to follow it all his life. "what do you think about it, lucy?" asked jane. "oh, i don't know anything about it. i don't really. i've lived so long away from here i don't know what the young men are doing for a living. he's always been fond of the sea, has he not, captain holt?" "allus," said the captain doggedly; "it's in his blood." her answer nettled him. "you ain't got no objections, have you, ma'am?" he asked, looking straight at lucy. lucy's color came and went. his tone offended her, especially before mrs. dellenbaugh, who, although she spoke but seldom in public had a tongue of her own when she chose to use it. she was not accustomed to being spoken to in so brusque a way. she understood perfectly well the captain's covert meaning, but she did not intend either to let him see it or to lose her temper. "oh, not the slightest," she answered with a light laugh. "i have no doubt that it will be the making of him to be with you. poor boy, he certainly needs a father's care." the captain winced in turn under the retort and his eyes flashed, but he made no reply. little ellen had slipped out of the captain's lap during the colloquy. she had noticed the change in her friend's tone, and, with a child's intuition, had seen that the harmony was in danger of being broken. she stood by the captain's knee, not knowing whether to climb back again or to resume her seat by the window. lucy, noticing the child's discomfort, called to her: "come here, ellen, you will tire the captain." the child crossed the room and stood by her mother while lucy tried to rearrange the glossy curls, tangled by too close contact with the captain's broad shoulder. in the attempt ellen lost her balance and fell into her mother's lap. "oh, ellen!" said her mother coldly; "stand up, dear. you are so careless. see how you have mussed my gown. now go over to the window and play with your dolls." the captain noted the incident and heard lucy's reproof, but he made no protest. neither did he contradict the mother's statement that the little girl had tired him. his mind was occupied with other things--the tone of the mother's voice for one, and the shade of sadness that passed over the child's face for another. from that moment he took a positive dislike to her. "well, think it over, miss jane," he said, rising from his seat and reaching for his hat. "plenty of time 'bout archie. life-savin' house won't be finished for the next two or three months; don't expect to git into it till june. wonder, little pond lily, if the weather's goin' to be any warmer?" he slipped his hand under the child's chin and leaning over her head peered out of the window. "don't look like it, does it, little one? looks as if the snow would hold on. hello! here comes the doctor. i'll wait a bit--good for sore eyes to see him, and i don't git a chance every day. ask him 'bout archie, miss jane. he'll tell ye whether the lad's too young." there came a stamping of feet on the porch outside as doctor john shook the snow from his boots, and the next instant he stepped into the room bringing with him all the freshness and sunshine of the outside world. "good-morning, good people," he cried, "every one of you! how very snug and cosey you look here! ah, captain, where have you been keeping yourself? and mrs. dellenbaugh! this is indeed a pleasure. i have just passed the dear doctor, and he is looking as young as he did ten years ago. and my lady lucy! down so early! well, mistress martha, up again i see; i told you you'd be all right in a day or two." this running fire of greetings was made with a pause before each inmate of the room--a hearty hand-shake for the bluff captain, the pressing of mrs. dellenbaugh's limp fingers, a low bow to lucy, and a pat on martha's plump shoulder. jane came last, as she always did. she had risen to greet him and was now unwinding the white silk handkerchief wrapped about his throat and helping him off with his fur tippet and gloves. "thank you, jane. no, let me take it; it's rather wet," he added as he started to lay the heavy overcoat over a chair. "wait a minute. i've some violets for you if they are not crushed in my pocket. they came last night," and he handed her a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper. this done, he took his customary place on the rug with his back to the blazing logs and began unbuttoning his trim frock-coat, bringing to view a double-breasted, cream-white waistcoat--he still dressed as a man of thirty, and always in the fashion--as well as a fluffy scarf which jane had made for him with her own fingers. "and what have i interrupted?" he asked, looking over the room. "one of your sea yarns, captain?"--here he reached over and patted the child's head, who had crept back to the captain's arms--"or some of my lady's news from paris? you tell me, jane," he added, with a smile, opening his thin, white, almost transparent fingers and holding them behind his back to the fire, a favorite attitude. "ask the captain, john." she had regained her seat and was reaching out for her work-basket, the violets now pinned in her bosom--her eyes had long since thanked him. "no, do you tell me," he insisted, moving aside the table with her sewing materials and placing it nearer her chair. "well, but it's the captain who should speak," jane replied, laughing, as she looked up into his face, her eyes filled with his presence. "he has startled us all with the most wonderful proposition. the government is going to build a life-saving station at barnegat beach, and they have offered him the position of keeper, and he says he will take it if i will let archie go with him as one of his crew." doctor john's face instantly assumed a graver look. these forked roads confronting the career of a young life were important and not to be lightly dismissed. "well, what did you tell him?" he asked, looking down at jane in the effort to read her thoughts. "we are waiting for you to decide, john." the tone was the same she would have used had the doctor been her own husband and the boy their child. doctor john communed with himself for an instant. "well, let us take a vote," he replied with an air as if each and every one in the room was interested in the decision. "we'll begin with mistress martha, and then mrs. dellenbaugh, and then you, jane, and last our lady from over the sea. the captain has already sold his vote to his affections, and so must be counted out." "yes, but don't count me in, please," exclaimed lucy with a merry laugh as she arose from her seat. "i don't know a thing about it. i've just told the dear captain so. i'm going upstairs this very moment to write some letters. bonjour, monsieur le docteur; bonjour, monsieur le capitaine and madame dellenbaugh," and with a wave of her hand and a little dip of her head to each of the guests, she courtesied out of the room. when the door was closed behind her she stopped in the hall, threw a glance at her face in the old-fashioned mirror, satisfied herself of her skill in preserving its beautiful rabbit's-foot bloom and freshness, gave her blonde hair one or two pats to keep it in place, rearranged the film of white lace about her shapely throat, and gathering up the mass of ruffled skirts that hid her pretty feet, slowly ascended the staircase. once inside her room and while the vote was being taken downstairs that decided archie's fate she locked her door, dropped into a chair by the fire, took the unopened letter from her pocket, and broke the seal. "don't scold, little woman," it read. "i would have written before, but i've been awfully busy getting my place in order. it's all arranged now, however, for the summer. the hotel will be opened in june, and i have the best rooms in the house, the three on the corner overlooking the sea. sue says she will, perhaps, stay part of the summer with me. try and come up next week for the night. if not i'll bring sue with me and come to you for the day. "your own max." for some minutes she sat gazing into the fire, the letter in her hand. "it's about time, mr. max feilding," she said at last with a sigh of relief as she rose from her seat and tucked the letter into her desk. "you've had string enough, my fine fellow; now it's my turn. if i had known you would have stayed behind in paris all these months and kept me waiting here i'd have seen you safe aboard the steamer. the hotel opens in june, does it? well, i can just about stand it here until then; after that i'd go mad. this place bores me to death." chapter xvi the beginning of the ebb spring has come and gone. the lilacs and crocuses, the tulips and buttercups, have bloomed and faded; the lawn has had its sprinkling of dandelions, and the duff of their blossoms has drifted past the hemlocks and over the tree-tops. the grass has had its first cutting; the roses have burst their buds and hang in clusters over the arbors; warm winds blow in from the sea laden with perfumes from beach and salt-marsh; the skies are steely blue and the cloud puffs drift lazily. it is summer-time--the season of joy and gladness, the season of out-of-doors. all the windows at yardley are open; the porch has donned an awning--its first--colored white and green, shading big rocking-chairs and straw tables resting on turkish rugs. lucy had wondered why in all the years that jane had lived alone at yardley she had never once thought of the possibilities of this porch. jane had agreed with her, and so, under lucy's direction, the awnings had been put up and the other comforts inaugurated. beneath its shade lucy sits and reads or embroiders or answers her constantly increasing correspondence. the porch serves too as a reception-room, the vines being thick and the occupants completely hidden from view. here lucy often spreads a small table, especially when max feilding drives over in his london drag from beach haven on barnegat beach. on these occasions, if the weather is warm, she refreshes him with delicate sandwiches and some of her late father's rare scotch whiskey (shelved in the cellar for thirty years) or with the more common brands of cognac served in the old family decanters. of late max had become a constant visitor. his own ancestors had made honorable records in the preceding century, and were friends of the earlier cobdens during the revolution. this, together with the fact that he had visited yardley when lucy was a girl--on his first return from paris, in fact--and that the acquaintance had been kept up while he was a student abroad, was reason enough for his coming with such frequency. his drag, moreover, as it whirled into yardley's gate, gave a certain air of eclat to the manor house that it had not known since the days of the old colonel. nothing was lacking that money and taste could furnish. the grays were high-steppers and smooth as satin, the polished chains rattled and clanked about the pole; the body was red and the wheels yellow, the lap-robe blue, with a monogram; and the diminutive boy studded with silver buttons bearing the crest of the feilding family was as smart as the tailor could make him. and the owner himself, in his whity-brown driving-coat with big pearl buttons, yellow gloves, and gray hat, looked every inch the person to hold the ribbons. altogether it was a most fashionable equipage, owned and driven by a most fashionable man. as for the older residents of warehold, they had only words of praise for the turnout. uncle ephraim declared that it was a "jim dandy," which not only showed his taste, but which also proved how much broader that good-natured cynic had become in later years. billy tatham gazed at it with staring eyes as it trundled down the highway and turned into the gate, and at once determined to paint two of his hacks bright yellow and give each driver a lap-robe with the letter "t" worked in high relief. the inmates of yardley were not quite so enthusiastic. martha was glad that her bairn was having such a good time, and she would often stand on the porch with little ellen's hand in hers and wave to max and lucy as they dashed down the garden road and out through the gate, the tiger behind; but jane, with that quick instinct which some women possess, recognized something in feilding's manner which she could not put into words, and so held her peace. she had nothing against max, but she did not like him. although he was most considerate of her feelings and always deferred to her, she felt that any opposition on her part to their outings would have made no difference to either one of them. he asked her permission, of course, and she recognized the courtesy, but nothing that he ever did or said overcame her dislike of him. doctor john's personal attitude and bearing toward feilding was an enigma not only to jane, but to others who saw it. he invariably greeted him, whenever they met, with marked, almost impressive cordiality, but it never passed a certain limit of reserve; a certain dignity of manner which max had recognized the first day he shook hands with him. it recalled to feilding some of his earlier days, when he was a student in paris. there had been a supper in max's room that ended at daylight--no worse in its features than dozens of others in the quartier--to which an intimate friend of the doctor's had been invited, and upon which, as max heard afterward, the doctor had commented rather severely. max realized, therefore, but too well that the distinguished physician--known now over half the state--understood him, and his habits, and his kind as thoroughly as he did his own ease of instruments. he realized, too, that there was nothing about his present appearance or surroundings or daily life that could lead so thoughtful a man of the world as dr. john cavendish, of barnegat, to conclude that he had changed in any way for the better. and yet this young gentleman could never have been accused of burning his candle at both ends. he had no flagrant vices really--none whose posters were pasted on the victim's face. neither cards nor any other form of play interested him, nor did the wine tempt him when it was red--or of any other color, for that matter, nor did he haunt the dressing-rooms of chorus girls and favorites of the hour. his innate refinement and good taste prevented any such uses of his spare time. his weakness--for it could hardly be called a vice--was narrowed down to one infirmity, and one only: this was his inability to be happy without the exclusive society of some one woman. who the woman might be depended very largely on whom he might be thrown with. in the first ten years of his majority--his days of poverty when a student--it had been some girl in exile, like himself. during the last ten years--since his father's death and his inheritance--it had been a loose end picked out of the great floating drift--that social flotsam and jetsam which eddies in and out of the casinos of nice and monte carlo, flows into aix and trouville in summer and back again to rome and cairo in winter--a discontented wife perhaps; or an unmarried woman of thirty-five or forty, with means enough to live where she pleased; or it might be some self-exiled russian countess or english-woman of quality who had a month off, and who meant to make the most of it. all most respectable people, of course, without a breath of scandal attaching to their names--max was too careful for that--and yet each and every one on the lookout for precisely the type of man that max represented: one never happy or even contented when outside the radius of a waving fan or away from the flutter of a silken skirt. it was in one of these resorts of the idle, a couple of years before, while lucy's husband and little ellen were home in geneva, that max had met her, and where he had renewed the acquaintance of their childhood--an acquaintance which soon ripened into the closest friendship. hence his london drag and appointments; hence the yacht and a four-in-hand--then a great novelty--all of which he had promised her should she decide to join him at home. hence, too, his luxuriously fitted-up bachelor quarters in philadelphia, and his own comfortable apartments in his late father's house, where his sister sue lived; and hence, too, his cosey rooms in the best corner of the beach haven hotel, with a view overlooking barnegat light and the sea. none of these things indicated in the smallest degree that this noble gentleman contemplated finally settling down in a mansion commensurate with his large means, where he and the pretty widow could enjoy their married life together; nothing was further from his mind--nothing could be--he loved his freedom too much. what he wanted, and what he intended to have, was her undivided companionship--at least for the summer; a companionship without any of the uncomfortable complications which would have arisen had he selected an unmarried woman or the wife of some friend to share his leisure and wealth. the woman he picked out for the coming season suited him exactly. she was blonde, with eyes, mouth, teeth, and figure to his liking (he had become critical in forty odd years--twenty passed as an expert); dressed in perfect taste, and wore her clothes to perfection; had a continental training that made her mistress of every situation, receiving with equal ease and graciousness anybody, from a postman to a prince, sending them away charmed and delighted; possessed money enough of her own not to be too much of a drag upon him; and--best of all (and this was most important to the heir of walnut hill)--had the best blood of the state circling in her veins. whether this intimacy might drift into something closer, compelling him to take a reef in his sails, never troubled him. it was not the first time that he had steered his craft between the scylla of matrimony and the charybdis of scandal, and he had not the slightest doubt of his being able to do it again. as for lucy, she had many plans in view. one was to get all the fun possible out of the situation; another was to provide for her future. how this was to be accomplished she had not yet determined. her plans were laid, but some of them she knew from past experience might go astray. on one point she had made up her mind--not to be in a hurry. in furtherance of these schemes she had for some days--some months, in fact--been making preparations for an important move. she knew that its bare announcement would come as a surprise to jane and martha and, perhaps, as a shock, but that did not shake her purpose. she furthermore expected more or less opposition when they fully grasped her meaning. this she intended to overcome. neither jane nor martha, she said to herself, could be angry with her for long, and a few kisses and an additional flow of good-humor would soon set them to laughing again. to guard against the possibility of a too prolonged interview with jane, ending, perhaps, in a disagreeable scene--one beyond her control--she had selected a sunny summer morning for the stage setting of her little comedy and an hour when feilding was expected to call for her in his drag. she and max were to make a joint inspection that day of his new apartment at beach haven, into which he had just moved, as well as the stable containing the three extra vehicles and equine impedimenta, which were to add to their combined comfort and enjoyment. lucy had been walking in the garden looking at the rose-beds, her arm about her sister's slender waist, her ears open to the sound of every passing vehicle--max was expected at any moment--when she began her lines. "you won't mind, jane, dear, will you, if i get together a few things and move over to beach haven for a while?" she remarked simply, just as she might have done had she asked permission to go upstairs to take a nap. "i think we should all encourage a new enterprise like the hotel, especially old families like ours. and then the sea air always does me so much good. nothing like trouville air, my dear husband used to tell me, when i came back in the autumn. you don't mind, do you?" "for how long, lucy?" asked jane, with a tone of disappointment in her voice, as she placed her foot on the top step of the porch. "oh, i can't tell. depends very much on how i like it." as she spoke she drew up an easy-chair for jane and settled herself in another. then she added carelessly: "oh, perhaps a month--perhaps two." "two months!" exclaimed jane in astonishment, dropping into her seat. "why, what do you want to leave yardley for? o lucy, don't--please don't go!" "but you can come over, and i can come here," rejoined lucy in a coaxing tone. "yes; but i don't want to come over. i want you at home. and it's so lovely here. i have never seen the garden look so beautiful; and you have your own room, and this little porch is so cosey. the hotel is a new building, and the doctor says a very damp one, with everything freshly plastered. he won't let any of his patients go there for some weeks, he tells me. why should you want to go? i really couldn't think of it, dear. i'd miss you dreadfully." "you dear old sister," answered lucy, laying her parasol on the small table beside her, "you are so old-fashioned. habit, if nothing else, would make me go. i have hardly passed a summer in paris or geneva since i left you; and you know how delightful my visits to biarritz used to be years ago. since my marriage i have never stayed in any one place so long as this. i must have the sea air." "but the salt water is right here, lucy, within a short walk of our gate, and the air is the same." jane's face wore a troubled look, and there was an anxious, almost frightened tone in her voice. "no, it is not exactly the same," lucy answered positively, as if she had made a life-long study of climate; "and if it were, the life is very different. i love warehold, of course; but you must admit that it is half-asleep all the time. the hotel will be some change; there will be new people and something to see from the piazzas. and i need it, dear. i get tired of one thing all the time--i always have." "but you will be just as lonely there." jane in her astonishment was like a blind man feeling about for a protecting wall. "no; max and his sister will be at beach haven, and lots of others i know. no, i won't be lonely," and an amused expression twinkled in her eyes. jane sat quite still. some of captain holt's blunt, outspoken criticisms floated through her brain. "have you any reason for wanting to leave here?" she asked, raising her eyes and looking straight at lucy. "no, certainly not. how foolish, dear, to ask me! i'm never so happy as when i am with you." "well, why then should you want to give up your home and all the comforts you need--your flowers, garden, and everything you love, and this porch, which you have just made so charming, to go to a damp, half-completed hotel, without a shrub about it--only a stretch of desolate sand with the tide going in and out?" there was a tone of suspicion in jane's voice that lucy had never heard from her sister's lips--never, in all her life. "oh, because i love the tides, if nothing else," she answered with a sentimental note in her voice. "every six hours they bring me a new message. i could spend whole mornings watching the tides come and go. during my long exile you don't know how i dreamed every night of the dear tides of barnegat. if you had been away from all you love as many years as i have, you would understand how i could revel in the sound of the old breakers." for some moments jane did not answer. she knew from the tones of lucy's voice and from the way she spoke that she did not mean it. she had heard her talk that way to some of the villagers when she wanted to impress them, but she had never spoken in the same way to her. "you have some other reason, lucy. is it max?" she asked in a strained tone. lucy colored. she had not given her sister credit for so keen an insight into the situation. jane's mind was evidently working in a new direction. she determined to face the suspicion squarely; the truth under some conditions is better than a lie. "yes," she replied, with an assumed humility and with a tone as if she had been detected in a fault and wanted to make a clean breast of it. "yes--now that you have guessed it--it is max." "don't you think it would be better to see him here instead of at the hotel?" exclaimed jane, her eyes still boring into lucy's. "perhaps"--the answer came in a helpless way--"but that won't do much good. i want to keep my promise to him if i can." "what was your promise?" jane's eyes lost their searching look for an instant, but the tone of suspicion still vibrated. lucy hesitated and began playing with the trimming on her dress. "well, to tell you the truth, dear, a few days ago in a burst of generosity i got myself into something of a scrape. max wants his sister sue to spend the summer with him, and i very foolishly promised to chaperon her. she is delighted over the prospect, for she must have somebody, and i haven't the heart to disappoint her. max has been so kind to me that i hate now to tell him i can't go. that's all, dear. i don't like to speak of obligations of this sort, and so at first i only told you half the truth." "you should always keep your promise, dear," jane answered thoughtfully and with a certain relieved tone. (sue was nearly thirty, but that did not occur to jane.) "but this time i wish you had not promised. i am sorry, too, for little ellen. she will miss her little garden and everything she loves here; and then again, archie will miss her, and so will captain holt and martha. you know as well as i do that a hotel is no place for a child." "i am glad to hear you say so. that's why i shall not take her with me." as she spoke she shot an inquiring glance from the corner of her eyes at the anxious face of her sister. these last lines just before the curtain fell were the ones she had dreaded most. jane half rose from her seat. her deep eyes were wide open, gazing in astonishment at lucy. for an instant she felt as if her heart had stopped beating. "and you--you--are not going to take ellen with you!" she gasped. "no, of course not." she saw her sister's agitation, but she did not intend to notice it. besides, her expectant ear had caught the sound of max's drag as it whirled through the gate. "i always left her with her grandmother when she was much younger than she is now. she is very happy here and i wouldn't be so cruel as to take her away from all her pleasures. then she loves old people. see how fond she is of the captain and martha! no, you are right. i wouldn't think of taking her away." jane was standing now, her eyes blazing, her lips quivering. "you mean, lucy, that you would leave your child here and spend two months away from her?" the wheels were crunching the gravel within a rod of the porch. max had already lifted his hat. "but, sister, you don't understand--" the drag stopped and max, with uncovered head, sprang out and extended his hand to jane. before he could offer his salutations lucy's joyous tones rang out. "just in the nick of time, max," she cried. "i've just been telling my dear sister that i'm going to move over to beach haven to-morrow, bag and baggage, and she is delighted at the news. isn't it just like her?" chapter xvii breakers ahead the summer-home of max feilding, esq., of walnut hill, and of the beautiful and accomplished widow of the dead frenchman was located on a levelled sand-dune in full view of the sea. indeed, from beneath its low-hooded porticos and piazzas nothing else could be seen except, perhaps, the wide sky--gray, mottled, or intensely blue, as the weather permitted--the stretch of white sand shaded from dry to wet and edged with tufts of yellow grass; the circling gulls and the tall finger of barnegat light pointing skyward. nothing, really, but some scattering buildings in silhouette against the glare of the blinding light--one the old house of refuge, a mile away to the north, and nearer by, the new life saving station (now complete) in charge of captain nat holt and his crew of trusty surfmen. this view lucy always enjoyed. she would sit for hours under her awnings and watch the lazy boats crawling in and out of the inlet, or the motionless steamers--motionless at that distance--slowly unwinding their threads of smoke. the station particularly interested her. somehow she felt a certain satisfaction in knowing that archie was at work and that he had at last found his level among his own people--not that she wished him any harm; she only wanted him out of her way. the hostelry itself was one of those low-roofed, shingle-sided and shingle-covered buildings common in the earlier days along the jersey coast, and now supplanted by more modern and more costly structures. it had grown from a farm-house and out-buildings to its present state with the help of an architect and a jig-saw; the former utilizing what remained of the house and its barns, and the latter transforming plain pine into open work patterns with which to decorate its gable ends and facade. when the flags were raised, the hanging baskets suspended in each loop of the porches, and the merciless, omnipresent and ever-insistent sand was swept from its wide piazzas and sun-warped steps it gave out an air of gayety so plausible and enticing that many otherwise sane and intelligent people at once closed their comfortable homes and entered their names in its register. the amusements of these habitues--if they could be called habitues, this being their first summer--were as varied as their tastes. there was a band which played mornings and afternoons in an unpainted pine pagoda planted on a plot of slowly dying grass and decorated with more hanging baskets and chinese lanterns; there was bathing at eleven and four; and there was croquet on the square of cement fenced about by poles and clothes-lines at all hours. besides all this there were driving parties to the villages nearby; dancing parties at night with the band in the large room playing away for dear life, with all the guests except the very young and very old tucked away in twos in the dark corners of the piazzas out of reach of the lights and the inquisitive--in short, all the diversions known to such retreats, so necessary for warding off ennui and thus inducing the inmates to stay the full length of their commitments. in its selection max was guided by two considerations: it was near yardley--this would materially aid in lucy's being able to join him--and it was not fashionable and, therefore, not likely to be overrun with either his own or lucy's friends. the amusements did not interest him; nor did they interest lucy. both had seen too much and enjoyed too much on the other side of the water, at nice, at monte carlo, and biarritz, to give the amusements a thought. what they wanted was to be let alone; this would furnish all the excitement either of them needed. this exclusiveness was greatly helped by the red and yellow drag, with all its contiguous and connecting impedimenta, a turnout which never ceased to occupy everybody's attention whenever the small tiger stood by the heads of the satin-coated grays awaiting the good pleasure of his master and his lady. its possession not only marked a social eminence too lofty for any ordinary habitue to climb to unless helped up by the proffered hand of the owner, but it prevented anyone of these would-be climbers from inviting either its owner or his companion to join in other outings no matter how enjoyable. such amusements as they could offer were too simple and old-fashioned for two distinguished persons who held the world in their slings and who were whirling it around their heads with all their might. the result was that their time was their own. they filled it at their pleasure. when the tide was out and the sand hard, they drove on the beach, stopping at the new station, chatting with captain holt or archie; or they strolled north, always avoiding the house of refuge--that locality had too many unpleasant associations for lucy, or they sat on the dunes, moving back out of the wet as the tide reached them, tossing pebbles in the hollows, or gathering tiny shells, which lucy laid out in rows of letters as she had done when a child. in the afternoon they drove by way of yardley to see how ellen was getting on, or idled about warehold, making little purchases at the shops and chatting with the village people, all of whom would come out to greet them. after dinner they would generally betake themselves to max's portico, opening out of his rooms, or to lucy's--they were at opposite ends of the long corridor--where the two had their coffee while max smoked. the opinions freely expressed regarding their social and moral status, and individual and combined relations, differed greatly in the several localities in which they were wont to appear. in warehold village they were looked upon as two most charming and delightful people, rich, handsome, and of proper age and lineage, who were exactly adapted to each other and who would prove it before the year was out, with pastor dellenbaugh officiating, assisted by some dignitary from philadelphia. at the hostelry many of the habitues had come to a far different conclusion. marriage was not in either of their heads, they maintained; their intimacy was a purely platonic one, born of a friendship dating back to childhood--they were cousins really--max being the dearest and most unselfish creature in the world, he having given up all his pleasures elsewhere to devote himself to a most sweet and gracious lady whose grief was still severe and who would really be quite alone in the world were it not for her little daughter, now temporarily absent. this summary of facts, none of which could be questioned, was supplemented and enriched by another conclusive instalment from mrs. walton coates, of chestnut plains, who had met lucy at aix the year before, and who therefore possessed certain rights not vouchsafed to the other habitues of beach haven--an acquaintance which lucy, for various reasons, took pains to encourage--mrs. c.'s social position being beyond question, and her house and other appointments more than valuable whenever lucy should visit philadelphia: besides, mrs. coates's own and lucy's apartments joined, and the connecting door of the two sitting-rooms was often left open, a fact which established a still closer intimacy. this instalment, given in a positive and rather lofty way, made plain the fact that in her enforced exile the distinguished lady not only deserved the thanks of every habitue of the hotel, but of the whole country around, for selecting the new establishment in which to pass the summer, instead of one of the more fashionable resorts elsewhere. this outburst of the society leader, uttered in the hearing of a crowded piazza, had occurred after a conversation she had had with lucy concerning little ellen. "tell me about your little daughter," mrs. coates had said. "you did not leave her abroad, did you?" "oh, no, my dear mrs. coates! i am really here on my darling's account," lucy answered with a sigh. "my old home is only a short distance from here. but the air does not agree with me there, and so i came here to get a breath of the real sea. ellen is with her aunt, my dear sister jane. i wanted to bring her, but really i hadn't the heart to take her from them; they are so devoted to her. max loves her dearly. he drives me over there almost every day. i really do not know how i could have borne all the sorrows i have had this year without dear max. he is like a brother to me, and so thoughtful. you know we have known each other since we were children. they tell such dreadful stories, too, about him, but i have never seen that side of him, he's a perfect saint to me." from that time on mrs. coates was her loyal mouthpiece and devoted friend. being separated from one's child was one of the things she could not brook; lucy was an angel to stand it as she did. as for max--no other woman had ever so influenced him for good, nor did she believe any other woman could. at the end of the second week a small fly no larger than a pin's head began to develop in the sunshine of their amber. it became visible to the naked eye when max suddenly resolved to leave his drag, his tiger, his high-stepping grays, and his fair companion, and slip over to philadelphia--for a day or two, he explained. his lawyer needed him, he said, and then again he wanted to see his sister sue, who had run down to walnut hill for the day. (sue, it might as well be stated, had not yet put in an appearance at beach haven, nor had she given any notice of her near arrival; a fact which had not disturbed lucy in the least until she attempted to explain to jane.) "i've got to pull up, little woman, and get out for a few days," max had begun. "morton's all snarled up, he writes me, over a mortgage, and i must straighten it out. i'll leave bones [the tiger] and everything just as it is. don't mind, do you?" "mind! of course i do!" retorted lucy. "when did you get this marvellous idea into that wonderful brain of yours, max? i intended to go to warehold myself to-morrow." she spoke with her usual good-humor, but with a slight trace of surprise and disappointment in her tone. "when i opened my mail this morning; but my going won't make any difference about warehold. bones and the groom will take care of you." lucy leaned back in her chair and looked over the rail of the porch. she had noticed lately a certain restraint in max's manner which was new to her. whether he was beginning to get bored, or whether it was only one of his moods, she could not decide--even with her acute knowledge of similar symptoms. that some change, however, had come over him she had not the slightest doubt. she never had any trouble in lassoing her admirers. that came with a glance of her eye or a lift of her pretty shoulders: nor for that matter in keeping possession of them as long as her mood lasted. "whom do you want to see in philadelphia, max?" she asked, smiling roguishly at him. she held him always by presenting her happiest and most joyous side, whether she felt it or not. "sue and morton--and you, you dear girl, if you'll come along." "no; i'm not coming along. i'm too comfortable where i am. is this woman somebody you haven't told me of, max?" she persisted, looking at him from under half-closed lids. "your somebodies are always thin air, little girl; you know everything i have ever done in my whole life," max answered gravely. she had for the last two weeks. lucy threw up her hands and laughed so loud and cheerily that an habitue taking his morning constitutional on the boardwalk below turned his head in their direction. the two were at breakfast under the awnings of lucy's portico, bones standing out of range. "you don't believe it?" "not one word of it, you fraud; nor do you. you've forgotten one-half of all you've done and the other half you wouldn't dare tell any woman. come, give me her name. anybody sue knows?" "nobody that anybody knows, honest john." then he added as an after-thought, "are you sorry?" as he spoke he rose from his seat and stood behind her chair looking down over her figure. she had her back to him. he thought he had never seen her look so lovely. she was wearing a light-blue morning-gown, her arms bare to the elbows, and a wide leghorn hat--the morning costume of all others he liked her best in. "no--don't think i am," she answered lightly. "fact is i was getting pretty tired of you. how long will you be gone?" "oh, i think till the end of the week--not longer." he reached over the chair and was about to play with the tiny curls that lay under the coil of her hair, when he checked himself and straightened up. one of those sudden restraints which had so puzzled lucy had seized him. she could not see his face, but she knew from the tones of his voice that the enthusiasm of the moment had cooled. lucy shifted her chair, lifted her head, and looked up into his eyes. she was always entrancing from this point of view: the upturned eyelashes, round of the cheeks, and the line of the throat and swelling shoulders were like no other woman's he knew. "i don't want you to go, max," she said in the same coaxing tone of voice that ellen might have used in begging for sugar-plums. "just let the mortgage and old morton and everybody else go. stay here with me." max straightened up and threw out his chest and a determined look came into his eyes. if he had had any doubts as to his departure lucy's pleading voice had now removed them. "no, can't do it," he answered in mock positiveness. "can't 'pon my soul. business is business. got to see morton right away; ought to have seen him before." then he added in a more serious tone, "don't get worried if i stay a day or two longer." "well, then, go, you great bear, you," and she rose to her feet and shook out her skirts. "i wouldn't let you stay, no matter what you said." she was not angry--she was only feeling about trying to put her finger on the particular button that controlled max's movements. "worried? not a bit of it. stay as long as you please." there was a button, could she have found it. it was marked "caution," and when pressed communicated to the heir of walnut hill the intelligence that he was getting too fond of the pretty widow and that his only safety lay in temporary flight. it was a favorite trick of his. in the charting of his course he had often found two other rocks beside scylla and charybdis in his way; one was boredom and the other was love. when a woman began to bore him, or he found himself liking her beyond the limit of his philosophy, he invariably found relief in change of scene. sometimes it was a sick aunt or a persistent lawyer or an engagement nearly forgotten and which must be kept at all hazards. he never, however, left his inamorata in either tears or anger. "now, don't be cross, dear," he cried, patting her shoulder with his fingers. "you know i don't want to leave you. i shall be perfectly wretched while i'm gone, but there's no help for it. morton's such a fussy old fellow--always wanting to do a lot of things that can, perhaps, wait just as well as not. hauled me down from walnut hill half a dozen times once, and after all the fellow wouldn't sell. but this time it's important and i must go. bones," and he lifted his finger to the boy, "tell john i want the light wagon. i'll take the . to philadelphia." the tiger advanced ten steps and stood at attention, his finger at his eyebrow. lucy turned her face toward the boy. "no, bones, you'll do nothing of the kind. you tell john to harness the grays to the drag. i'll go to the station with mr. feilding." max shrugged his shoulders. he liked lucy for a good many things--one was her independence, another was her determination to have her own way. then, again, she was never so pretty as when she was a trifle angry; her color came and went so deliciously and her eyes snapped so charmingly. lucy saw the shrug and caught the satisfied look in his face. she didn't want to offend him and yet she didn't intend that he should go without a parting word from her--tender or otherwise, as circumstances might require. she knew she had not found the button, and in her doubt determined for the present to abandon the search. "no, bones, i've changed my mind," she called to the boy, who was now half way down the piazza. "i don't think i will go. i'll stop here, max, and do just what you want me to do," she added in a softened voice. "come along," and she slipped her hand in his and the two walked toward the door of his apartments. when the light wagon and satin-skinned sorrel, with john on the seat and bones in full view, stopped at the sanded porch, mrs. coates and lucy formed part of the admiring group gathered about the turn-out. all of mr. feilding's equipages brought a crowd of onlookers, no matter how often they appeared--he had five with him at beach haven, including the four-in-hand which he seldom used--but the grays and the light wagon, by common consent, were considered the most "stylish" of them all, not excepting the drag. after max had gathered the reins in his hands, had balanced the whip, had settled himself comfortably and with a wave of his hand to lucy had driven off, mrs. coates slipped her arm through my lady's and the two slowly sauntered to their rooms. "charming man, is he not?" mrs. coates ventured. "such a pity he is not married! you know i often wonder whom such men will marry. some pretty school-girl, perhaps, or prim woman of forty." lucy laughed. "no," she answered, "you are wrong. the bread-and-butter miss would never suit max, and he's past the eye-glass and side-curl age. the next phase, if he ever reaches it, will be somebody who will make him do--not as he pleases, but as she pleases. a man like max never cares for a woman any length of time who humors his whims." "well, he certainly was most attentive to that pretty miss billeton. you remember her father was lost overboard four years ago from his yacht. mr. coates told me he met her only a day or so ago; she had come down to look after the new ball-room they are adding to the old house. you know her, don't you?" "no--never heard of her. how old is she?" rejoined lucy in a careless tone. "i should say twenty, maybe twenty-two--you can't always tell about these girls; very pretty and very rich. i am quite sure i saw mr. feilding driving with her just before he moved his horses down here, and she looked prettier than ever. but then he has a new flame every month, i hear." "where were they driving?" there was a slight tone of curiosity in lucy's voice. none of max's love-affairs ever affected her, of course, except as they made for his happiness; all undue interest, therefore, was out of place, especially before mrs. coates. "i don't remember. along the river road, perhaps--he generally drives there when he has a pretty woman with him." lucy bit her lip. some other friend, then, had been promised the drag with the red body and yellow wheels! this was why he couldn't come to yardley when she wrote for him. she had found the button. it rang up another woman. the door between the connecting sitting-rooms was not opened that day, nor that night, for that matter. lucy pleaded a headache and wished to be alone. she really wanted to look the field over and see where her line of battle was weak. not that she really cared--unless the girl should upset her plans; not as jane would have cared had doctor john been guilty of such infidelity. the eclipse was what hurt her. she had held the centre of the stage with the lime-light full upon her all her life, and she intended to retain it against miss billeton or miss anybody else. she decided to let max know at once, and in plain terms, giving him to understand that she didn't intend to be made a fool of, reminding him at the same time that there were plenty of others who cared for her, or who would care for her if she should but raise her little finger. she would raise it, too, even if she packed her trunks and started for paris--and took him with her. these thoughts rushed through her mind as she sat by the window and looked out over the sea. the tide was making flood, and the fishing-boats anchored in the inlet were pointing seaward. she could see, too, the bathers below and the children digging in the sand. now and then a boat would head for the inlet, drop its sail, and swing round motionless with the others. then a speck would break away from the anchored craft and with the movement of a water-spider land the fishermen ashore. none of these things interested her. she could not have told whether the sun shone or whether the sky was fair or dull. neither was she lonely, nor did she miss max. she was simply angry--disgusted--disappointed at the situation; at herself, at the woman who had come between them, at the threatened failure of her plans. one moment she was building up a house of cards in which she held all the trumps, and the next instant she had tumbled it to the ground. one thing she was determined upon--not to take second place. she would have all of him or none of him. at the end of the third day max returned. he had not seen morton, nor any of his clerks, nor anybody connected with his office. neither had he sent him any message or written him any letter. morton might have been dead and buried a century so far as max or his affairs were concerned. nor had he laid his eyes on the beautiful miss billeton; nor visited her house; nor written her any letters; nor inquired for her. what he did do was to run out to walnut hill, have a word with his manager, and slip back to town again and bury himself in his club. most of the time he read the magazines, some pages two or three times over. once he thought he would look up one or two of his women friends at their homes--those who might still be in town--and then gave it up as not being worth the trouble. at the end of the third day he started for barnegat. the air was bad in the city, he said to himself, and everybody he met was uninteresting. he would go back, hitch up the grays, and he and lucy have a spin down the beach. sea air always did agree with him, and he was a fool to leave it. lucy met him at the station in answer to his telegram sent over from warehold. she was dressed in her very best: a double-breasted jacket and straw turban, a gossamer veil wound about it. her cheeks were like two red peonies and her eyes bright as diamonds. she was perched up in the driver's seat of the drag, and handled the reins and whip with the skill of a turfman. this time bones, the tiger, did not spring into his perch as they whirled from the station in the direction of the beach. his company was not wanted. they talked of max's trip, of the mortgage, and of morton; of how hot it was in town and how cool it was on her portico; of mrs. coates and of pater-familias coates, who held a mortgage on beach haven; of the dance the night before--max leading in the conversation and she answering either in mono-syllables or not at all, until max hazarded the statement that he had been bored to death waiting for morton, who never put in an appearance, and that the only human being, male or female, he had seen in town outside the members of the club, was sue. they had arrived off the life-saving station now, and archie had called the captain to the door, and both stood looking at them, the boy waving his hand and the captain following them with his eyes. had either of them caught the captain's remark they, perhaps, would have drawn rein and asked for an explanation: "gay lookin' hose-carriage, ain't it? looks as if they was runnin' to a fire!" but they didn't hear it; would not, probably have heard it, had the captain shouted it in their ears. lucy was intent on opening up a subject which had lain dormant in her mind since the morning of max's departure, and the gentleman himself was trying to cipher out what new "kink," as he expressed it to himself, had "got it into her head." when they had passed the old house of refuge lucy drew rein and stopped the drag where the widening circle of the incoming tide could bathe the horses' feet. she was still uncertain as to how she would lead up to the subject-matter without betraying her own jealousy or, more important still, without losing her temper. this she rarely displayed, no matter how goading the provocation. nobody had any use for an ill-tempered woman, not in her atmosphere; and no fly that she had ever known had been caught by vinegar when seeking honey. there might be vinegar-pots to be found in her larder, but they were kept behind closed doors and sampled only when she was alone. as she sat looking out to sea, max's brain still at work on the problem of her unusual mood, a schooner shifted her mainsail in the light breeze and set her course for the inlet. "that's the regular weekly packet," max ventured. "she's making for farguson's ship-yard. she runs between amboy and barnegat--captain ambrose farguson sails her." at times like these any topic was good enough to begin on. "how do you know?" lucy asked, looking at the incoming schooner from under her half-closed lids. the voice came like the thin piping of a flute preceding the orchestral crash, merely sounded so as to let everybody know it was present. "one of my carriages was shipped by her. i paid captain farguson the freight just before i went away." "what's her name?"--slight tremolo--only a note or two. "the polly walters," droned max, talking at random, mind neither on the sloop nor her captain. "named after his wife?" the flute-like notes came more crisply. "yes, so he told me." max had now ceased to give any attention to his answers. he had about made up his mind that something serious was the matter and that he would ask her and find out. "ought to be called the max feilding, from the way she tacks about. she's changed her course three times since i've been watching her." max shot a glance athwart his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the pretty lips thinned and straightened and the half-closed eyes and wrinkled forehead. he was evidently the disturbing cause, but in what way he could not for the life of him see. that she was angry to the tips of her fingers was beyond question; the first time he had seen her thus in all their acquaintance. "yes-that would fit her exactly," he answered with a smile and with a certain soothing tone in his voice. "every tack her captain makes brings him the nearer to the woman he loves." "rather poetic, max, but slightly farcical. every tack you make lands you in a different port--with a woman waiting in every one of them." the first notes of the overture had now been struck. "no one was waiting in philadelphia for me except sue, and i only met her by accident," he said good-naturedly, and in a tone that showed he would not quarrel, no matter what the provocation; "she came in to see her doctor. didn't stay an hour." "did you take her driving?" this came in a thin, piccolo tone-barely enough room for it to escape through her lips. all the big drums and heavy brass were now being moved up. "no; had nothing to take her out in. why do you ask? what has happened, little--" "take anybody else?" she interrupted. "no." he spoke quite frankly and simply. at any other time she would have believed him. she had always done so in matters of this kind, partly because she didn't much care and partly because she made it a point never to doubt the word of a man, either by suspicion or inference, who was attentive to her. this time she did care, and she intended to tell him so. all she dreaded was that the big horns and the tom-toms would get away from her leadership and the hoped-for, correctly played symphony end in an uproar. "max," she said, turning her head and lifting her finger at him with the movement of a conductor's baton, "how can you lie to me like that? you never went near your lawyer; you went to see miss billeton, and you've spent every minute with her since you left me. don't tell me you didn't. i know everything you've done, and--" bass drums, bass viols, bassoons--everything--was loose now. she had given up her child to be with him! everything, in fact--all her people at yardley; her dear old nurse. she had lied to jane about chaperoning sue--all to come down and keep him from being lonely. what she wanted was a certain confidence in return. it made not the slightest difference to her how many women he loved, or how many women loved him; she didn't love him, and she never would; but unless she was treated differently from a child and like the woman that she was, she was going straight back to yardley, and then back to paris, etc., etc. she knew, as she rushed on in a flood of abuse such as only a woman can let loose when she is thoroughly jealous and entirely angry, that she was destroying the work of months of plotting, and that he would be lost to her forever, but she was powerless to check the torrent of her invective. only when her breath gave out did she stop. max had sat still through it all, his eyes expressing first astonishment and then a certain snap of admiration, as he saw the color rising and falling in her cheeks. it was not the only time in his experience that he had had to face similar outbursts. it was the first time, however, that he had not felt like striking back. other women's outbreaks had bored him and generally had ended his interest in them--this one was more charming than ever. he liked, too, her american pluck and savage independence. jealous she certainly was, but there was no whine about it; nor was there any flop at the close--floppy women he detested--had always done so. lucy struck straight out from her shoulder and feared nothing. as she raged on, the grays beating the water with their well-polished hoofs, he continued to sit perfectly still, never moving a muscle of his face nor changing his patient, tolerant expression. the best plan, he knew, was to let all the steam out of the boiler and then gradually rake the fires. "my dear little woman,"' he began, "to tell you the truth, i never laid eyes on morton; didn't want to, in fact. all that was an excuse to get away. i thought you wanted a rest, and i went away to let you have it. miss billeton i haven't seen for three months, and couldn't if i would, for she is engaged to her cousin and is now in paris buying her wedding clothes. i don't know who has been humbugging you, but they've done it very badly. there is not one word of truth in what you've said from beginning to end." there is a certain ring in a truthful statement that overcomes all doubts. lucy felt this before max had finished. she felt, too, with a sudden thrill, that she still held him. then there came the instantaneous desire to wipe out all traces of the outburst and keep his good-will. "and you swear it?" she asked, her belief already asserting itself in her tones, her voice falling to its old seductive pitch. "on my honor as a man," he answered simply. for a time she remained silent, her mind working behind her mask of eyes and lips, the setting sun slanting across the beach and lighting up her face and hair, the grays splashing the suds with their impatient feet. max kept his gaze upon her. he saw that the outbreak was over and that she was a little ashamed of her tirade. he saw, too, man of the world as he was, that she was casting about in her mind for some way in which she could regain for herself her old position without too much humiliation. "don't say another word, little woman," he said in his kindest tone. "you didn't mean a word of it; you haven't been well lately, and i oughtn't to have left you. tighten up your reins; we'll drive on if you don't mind." that night after the moon had set and the lights had been turned out along the boardwalk and the upper and lower porticos and all beach haven had turned in for the night, and lucy had gone to her apartments, and mr. and mrs. coates and the rest of them, single and double, were asleep, max, who had been pacing up and down his dressing-room, stopped suddenly before his mirror, and lifting the shade from the lamp, made a critical examination of his face. "forty, and i look it!" he said, pinching his chin with his thumb and forefinger, and turning his cheek so that the light would fall on the few gray hairs about his temples. "that beggar miggs said so yesterday at the club. by gad, how pretty she was, and how her eyes snapped! i didn't think it was in her!" chapter xviii the swede's story captain holt had selected his crew--picked surfmen, every one of them--and the chief of the bureau had endorsed the list without comment or inquiry. the captain's own appointment as keeper of the new life-saving station was due as much to his knowledge of men as to his skill as a seaman, and so when his list was sent in--men he said he could "vouch for"--it took but a moment for the chief to write "approved" across its face. isaac polhemus came first: sixty years of age, silent, gray, thick-set; face scarred and seamed by many weathers, but fresh as a baby's; two china-blue eyes--peep-holes through which you looked into his open heart; shoulders hard and tough as cordwood hands a bunch of knots; legs like snubbing-posts, body quick-moving; brain quick-thinking; alert as a dog when on duty, calm as a sleepy cat beside a stove when his time was his own. sixty only in years, this man; forty in strength and in skill, twenty in suppleness, and a one-year-old toddling infant in all that made for guile. "uncle ike" some of the younger men once called him, wondering behind their hands whether he was not too old and believing all the time that he was. "uncle ike" they still called him, but it was a title of affection and pride; affection for the man underneath the blue woollen shirt, and pride because they were deemed worthy to pull an oar beside him. the change took place the winter before when he was serving at manasquan and when he pulled four men single-handed from out of a surf that would have staggered the bravest. there was no life-boat within reach and no hand to help. it was at night--a snowstorm raging and the sea a corral of hungry beasts fighting the length of the beach. the shipwrecked crew had left their schooner pounding on the outer bar, and finding their cries drowned by the roar of the waters, had taken to their boat. she came bow on, the sea-drenched sailors clinging to her sides. uncle isaac polhemus caught sight of her just as a savage pursuing roller dived under her stern, lifted the frail shell on its broad back, and whirled it bottom side up and stern foremost on to the beach. dashing into the suds, he jerked two of the crew to their feet before they knew what had struck them; then sprang back for the others clinging to the seats and slowly drowning in the smother. twice he plunged headlong after them, bracing himself against the backsuck, then with the help of his steel-like grip all four were dragged clear of the souse. ever after it was "uncle isaac" or "that old hang-on," but always with a lifting of the chin in pride. samuel green came next: forty-five, long, lincoln-bodied, and bony; coal-black hair, coal-black eyes, and charcoal-black mustache; neck like a loop in standing rigging; arms long as cant-hooks, with the steel grips for fingers; sluggish in movement and slow in action until the supreme moment of danger tautened his nerves to breaking point; then came an instantaneous spring, quick as the recoil of a parted hawser. all his life a fisherman except the five years he spent in the arctic and the year he served at squan; later he had helped in the volunteer crew alongshore. loving the service, he had sent word over to captain holt that he'd like "to be put on," to which the captain had sent back word by the same messenger "tell him he is put on." and he was, as soon as the papers were returned from washington. captain nat had no record to look up or inquiries to make as to the character or fitness of sam green. he was the man who the winter before had slipped a rope about his body, plunged into the surf and swam out to the brig gorgus and brought back three out of the five men lashed to the rigging, all too benumbed to make fast the shot-line fired across her deck. charles morgan's name followed in regular order, and then parks--men who had sailed with captain holt, and whose word and pluck he could depend upon; and mulligan from barnegat, who could pull a boat with the best of them; and last, and least in years, those two slim, tightly knit, lithe young tiger-cats, tod and archie. captain nat had overhauled each man and had inspected him as closely as he would have done the timber for a new mast or the manila to make its rigging. here was a service that required cool heads, honest hearts, and the highest technical skill, and the men under him must be sound to the core. he intended to do his duty, and so should every man subject to his orders. the government had trusted him and he held himself responsible. this would probably be his last duty, and it would be well done. he was childless, sixty-five years old, and had been idle for years. now he would show his neighbors something of his skill and his power to command. he did not need the pay; he needed the occupation and the being in touch with the things about him. for the last fifteen or more years he had nursed a sorrow and lived the life almost of a recluse. it was time he threw it off. during the first week of service, with his crew about him, he explained to them in minute detail their several duties. each day in the week would have its special work: monday would be beach drill, practising with the firing gun and line and the safety car. tuesday was boat drill; running the boat on its wagon to the edge of the sea, unloading it, and pushing it into the surf, each man in his place, oars poised, the others springing in and taking their seats beside their mates. on wednesdays flag drills; practising with the international code of signals, so as to communicate with stranded vessels. thursdays, beach apparatus again. friday, resuscitation of drowning men. saturday, scrub-day; every man except himself and the cook (each man was cook in turn for a week) on his knees with bucket and brush, and every floor, chair, table, and window scoured clean. sunday, a day of rest, except for the beach patrol, which at night never ceased, and which by day only ceased when the sky was clear of snow and fog. this night patrol would be divided into watches of four hours each at eight, twelve, and four. two of the crew were to make the tramp of the beach, separating opposite the station, one going south two and a half miles to meet the surfman from the next station, and the other going north to the inlet; exchanging their brass checks each with the other, as a record of their faithfulness. in addition to these brass checks each patrol would carry three coston signal cartridges in a water-proof box, and a holder into which they were fitted, the handle having an igniter working on a spring to explode the cartridge, which burned a red light. these will-o'-the-wisps, flashed suddenly from out a desolate coast, have sent a thrill of hope through the heart of many a man clinging to frozen rigging or lashed to some piece of wreckage that the hungry surf, lying in wait, would pounce upon and chew to shreds. the men listened gravely to the captain's words and took up their duties. most of them knew them before, and no minute explanations were necessary. skilled men understand the value of discipline and prefer it to any milder form of government. archie was the only member who raised his eyes in astonishment when the captain, looking his way, mentioned the scrubbing and washing, each man to take his turn, but he made no reply except to nudge tod and say under his breath: "wouldn't you like to see aunt lucy's face when she comes some saturday morning? she'll be pleased, won't she?" as to the cooking, that did not bother him; he and tod had cooked many a meal on fogarty's stove, and mother fogarty had always said archie could beat her any day making biscuit and doughnuts and frying ham. before the second week was out the station had fallen into its regular routine. the casual visitor during the sunny hours of the soft september days when practice drill was over might see only a lonely house built on the sand; and upon entering, a few men leaning back in their chairs against the wall of the living-room reading the papers or smoking their pipes, and perhaps a few others leisurely overhauling the apparatus, making minor repairs, or polishing up some detail the weather had dulled. at night, too, with the radiance of the moon making a pathway of silver across the gentle swell of the sleepy surf, he would doubtless wonder at their continued idle life as he watched the two surfmen separate and begin their walk up and down the beach radiant in the moonlight. but he would change his mind should he chance upon a north-easterly gale, the sea a froth in which no boat could live, the slant of a sou'wester the only protection against the cruel lash of the wind. if this glimpse was not convincing, let him stand in the door of their house in the stillness of a winter's night, and catch the shout and rush of the crew tumbling from their bunks at the cry of "wreck ashore!" from the lips of some breathless patrol who had stumbled over sand-dunes or plunged through snowdrifts up to his waist to give warning. it will take less than a minute to swing wide the doors, grapple the life-boat and apparatus and whirl them over the dunes to the beach; and but a moment more to send a solid shot flying through the air on its mission of mercy. and there is no time lost. ten men have been landed in forty-five minutes through or over a surf that could be heard for miles; rescuers and rescued half dead. but no man let go his grip nor did any heart quail. their duty was in front of them; that was what the government paid for, and that was what they would earn--every penny of it. the station house in order, the captain was ready for visitors--those he wanted. those he did not want--the riffraff of the ship-yard and the loungers about the taverns--he told politely to stay away; and as the land was government property and his will supreme, he was obeyed. little ellen had been the first guest, and by special invitation. "all ready, miss jane, for you and the doctor and the pond lily; bring her down any time. that's what kind o' makes it lonely lyin' shut up with the men. we ain't got no flowers bloomin' 'round, and the sand gits purty white and blank-lookin' sometimes. bring her down, you and the doctor; she's better'n a pot full o' daisies." the doctor, thus commanded, brought her over in his gig, jane, beside him, holding the child in her lap. and archie helped them out, lifting his good mother in his arms clear of the wheel, skirts and all--the crew standing about looking on. some of them knew jane and came in for a hearty handshake, and all of them knew the doctor. there was hardly a man among them whose cabin he had not visited--not once, but dozens of times. with her fair cheeks, golden curls, and spotless frock, the child, among those big men, some in their long hip boots and rough reefing jackets, looked like some fairy that had come in with the morning mist and who might be off on the next breeze. archie had her hugged close to his breast and had started in to show her the cot where he slept, the kitchen where he was to cook, and the peg in the hall where he hung his sou'wester and tarpaulins--every surfman had his peg, order being imperative with captain nat--when that old sea-dog caught the child out of the young fellow's arms and placed her feet on the sand. "no, cobden,"--that was another peculiarity of the captain's,--every man went by his last name, and he had begun with archie to show the men he meant it. "no, that little posy is mine for to-day. come along, you rosebud; i'm goin' to show you the biggest boat you ever saw, and a gun on wheels; and i've got a lot o' shells the men has been pickin' up for ye. oh, but you're goin' to have a beautiful time, lassie!" the child looked up in the captain's face, and her wee hand tightened around his rough stubs of fingers. archie then turned to jane and with tod's help the three made a tour of the house, the doctor following, inspecting the captain's own room with its desk and papers, the kitchen with all its appointments, the outhouse for wood and coal, the staircase leading to the sleeping-rooms above, and at the very top the small ladder leading to the cupola on the roof, where the lookout kept watch on clear days for incoming steamers. on their return mulligan spread a white oil-cloth on the pine table and put out a china plate filled with some cake that he had baked the night before, and which green supplemented by a pitcher of water from the cistern. each one did something to please her. archie handed her the biggest piece of cake on the dish, and uncle isaac left the room in a hurry and stumbling upstairs went through his locker and hauled out the head of a wooden doll which he had picked up on the beach in one of his day patrols and which he had been keeping for one of his grand-children--all blighted with the sun and scarred with salt water, but still showing a full set of features, much to ellen's delight; and sam green told her of his own little girl, just her age, who lived up in the village and whom he saw every two weeks, and whose hair was just the color of hers. meanwhile the doctor chatted with the men, and jane, with her arm locked in archie's, so proud and so tender over him, inspected each appointment and comfort of the house with ever-increasing wonder. and so, with the visit over, the gig was loaded up, and with ellen waving her hand to the men and kissing her finger-tips in true french style to the captain and archie, and the crew responding in a hearty cheer, the party drove, past the old house of refuge, and so on back to warehold and yardley. one august afternoon, some days after this visit, tod stood in the door of the station looking out to sea. the glass had been falling all day and a dog-day haze had settled down over the horizon. this, as the afternoon advanced, had become so thick that the captain had ordered out the patrols, and archie and green were already tramping the beach--green to the inlet and archie to meet the surfmen of the station below. park, who was cook this week, had gone to the village for supplies, and so the captain and tod were alone in the house, the others, with the exception of morgan, who was at his home in the village with a sprained ankle, being at work some distance away on a crosshead over which the life-line was always fired in gun practice. suddenly tod, who was leaning against the jamb of the door speculating over what kind of weather the night would bring, and wondering whether the worst of it would fall in his watch, jerked his neck out of his woollen shirt and strained his eyes in the direction of the beach until they rested upon the figure of a man slowly making his way over the dunes. as he passed the old house of refuge, some hundreds of yards below, he stopped for a moment as if undecided on his course, looked ahead again at the larger house of the station, and then, as if reassured, came stumbling on, his gait showing his want of experience in avoiding the holes and tufts of grass cresting the dunes. his movements were so awkward and his walk so unusual in that neighborhood that tod stepped out on the low porch of the station to get a better view of him. from the man's dress, and from his manner of looking about him, as if feeling his way, tod concluded that he was a stranger and had tramped the beach for the first time. at the sight of the surfman the man left the dune, struck the boat path, and walked straight toward the porch. "kind o' foggy, ain't it?" "yes," replied tod, scrutinizing the man's face and figure, particularly his clothes, which were queerly cut and with a foreign air about them. he saw, too, that he was strong and well built, and not over thirty years of age. "you work here?" continued the stranger, mounting the steps and coming closer, his eyes taking in tod, the porch, and the view of the sitting-room through the open window. "i do," answered tod in the same tone, his eyes still on the man's face. "good job, is it?" he asked, unbuttoning his coat. "i get enough to eat," answered tod curtly, "and enough to do." he had resumed his position against the jamb of the door and stood perfectly impassive, without offering any courtesy of any kind. strangers who asked questions were never very welcome. then, again, the inquiry about his private life nettled him. the man, without noticing the slight rebuff, looked about for a seat, settled down on the top step of the porch, pulled his cap from his head, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand. then he said slowly, as if to himself: "i took the wrong road and got consid'able het up." tod watched him while he mopped his head with a red cotton handkerchief, but made no reply. curiosity is not the leading characteristic of men who follow the sea. "is the head man around? his name's holt, ain't it?" continued the stranger, replacing his cap and stuffing his handkerchief into the side-pocket of his coat. as the words fell from his lips tod's quick eye caught a sudden gleam like that of a search-light flashed from beneath the heavy eyebrows of the speaker. "that's his name," answered tod. "want to see him? he's inside." the surfman had not yet changed his position nor moved a muscle of his body. tiger cats are often like this. captain holt's burly form stepped from the door. he had overheard the conversation, and not recognizing the voice had come to find out what the man wanted. "you lookin' for me? i'm captain holt. what kin i do for ye?" asked the captain in his quick, imperious way. "that's what he said, sir," rejoined tod, bringing himself to an erect position in deference to his chief. the stranger rose from his seat and took his cap from his head. "i'm out o' work, sir, and want a job, and i thought you might take me on." tod was now convinced that the stranger was a foreigner. no man of tod's class ever took his hat off to his superior officer. they had other ways of showing their respect for his authority--instant obedience, before and behind his back, for instance. the captain's eyes absorbed the man from his thick shoes to his perspiring hair. "norwegian, ain't ye?" "no, sir; swede." "not much difference. when did ye leave sweden? you talk purty good." "when i was a boy." "what kin ye do?" "i'm a good derrick man and been four years with a coaler." "you want steady work, i suppose." the stranger nodded. "well, i ain't got it. gov'ment app'ints our men. this is a life-saving station." the stranger stood twisting his cap. the first statement seemed to make but little impression on him; the second aroused a keener interest. "yes, i know. just new built, ain't it? and you just put in charge? captain nathaniel holt's your name--am i right?" "yes, you're just right." and the captain, dismissing the man and the incident from his mind, turned on his heel, walked the length of the narrow porch and stood scanning the sky and the blurred horizon line. the twilight was now deepening and a red glow shimmered through the settling fog. "fogarty!" cried the captain, beckoning over his shoulder with his head. tod stepped up and stood at attention; as quick in reply as if two steel springs were fastened to his heels. "looks rather soapy, fogarty. may come on thick. better take a turn to the inlet and see if that yawl is in order. we might have to cross it to-night. we can't count on this weather. when you meet green send him back here. that shot-line wants overhaulin'." here the captain hesitated and looked intently at the stranger. "and here, you swede," he called in a louder tone of command, "you go 'long and lend a hand, and when you come back i'll have some supper for ye." one of tod's springs must have slid under the swede's shoes. either the prospect of a meal or of having a companion to whom he could lend a hand--nothing so desolate as a man out of work--a stranger at that--had put new life into his hitherto lethargic body. "this way," said tod, striding out toward the surf. the swede hurried to his side and the two crossed the boat runway, ploughed through the soft drift of the dune, and striking the hard, wet sand of the beach, headed for the inlet. tod having his high, waterproof boots on, tramped along the edge of the incoming surf, the half-circles of suds swashing past his feet and spreading themselves up the slope. the sand was wet here and harder on that account, and the walking better. the swede took the inside course nearer the shore. soon tod began to realize that the interest the captain had shown in the unknown man and the brief order admitting him for a time to membership in the crew placed the stranger on a different footing. he was, so to speak, a comrade and, therefore, entitled to a little more courtesy. this clear in his mind, he allowed his tongue more freedom; not that he had any additional interest in the man--he only meant to be polite. "what you been workin' at?" he asked, kicking an empty tin can that the tide had rolled within his reach. work is the universal topic; the weather is too serious a subject to chatter about lightly. "last year or two?" asked the swede, quickening his pace to keep up. tod's steel springs always kept their original temper while the captain's orders were being executed and never lost their buoyancy until these orders were entirely carried out. "yes," replied tod. "been a-minin'; runnin' the ore derricks and the shaft h'isters. what you been doin'?" and the man glanced at tod from under his cap. "fishin'. see them poles out there? you kin just git sight o' them in the smoke. them's my father's. he's out there now, i guess, if he ain't come in." "you live 'round here?" the man's legs were shorter than tod's, and he was taking two steps to tod's one. "yes, you passed the house o' refuge, didn't ye, comin' up? i was watchin' ye. well, you saw that cabin with the fence 'round it?" "yes; the woman told me where i'd find the cap'n. you know her, i s'pose?" asked the swede. "yes, she's my mother, and that's my home. i was born there." tod's words were addressed to the perspective of the beach and to the way the haze blurred the horizon; surfmen rarely see anything else when walking on the beach, whether on or off duty. "you know everybody 'round here, don't you?" remarked the swede in a casual tone. the same quick, inquiring glance shot out of the man's eyes. "yes, guess so," answered tod with another kick. here the remains of an old straw hat shared the fate of the can. "you ever heard tell of a woman named lucy cobden, lives 'round here somewheres?" tod came to a halt as suddenly as if he had run into a derelict. "i don't know no woman," he answered slowly, accentuating the last word. "i know a lady named miss jane cobden. why?" and he scrutinized the man's face. "one i mean's got a child--big now--must be fifteen or twenty years old--girl, ain't it?" "no, it's a boy. he's one of the crew here; his name's archie cobden. me and him's been brothers since we was babies. what do you know about him?" tod had resumed his walk, but at a slower pace. "nothin'; that's why i ask." the man had also become interested in the flotsam of the beach, and had stopped to pick up a dam-shell which he shied into the surf. then he added slowly, and as if not to make a point of the inquiry, "is she alive?" "yes. here this week. lives up in warehold in that big house with the brick gate-posts." the man walked on for some time in silence and then asked: "you're sure the child is livin' and that the mother's name is jane?" "sure? don't i tell ye cobden's in the crew and miss jane was here this week! he's up the beach on patrol or you'd 'a' seen him when you fust struck the station." the stranger quickened his steps. the information seemed to have put new life into him again. "did you ever hear of a man named bart holt," he asked, "who used to be 'round here?" neither man was looking at the other as they talked. the conversation was merely to pass the time of day. "yes; he's the captain's son. been dead for years. died some'er's out in brazil, so i've heard my father say. had fever or something." the swede walked on in silence for some minutes. then he stopped, faced tod, took hold of the lapel of his coat, and said slowly, as he peered into his eyes: "he ain't dead, no more'n you and i be. i worked for him for two years. he run the mines on a percentage. i got here last week, and he sent me down to find out how the land lay. if the woman was dead i was to say nothing and come back. if she was alive i was to tell the captain, his father, where a letter could reach him. they had some bad blood 'twixt 'em, but he didn't tell me what it was about. he may come home here to live, or he may go back to the mines; it's just how the old man takes it. that's what i've got to say to him. how do you think he'll take it?" for a moment tod made no reply. he was trying to make up his mind what part of the story was true and what part was skilfully put together to provide, perhaps, additional suppers. the improbability of the whole affair struck him with unusual force. raising hopes of a long-lost son in the breast of a father was an old dodge and often meant the raising of money. "well, i can't say," tod answered carelessly; he had his own opinion now of the stranger. "you'll have to see the captain about that. if the man's alive it's rather funny he ain't showed up all these years." "well, keep mum 'bout it, will ye, till i talk to him? here comes one o' your men." green's figure now loomed up out of the mist. "where away, tod?" the approaching surfman cried when he joined the two. "captain wants me to look after the yawl," answered tod. "it's all right," cried green; "i just left it. went down a-purpose. who's yer friend?" "a man the cap'n sent along to lend a hand. this is sam green," and he turned to the swede and nodded to his brother surfman. the two shook hands. the stranger had not volunteered his name and tod had not asked for it. names go for little among men who obey orders; they serve merely as labels and are useful in a payroll, but they do not add to the value of the owner or help his standing in any way. "shorty" or "fatty" or "big mike" is all sufficient. what the man can do and how he does it, is more important. "no use goin' to the inlet," continued green. "i'll report to the captain. come along back. i tell ye it's gettin' thick," and he looked out across the breakers, only the froth line showing in the dim twilight. the three turned and retraced their steps. tod quickened his pace and stepped into the house ahead of the others. not only did he intend to tell the captain of what he had heard, but he intended to tell him at once. captain holt was in his private room, sitting at his desk, busy over his monthly report. a swinging kerosene lamp hanging from the ceiling threw a light full on his ruddy face framed in a fringe of gray whiskers. tod stepped in and closed the door behind him. "i didn't go to the inlet, sir. green had thought of the yawl and had looked after it; he'll report to you about it. i just heard a strange yarn from that fellow you sent with me and i want to tell ye what it is." the captain laid down his pen, pushed his glasses from his eyes, and looked squarely into tod's face. "he's been askin' 'bout miss jane cobden and archie, and says your son bart is alive and sent him down here to find out how the land lay. it's a cock-and-bull story, but i give it to you just as i got it." once in the south seas the captain awoke to look into the muzzle of a double-barrelled shot-gun held in the hand of the leader of a mutiny. the next instant the man was on the floor, the captain's fingers twisted in his throat. tod's eyes were now the barrels of that gun. no cat-like spring followed; only a cold, stony stare, as if he were awaking from a concussion that had knocked the breath out of him. "he says bart's alive!" he gasped. "who? that feller i sent with ye?" "yes." the captain's face grew livid and then flamed up, every vein standing clear, his eyes blazing. "he's a liar! a dirty liar! bring him in!" each word hissed from his lips like an explosive. tod opened the door of the sitting-room and the swede stepped in. the captain whirled his chair suddenly and faced him. anger, doubt, and the flicker of a faint hope were crossing his face with the movement of heat lightning. "you know my son, you say?" "i do." the answer was direct and the tone positive. "what's his name?" "barton holt. he signs it different, but that's his name." "how old is he?" the pitch of the captain's voice had altered. he intended to riddle the man's statement with a cross-fire of examination. "'bout forty, maybe forty-five. he never told "what kind of eyes?" "brown, like yours." "what kind of hair?" "curly. it's gray now; he had fever, and it turned." "where--when?" hope and fear were now struggling for the mastery. "two years ago--when i first knew him; we were in hospital together." "what's he been doin'?" the tone was softer. hope seemed to be stronger now. "mining out in brazil." the captain took his eyes from the face of the man and asked in something of his natural tone of voice: "where is he now?" the swede put his hand in his inside pocket and took out a small time-book tied around with a piece of faded tape. this he slowly unwound, tod's and the captain's eyes following every turn of his fingers. opening the book, he glanced over the leaves, found the one he was looking for, tore it carefully from the book, and handed it to the captain. "that's his writing. if you want to see him send him a line to that address. it'll reach him all right. if you don't want to see him he'll go back with me to rio. i don't want yer supper and i don't want yer job. i done what i promised and that's all there is to it. good-night," and he opened the door and disappeared in the darkness. captain holt sat with his head on his chest looking at the floor in front of him. the light of the banging lamp made dark shadows under his eyebrows and under his chin whiskers. there was a firm set to his clean-shaven lips, but the eyes burned with a gentle light; a certain hope, positive now, seemed to be looming up in them. tod watched him for an instant, and said: "what do ye think of it, cap'n?" "i ain't made up my mind." "is he lyin'?" "i don't know. seems too good to be true. he's got some things right; some things he ain't. keep your mouth shut till i tell ye to open it--to cobden, mind ye, and everybody else. better help green overhaul that line. that'll do, fogarty." tod dipped his head--his sign of courteous assent--and backed out of the room. the captain continued motionless, his eyes fixed on space. once he turned, picked up the paper, scrutinized the handwriting word for word, and tossed it back on the desk. then he rose from his seat and began pacing the floor, stopping to gaze at a chart on the wall, at the top of the stove, at the pendulum of the clock, surveying them leisurely. once he looked out of the window at the flare of light from his swinging lamp, stencilled on the white sand and the gray line of the dunes beyond. at each of these resting-places his face assumed a different expression; hope, fear, and anger again swept across it as his judgment struggled with his heart. in one of his turns up and down the small room he laid his hand on a brick lying on the window-sill--one that had been sent by the builders of the station as a sample. this he turned over carefully, examining the edges and color as if he had seen it for the first time and had to pass judgment upon its defects or merits. laying it back in its place, he threw himself into his chair again, exclaiming aloud, as if talking to someone: "it ain't true. he'd wrote before if he were alive. he was wild and keerless, but he never was dirt-mean, and he wouldn't a-treated me so all these years. the swede's a liar, i tell ye!" wheeling the chair around to face the desk, he picked up a pen, dipped it into the ink, laid it back on the desk, picked it up again, opened a drawer on his right, took from it a sheet of official paper, and wrote a letter of five lines. this he enclosed in the envelope, directed to the name on the slip of paper. then he opened the door. "fogarty." "yes, cap'n." "take this to the village and drop it in the post yourself. the weather's clearin', and you won't be wanted for a while," and he strode out and joined his men. chapter xix the breaking of the dawn september weather on barnegat beach! fine gowns and fine hats on the wide piazzas of beach haven! too cool for bathing, but not too cool to sit on the sand and throw pebbles and loll under kindly umbrellas; air fresh and bracing, with a touch of june in it; skies full of mares'-tails--slips of a painter's brush dragged flat across the film of blue; sea gone to rest; not a ripple, no long break of the surf, only a gentle lift and fall like the breathing of a sleeping child. uncle isaac shook his head when he swept his eye round at all this loveliness; then he turned on his heel and took a look at the aneroid fastened to the wall of the sitting-room of the life-saving station. the arrow showed a steady shrinkage. the barometer had fallen six points. "what do ye think, captain holt?" asked the old surfman. "i ain't thinkin', polhemus; can't tell nothin' 'bout the weather this month till the moon changes; may go on this way for a week or two, or it may let loose and come out to the sou'-east i've seen these dog-days last till october." again uncle isaac shook his head, and this time kept his peace; now that his superior officer had spoken he had no further opinion to express. sam green dropped his feet to the floor, swung himself over to the barometer, gazed at it for a moment, passed out of the door, swept his eye around, and resumed his seat--tilted back against the wall. what his opinion might be was not for publication--not in the captain's hearing. captain holt now consulted the glass, picked up his cap bearing the insignia of his rank, and went out through the kitchen to the land side of the house. the sky and sea--feathery clouds and still, oily flatness--did not interest him this september morning. it was the rolling dune that caught his eye, and the straggly path that threaded its way along the marshes and around and beyond the clump of scrub pines and bushes until it was lost in the haze that hid the village. this land inspection had been going on for a month, and always when tod was returning from the post-office with the morning mail. the men had noticed it, but no one had given vent to his thoughts. tod, of course, knew the cause of the captain's impatience, but no one of the others did, not even archie; time enough for that when the swede's story was proved true. if the fellow had lied that was an end to it; if he had told the truth bart would answer, and the mystery be cleared up. this same silence had been maintained toward jane and the doctor; better not raise hopes he could not verify--certainly not in jane's breast. not that he had much hope himself; he dared not hope. hope meant a prop to his old age; hope meant joy to jane, who would welcome the prodigal; hope meant relief to the doctor, who could then claim his own; hope meant redemption for lucy, a clean name for archie, and honor to himself and his only son. no wonder, then, that he watched for an answer to his letter with feverish impatience. his own missive had been blunt and to the point, asking the direct question: "are you alive or dead, and if alive, why did you fool me with that lie about your dying of fever in a hospital and keep me waiting all these years?" anything more would have been superfluous in the captain's judgment--certainly until he received some more definite information as to whether the man was his son. half a dozen times this lovely september morning the captain had strolled leisurely out of the back door and had mounted the low hillock for a better view. suddenly a light flashed in his face, followed by a look in his eyes that they had not known for weeks--not since the swede left. the light came when his glance fell upon tod's lithe figure swinging along the road; the look kindled when he saw tod stop and wave his hand triumphantly over his head. the letter had arrived! with a movement as quick as that of a horse touched by a whip, he started across the sand to meet the surfman. "guess we got it all right this time, captain," cried tod. "it's got the nassau postmark, anyhow. there warn't nothin' else in the box but the newspapers," and he handed the package to his chief. the two walked to the house and entered the captain's office. tod hung back, but the captain laid his hand on his shoulder. "come in with me, fogarty. shut the door. i'll send these papers in to the men soon's i open this." tod obeyed mechanically. there was a tone in the captain's voice that was new to him. it sounded as if he were reluctant to be left alone with the letter. "now hand me them spectacles." tod reached over and laid the glasses in his chief's hand. the captain settled himself deliberately in his revolving chair, adjusted his spectacles, and slit the envelope with his thumb-nail. out came a sheet of foolscap closely written on both sides. this he read to the end, turning the page as carefully as if it had been a set of official instructions, his face growing paler and paler, his mouth tight shut. tod stood beside him watching the lights and shadows playing across his face. the letter was as follows: "nassau, no. calle valenzuela, "aug. , --. "father: your letter was not what i expected, although it is, perhaps, all i deserve. i am not going into that part of it, now i know that lucy and my child are alive. what has been done in the past i can't undo, and maybe i wouldn't if i could, for if i am worth anything to-day it comes from what i have suffered; that's over now, and i won't rake it up, but i think you would have written me some word of kindness if you had known what i have gone through since i left you. i don't blame you for what you did--i don't blame anybody; all i want now is to get back home among the people who knew me when i was a boy, and try and make up for the misery i have caused you and the cobdens. i would have done this before, but it has only been for the last two years that i have had any money. i have got an interest in the mine now and am considerably ahead, and i can do what i have always determined to do if i ever had the chance and means--come home to lucy and the child; it must be big now--and take them back with me to bolivia, where i have a good home and where, in a few years, i shall be able to give them everything they need. that's due to her and to the child, and it's due to you; and if she'll come i'll do my best to make her happy while she lives. i heard about five years ago from a man who worked for a short time in farguson's ship-yard how she was suffering, and what names the people called the child, and my one thought ever since has been to do the decent thing by both. i couldn't then, for i was living in a hut back in the mountains a thousand miles from the coast, or tramping from place to place; so i kept still. he told me, too, how you felt toward me, and i didn't want to come and have bad blood between us, and so i stayed on. when olssen strom, my foreman, sailed for perth amboy, where they are making some machinery for the company, i thought i'd try again, so i sent him to find out. one thing in your letter is wrong. i never went to the hospital with yellow fever; some of the men had it aboard ship, and i took one of them to the ward the night i ran away. the doctor at the hospital wanted my name, and i gave it, and this may have been how they thought it was me, but i did not intend to deceive you or anybody else, nor cover up any tracks. yes, father, i'm coming home. if you'll hold out your hand to me i'll take it gladly. i've had a hard time since i left you; you'd forgive me if you knew how hard it has been. i haven't had anybody out here to care whether i lived or died, and i would like to see how it feels. but if you don't i can't help it. my hope is that lucy and the boy will feel differently. there is a steamer sailing from here next wednesday; she goes direct to amboy, and you may expect me on her. your son, "barton." "it's him, tod," cried the captain, shaking the letter over his head; "it's him!" the tears stood in his eyes now, his voice trembled; his iron nerve was giving way. "alive, and comin' home! be here next week! keep the door shut, boy, till i pull myself together. oh, my god, tod, think of it! i haven't had a day's peace since i druv him out nigh on to twenty year ago. he hurt me here"--and he pointed to his breast--"where i couldn't forgive him. but it's all over now. he's come to himself like a man, and he's square and honest, and he's goin' to stay home till everything is straightened out. o god! it can't be true! it can't be true!" he was sobbing now, his face hidden by his wrist and the cuff of his coat, the big tears striking his pea-jacket and bounding off. it had been many years since these springs had yielded a drop--not when anybody could see. they must have scalded his rugged cheeks as molten metal scalds a sand-pit. tod stood amazed. the outburst was a revelation. he had known the captain ever since he could remember, but always as an austere, exacting man. "i'm glad, captain," tod said simply; "the men'll be glad, too. shall i tell 'em?" the captain raised his head. "wait a minute, son." his heart was very tender, all discipline was forgotten now; and then he had known tod from his boyhood. "i'll go myself and tell 'em," and he drew his hand across his eyes as if to dry them. "yes, tell 'em. come, i'll go 'long with ye and tell 'em myself. i ain't 'shamed of the way i feel, and the men won't be 'shamed neither." the sitting-room was full when he entered. dinner had been announced by morgan, who was cook that week, by shouting the glad tidings from his place beside the stove, and the men were sitting about in their chairs. two fishermen who had come for their papers occupied seats against the wall. the captain walked to the corner of the table, stood behind his own chair and rested the knuckles of one hand on the white oilcloth. the look on his face attracted every eye. pausing for a moment, he turned to polhemus and spoke to him for the others: "isaac, i got a letter just now. fogarty brought it over. you knew my boy bart, didn't ye, the one that's been dead nigh on to twenty years?" the old surfman nodded, his eyes still fastened on the captain. this calling him "isaac" was evidence that something personal and unusual was coming. the men, too, leaned forward in attention; the story of bart's disappearance and death had been discussed up and down the coast for years. "well, he's alive," rejoined the captain with a triumphant tone in his voice, "and he'll be here in a week--comin' to amboy on a steamer. there ain't no mistake about it; here's his letter." the announcement was received in dead silence. to be surprised was not characteristic of these men, especially over a matter of this kind. death was a part of their daily experience, and a resurrection neither extraordinary nor uncommon. they were glad for the captain, if the captain was glad--and he, evidently was. but what did bart's turning up at this late day mean? had his money given out, or was he figuring to get something out of his father--something he couldn't get as long as he remained dead? the captain continued, his voice stronger and with a more positive ring in it: "he's part owner in a mine now, and he's comin' home to see me and to straighten out some things he's interested in." it was the first time in nearly twenty years that he had ever been able to speak of his son with pride. a ripple of pleasure went through the room. if the prodigal was bringing some money with him and was not to be a drag on the captain, that put a new aspect on the situation. in that case the father was to be congratulated. "well, that's a comfort to you, captain," cried uncle isaac in a cheery tone. "a good son is a good thing. i never had one, dead or alive, but i'd 'a' loved him if i had had. i'm glad for you, captain nat, and i know the men are." (polhemus's age and long friendship gave him this privilege. then, of course, the occasion was not an official one.) "been at the mines, did ye say, captain?" remarked green. not that it was of any interest to him; merely to show his appreciation of the captain's confidence. this could best be done by prolonging the conversation. "yes, up in the mountains of brazil some'er's, i guess, though he don't say," answered the captain in a tone that showed that the subject was still open for discussion. mulligan now caught the friendly ball and tossed it back 'with: "i knowed a feller once who was in brazil--so he said. purty hot down there, ain't it, captain?" "yes; on the coast. i ain't never been back in the interior." tod kept silent. it was not his time to speak, nor would it be proper for him, nor necessary. his chief knew his opinion and sympathies and no word of his could add to their sincerity. archie was the only man in the room, except uncle isaac, who regarded the announcement as personal to the captain. boys without fathers and fathers without boys had been topics which had occupied his mind ever since he could remember. that this old man had found one of his own whom he loved and whom he wanted to get his arms around, was an inspiring thought to archie. "there's no one happier than i am, captain," he burst out enthusiastically. "i've often heard of your son, and of his going away and of your giving him up for dead. i'm mighty glad for you," and he grasped his chief's hand and shook it heartily. as the lad's fingers closed around the rough hand of the captain a furtive look flashed from out morgan's eyes. it was directed to parks--they were both barnegat men--and was answered by that surfman with a slow-falling wink. tod saw it, and his face flushed. certain stories connected with archie rose in his mind; some out of his childhood, others since he had joined the crew. the captain's eyes filled as he shook the boy's hand, but he made no reply to archie's outburst. pausing for a moment, as if willing to listen to any further comments, and finding that no one else had any word for him, he turned on his heel and reentered his office. once inside, he strode to the window and looked out on the dunes, his big hands hooked behind his back, his eyes fixed on vacancy. "it won't be long, now, archie, not long, my lad," he said in a low voice, speaking aloud to himself. "i kin say you're my grandson out loud when bart comes, and nothin' kin or will stop me! and now i kin tell miss jane." thrusting the letter into his inside pocket, he picked up his cap, and strode across the dune in the direction of the new hospital. jane was in one of the wards when the captain sent word to her to come to the visiting-room. she had been helping the doctor in an important operation. the building was but half way between the station and warehold, which made it easier for the captain to keep his eye on the sea should there be any change in the weather. jane listened to the captain's outburst covering the announcement that bart was alive without a comment. her face paled and her breathing came short, but she showed no signs of either joy or sorrow. she had faced too many surprises in her life to be startled at anything. then again, bart alive or dead could make no difference now in either her own or lucy's future. the captain continued, his face brightening, his voice full of hope: "and your troubles are all over now, miss jane; your name will be cleared up, and so will archie's, and the doctor'll git his own, and lucy kin look everybody in the face. see what bart says," and he handed her the open letter. jane read it word by word to the end and handed it back to the captain. once in the reading she had tightened her grasp on her chair as if to steady herself, but she did not flinch; she even read some sentences twice, so that she might be sure of their meaning. in his eagerness the captain had not caught the expression of agony that crossed her face as her mind, grasping the purport of the letter, began to measure the misery that would follow if bart's plan was carried out. "i knew how ye'd feel," he went on, "and i've been huggin' myself ever since it come when i thought how happy ye'd be when i told ye; but i ain't so sure 'bout lucy. what do you think? will she do what bart wants?" "no," said jane in a quiet, restrained voice; "she will not do it." "why?" said the captain in a surprised tone. he was not accustomed to be thwarted in anything he had fixed his mind upon, and he saw from jane's expression that her own was in opposition. "because i won't permit it." the captain leaned forward and looked at jane in astonishment. "you won't permit it!" "no, i won't permit it." "why?" the word came from the captain as if it had been shot from a gun. "because it would not be right." her eyes were still fixed on the captain's. "well, ain't it right that he should make some amends for what he's done?" he retorted with increasing anger. "when he said he wouldn't marry her i druv him out; now he says he's sorry and wants to do squarely by her and my hand's out to him. she ain't got nothin' in her life that's doin' her any good. and that boy's got to be baptized right and take his father's name, archie holt, out loud, so everybody kin hear." jane made no answer except to shake her head. her eyes were still on the captain's, but her mind was neither on him nor on what fell from his lips. she was again confronting that spectre which for years had lain buried and which the man before her was exorcising back to life. the captain sprang from his seat and stood before her; the words now poured from his lips in a torrent. "and you'll git out from this death blanket you been sleepin' under, bearin' her sin; breakin' the doctor's heart and your own; and archie kin hold his head up then and say he's got a father. you ain't heard how the boys talk 'bout him behind his back. tod fogarty's stuck to him, but who else is there 'round here? we all make mistakes; that's what half the folks that's livin' do. everything's been a lie--nothin' but lies--for near twenty years. you've lived a lie motherin' this boy and breakin' your heart over the whitest man that ever stepped in shoe leather. doctor john's lived a lie, tellin' folks he wanted to devote himself to his hospital when he'd rather live in the sound o' your voice and die a pauper than run a college anywhere else. lucy has lived a lie, and is livin' it yet--and likes it, too, that's the worst of it. and i been muzzled all these years; mad one minute and wantin' to twist his neck, and the next with my eyes runnin' tears that the only boy i got was lyin' out among strangers. the only one that's honest is the little pond lily. she ain't got nothin' to hide and you see it in her face. her father was square and her mother's with her and nothin' can't touch her and don't. let's have this out. i'm tired of it--" the captain was out of breath now, his emotions still controlling him, his astonishment at the unexpected opposition from the woman of all others on whose assistance he most relied unabated. jane rose from her chair and stood facing him, a great light in her eyes: "no! no! no! a thousand times, no! you don't know lucy; i do. what you want done now should have been done when archie was born. it was my fault. i couldn't see her suffer. i loved her too much. i thought to save her, i didn't care how. it would have been better for her if she had faced her sin then and taken the consequences; better for all of us. i didn't think so then, and it has taken me years to find it out. i began to be conscious of it first in her marriage, then when she kept on living her lie with her husband, and last when she deserted ellen and went off to beach haven alone--that broke my heart, and my mistake rose up before me, and i knew!" the captain stared at her in astonishment. he could hardly credit his ears. "yes, better, if she'd faced it. she would have lived here then under my care, and she might have loved her child as i have done. now she has no tie, no care, no responsibility, no thought of anything but the pleasures of the moment. i have tried to save her, and i have only helped to ruin her." "make her settle down, then, and face the music!" blurted out the captain, resuming his seat. "bart warn't all bad; he was only young and foolish. he'll take care of her. it ain't never too late to begin to turn honest. bart wants to begin; make her begin, too. he's got money now to do it; and she kin live in south america same's she kin here. she's got no home anywhere. she don't like it here, and never did; you kin see that from the way she swings 'round from place to place. make her face it, i tell ye. you been too easy with her all your life; pull her down now and keep her nose p'inted close to the compass." "you do not know of what you talk," jane answered, her eyes blazing. "she hates the past; hates everything connected with it; hates the very name of barton holt. never once has she mentioned it since her return. she never loved archie; she cared no more for him than a bird that has dropped its young out of its nest. besides, your plan is impossible. marriage does not condone a sin. the power to rise and rectify the wrong lies in the woman. lucy has not got it in her, and she never will have it. part of it is her fault; a large part of it is mine. she has lived this lie all these years, and i have only myself to blame. i have taught her to live it. i began it when i carried her away from here; i should have kept her at home and had her face the consequences of her sin then. i ought to have laid archie in her arms and kept him there. i was a coward and could not, and in my fear i destroyed the only thing that could have saved her--the mother-love. now she will run her course. she's her own mistress; no one can compel her to do anything." the captain raised his clenched hand: "bart will, when he comes." "how?" "by claimin' the boy and shamin' her before the world, if she don't. she liked him well enough when he was a disgrace to himself and to me, without a dollar to his name. what ails him now, when he comes back and owns up like a man and wants to do the square thing, and has got money enough to see it through? she's nothin' but a thing, if she knew it, till this disgrace's wiped off'n her. by god, miss jane, i tell you this has got to be put through just as bart wants it, and quick!" jane stepped closer and laid her hand on the captain's arm. the look in her eyes, the low, incisive, fearless ring in her voice, overawed him. her courage astounded him. this side of her character was a revelation. under their influence he became silent and humbled--as a boisterous advocate is humbled by the measured tones of a just judge. "it is not my friend, captain nat, who is talking now. it is the father who is speaking. think for a moment. who has borne the weight of this, you or i? you had a wayward son whom the people here think you drove out of your home for gambling on sunday. no other taint attaches to him or to you. dozens of other sons and fathers have done the same. he returns a reformed man and lives out his life in the home he left. "i had a wayward sister who forgot her mother, me, her womanhood, and herself, and yet at whose door no suspicion of fault has been laid. i stepped in and took the brunt and still do. i did this for my father's name and for my promise to him and for my love of her. to her child i have given my life. to him i am his mother and will always be--always, because i will stand by my fault. that is a redemption in itself, and that is the only thing that saves me from remorse. you and i, outside of his father and mother, are the only ones living that know of his parentage. the world has long since forgotten the little they suspected. let it rest; no good could come--only suffering and misery. to stir it now would only open old wounds and, worst of all, it would make a new one." "in you?" "no, worse than that. my heart is already scarred all over; no fresh wound would hurt." "in the doctor?" "yes and no. he has never asked the truth and i have never told him." "who, then?" "in little ellen. let us keep that one flower untouched." the captain rested his head in his hand, and for some minutes made no answer. ellen was the apple of his eye. "but if bart insists?" "he won't insist when he sees lucy. she is no more the woman that he loved and wronged than i am. he would not know her if he met her outside this house." "what shall i do?" "nothing. let matters take their course. if he is the man you think he is he will never break the silence." "and you will suffer on--and the doctor?" jane bowed her head and the tears sprang to her eyes. "yes, always; there is nothing else to do." chapter xx the undertow within the month a second letter was handed to the captain by tod, now regularly installed as postman. it was in answer to one of captain holt's which he had directed to the expected steamer and which had met the exile on his arrival. it was dated "amboy," began "my dear father," and was signed "your affectionate son, barton." this conveyed the welcome intelligence--welcome to the father--that the writer would be detained a few days in amboy inspecting the new machinery, after which he would take passage for barnegat by the polly walters, farguson's weekly packet. then these lines followed: "it will be the happiest day of my life when i can come into the inlet at high tide and see my home in the distance." again the captain sought jane. she was still at the hospital, nursing some shipwrecked men--three with internal injuries--who had been brought in from forked river station, the crew having rescued them the week before. two of the regular attendants were worn out with the constant nursing, and so jane continued her vigils. she had kept at her work--turning neither to the right nor to the left, doing her duty with the bravery and patience of a soldier on the firing-line, knowing that any moment some stray bullet might end her usefulness. she would not dodge, nor would she cower; the danger was no greater than others she had faced, and no precaution, she knew, could save her. her lips were still sealed, and would be to the end; some tongue other than her own must betray her sister and her trust. in the meantime she would wait and bear bravely whatever was sent to her. jane was alone when the captain entered, the doctor having left the room to begin his morning inspection. she was in her gray-cotton nursing-dress, her head bound about with a white kerchief. the pathos of her face and the limp, tired movement of her figure would have been instantly apparent to a man less absorbed in his own affairs than the captain. "he'll be here to-morrow or next day!" he cried, as he advanced to where she sat at her desk in the doctor's office, the same light in his eyes and the same buoyant tone in his voice, his ruddy face aglow with his walk from the station. "you have another letter then?" she said in a resigned tone, as if she had expected it and was prepared to meet its consequences. in her suffering she had even forgotten her customary welcome of him--for whatever his attitude and however gruff he might be, she never forgot the warm heart beneath. "yes, from amboy," panted the captain, out of breath with his quick walk, dragging a chair beside jane's desk as he spoke. "he got mine when the steamer come in. he's goin' to take the packet so he kin bring his things--got a lot o' them, he says. and he loves the old home, too--he says so--you kin read it for yourself." as he spoke he unbuttoned his jacket, and taking bart's letter from its inside pocket, laid his finger on the paragraph and held it before her face. "have you talked about it to anybody?" jane asked calmly; she hardly glanced at the letter. "only to the men; but it's all over barnegat. a thing like that's nothin' but a cask o' oil overboard and the bung out--runs everywhere--no use tryin' to stop it." he was in the chair now, his arms on the edge of the desk. "but you've said nothing to anybody about archie and lucy, and what bart intends to do when he comes, have you?" jane inquired in some alarm. "not a word, and won't till ye see him. she's more your sister than she is his wife, and you got most to say 'bout archie, and should. you been everything to him. when you've got through i'll take a hand, but not before." the captain always spoke the truth, and meant it; his word settled at once any anxieties she might have had on that score. "what have you decided to do?" she was not looking at him as she spoke; she was toying with a penholder that lay before her on the desk, apparently intent on its construction. "i'm goin' to meet him at farguson's ship-yard when the polly comes in," rejoined the captain in a positive tone, as if his mind had long since been made up regarding details, and he was reciting them for her guidance--"and take him straight to my house, and then come for you. you kin have it out together. only one thing, miss jane"--here his voice changed and something of his old quarter-deck manner showed itself in his face and gestures--"if he's laid his course and wants to keep hold of the tiller i ain't goin' to block his way and he shall make his harbor, don't make no difference who or what gits in the channel. ain't neither of us earned any extry pay for the way we've run this thing. you've got lucy ashore flounderin' 'round in the fog, and i had no business to send him off without grub or compass. if he wants to steer now he'll steer. i don't want you to make no mistake 'bout this, and you'll excuse me if i put it plain." jane put her hand to her head and looked out of the window toward the sea. all her life seemed to be narrowing to one small converging path which grew smaller and smaller as she looked down its perspective. "i understand, captain," she sighed. all the fight was out of her; she was like one limping across a battlefield, shield and spear gone, the roads unknown. the door opened and the doctor entered. his quick, sensitive eye instantly caught the look of despair on jane's face and the air of determination on the captain's. what had happened he did not know, but something to hurt jane; of that he was positive. he stepped quickly past the captain without accosting him, rested his hand on jane's shoulder, and said in a tender, pleading tone: "you are tired and worn out; get your cloak and hat and i'll drive you home." then he turned to the captain: "miss jane's been up for three nights. i hope you haven't been worrying her with anything you could have spared her from--at least until she got rested," and he frowned at the captain. "no, i ain't and wouldn't. i been a-tellin' her of bart's comin' home. that ain't nothin' to worry over--that's something to be glad of. you heard about it, of course?" "yes, morgan told me. twenty years will make a great difference in bart. it must have been a great surprise to you, captain." both jane and the captain tried to read the doctor's face, and both failed. doctor john might have been commenting on the weather or some equally unimportant topic, so light and casual was his tone. he turned to jane again. "come, dear--please," he begged. it was only when he was anxious about her physical condition or over some mental trouble that engrossed her that he spoke thus. the words lay always on the tip of his tongue, but he never let them fall unless someone was present to overhear. "you are wrong, john," she answered, bridling her shoulders as if to reassure him. "i am not tired--i have a little headache, that's all." with the words she pressed both hands to her temples and smoothed back her hair--a favorite gesture when her brain fluttered against her skull like a caged pigeon. "i will go home, but not now--this afternoon, perhaps. come for me then, please," she added, looking up into his face with a grateful expression. the captain picked up his cap and rose from his seat. one of his dreams was the marriage of these two. episodes like this only showed him the clearer what lay in their hearts. the doctor's anxiety and jane's struggle to bear her burdens outside of his touch and help only confirmed the old sea-dog in his determination. when bart had his way, he said to himself, all this would cease. "i'll be goin' along," he said, looking from one to the other and putting on his cap. "see you later, miss jane. morgan's back ag'in to work, thanks to you, doctor. that was a pretty bad sprain he had--he's all right now, though; went on practice yesterday. i'm glad of it--equinox is comin' on and we can't spare a man, or half a one, these days. may be blowin' a livin' gale 'fore the week's out. good-by, miss jane; good-by, doctor." and he shut the door behind him. with the closing of the door the sound of wheels was heard--a crisp, crunching sound--and then the stamping of horses' feet. max feilding's drag, drawn by the two grays and attended by the diminutive bones, had driven up and now stood beside the stone steps of the front door of the hospital. the coats of the horses shone like satin and every hub and plate glistened in the sunshine. on the seat, the reins in one pretty gloved hand, a gold-mounted whip in the other, sat lucy. she was dressed in her smartest driving toilette--a short yellow-gray jacket fastened with big pearl buttons and a hat bound about with the breast of a tropical bird. her eyes were dancing, her cheeks like ripe peaches with all the bloom belonging to them in evidence, and something more, and her mouth all curves and dimples. when the doctor reached her side--he had heard the sound of the wheels, and looking through the window had caught sight of the drag--she had risen from her perch and was about to spring clear of the equipage without waiting for the helping hand of either bones or himself. she was still a girl in her suppleness. "no, wait until i can give you my hand," he said, hurrying toward her. "no--i don't want your hand, sir esculapius. get out of the way, please--i'm going to jump! there--wasn't that lovely?" and she landed beside him. "where's sister? i've been all the way to yardley, and martha tells me she has been here almost all the week. oh, what a dreadful, gloomy-looking place! how many people have you got here anyhow, cooped up in this awful-- why, it's like an almshouse," she added, looking about her. "where did you say sister was?" "i'll go and call her," interpolated the doctor when he could get a chance to speak. "no, you won't do anything of the kind; i'll go myself. you've had her all the week, and now it's my turn." jane had by this time closed the lid of her desk, had moved out into the hall, and now stood on the top step of the entrance awaiting lucy's ascent. in her gray gown, simple head-dress, and resigned face, the whole framed in the doorway with its connecting background of dull stone, she looked like one of correggio's madonnas illumining some old cloister wall. "oh, you dear, dear sister!" lucy cried, running up the short steps to meet her. "i'm so glad i've found you; i was afraid you were tying up somebody's broken head or rocking a red-flannelled baby." with this she put her arms around jane's neck and kissed her rapturously. "where can we talk? oh, i've got such a lot of things to tell you! you needn't come, you dear, good doctor. please take yourself off, sir--this way, and out the gate, and don't you dare come back until i'm gone." my lady of paris was very happy this morning; bubbling over with merriment--a condition that set the doctor to thinking. indeed, he had been thinking most intently about my lady ever since he had heard of bart's resurrection. he had also been thinking of jane and archie. these last thoughts tightened his throat; they had also kept him awake the past few nights. the doctor bowed with one of his sir roger bows, lifted his hat first to jane in all dignity and reverence, and then to lucy with a flourish--keeping up outwardly the gayety of the occasion and seconding her play of humor--walked to the shed where his horse was tied and drove off. he knew these moods of lucy's; knew they were generally assumed and that they always concealed some purpose--one which neither a frown nor a cutting word nor an outbreak of temper would accomplish; but that fact rarely disturbed him. then, again, he was never anything but courteous to her--always remembering jane's sacrifice and her pride in her. "and now, you dear, let us go somewhere where we can be quiet," lucy cried, slipping her arm around jane's slender waist and moving toward the hall. with the entering of the bare room lined with bottles and cases of instruments her enthusiasm began to cool. up to this time she had done all the talking. was jane tired out nursing? she asked herself; or did she still feel hurt over her refusal to take ellen with her for the summer? she had remembered for days afterward the expression on her face when she told of her plans for the summer and of her leaving ellen at yardley; but she knew this had all passed out of her sister's mind. this was confirmed by jane's continued devotion to ellen and her many kindnesses to the child. it was true that whenever she referred to her separation from ellen, which she never failed to do as a sort of probe to be assured of the condition of jane's mind, there was no direct reply--merely a changing of the topic, but this had only proved jane's devotion in avoiding a subject which might give her beautiful sister pain. what, then, was disturbing her to-day? she asked herself with a slight chill at her heart. then she raised her head and assumed a certain defiant air. better not notice anything jane said or did; if she was tired she would get rested and if she was provoked with her she would get pleased again. it was through her affections and her conscience that she could hold and mould her sister jane--never through opposition or fault-finding. besides, the sun was too bright and the air too delicious, and she herself too blissfully happy to worry over anything. in time all these adverse moods would pass out of jane's heart as they had done a thousand times before. "oh, you dear, precious thing!" lucy began again, all these matters having been reviewed, settled, and dismissed from her mind in the time it took her to cross the room. "i'm so sorry for you when i think of you shut up here with these dreadful people; but i know you wouldn't be happy anywhere else," she laughed in a meaning way. (the bringing in of the doctor even by implication was always a good move.) "and martha looks so desolate. dear, you really ought to be more with her; but for my darling ellen i don't know what martha would do. i miss the child so, and yet i couldn't bear to take her from the dear old woman." jane made no answer. lucy had found a chair now and had laid her gloves, parasol, and handkerchief on another beside her. jane had resumed her seat; her slender neck and sloping shoulders and sparely modelled head with its simply dressed hair--she had removed the kerchief--in silhouette against the white light of the window. "what is it all about, lucy?" she asked in a grave tone after a slight pause in lucy's talk. "i have a great secret to tell you--one you mustn't breathe until i give you leave." she was leaning back in her chair now, her eyes trying to read jane's thoughts. her bare hands were resting in her lap, the jewels flashing from her fingers; about her dainty mouth there hovered, like a butterfly, a triumphant smile; whether this would alight and spread its wings into radiant laughter, or disappear, frightened by a gathering frown, depended on what would drop from her sister's lips. jane looked up. the strong light from the window threw her head into shadow; only the slight fluff of her hair glistened in the light. this made an aureole which framed the madonna's face. "well, lucy, what is it?" she asked again simply. "max is going to be married." "when?" rejoined jane in the same quiet tone. her mind was not on max or on anything connected with him. it was on the shadow slowly settling upon all she loved. "in december," replied lucy, a note of triumph in her voice, her smile broadening. "who to?" "me." with the single word a light ripple escaped from her lips. jane straightened herself in her chair. a sudden faintness passed over her--as if she had received a blow in the chest, stopping her breath. "you mean--you mean--that you have promised to marry max feilding!" she gasped. "that's exactly what i do mean." the butterfly smile about lucy's mouth had vanished. that straightening of the lips and slow contraction of the brow which jane knew so well was taking its place. then she added nervously, unclasping her hands and picking up her gloves: "aren't you pleased?" "i don't know," answered jane, gazing about the room with a dazed look, as if seeking for a succor she could not find. "i must think. and so you have promised to marry max!" she repeated, as if to herself. "and in december." for a brief moment she paused, her eyes again downcast; then she raised her voice quickly and in a more positive tone asked, "and what do you mean to do with ellen?" "that's what i want to talk to you about, you dear thing." lucy had come prepared to ignore any unfavorable criticisms jane might make and to give her only sisterly affection in return. "i want to give her to you for a few months more," she added blandly, "and then we will take her abroad with us and send her to school either in paris or geneva, where her grandmother can be near her. in a year or two she will come to us in paris." jane made no answer. lucy moved uncomfortably in her chair. she had never, in all her life, seen her sister in any such mood. she was not so much astonished over her lack of enthusiasm regarding the engagement; that she had expected--at least for the first few days, until she could win her over to her own view. it was the deadly poise--the icy reserve that disturbed her. this was new. "lucy!" again jane stopped and looked out of the window. "you remember the letter i wrote you some years ago, in which i begged you to tell ellen's father about archie and barton holt?" lucy's eyes flashed. "yes, and you remember my answer, don't you?" she answered sharply. "what a fool i would have been, dear, to have followed your advice!" jane went straight on without heeding the interruption or noticing lucy's changed tone. "do you intend to tell max?" "i tell max! my dear, good sister, are you crazy! what should i tell max for? all that is dead and buried long ago! why do you want to dig up all these graves? tell max--that aristocrat! he's a dear, sweet fellow, but you don't know him. he'd sooner cut his hand off than marry me if he knew!" "i'm afraid you will have to--and this very day," rejoined jane in a calm, measured tone. lucy moved uneasily in her chair; her anxiety had given way to a certain ill-defined terror. jane's voice frightened her. "why?" she asked in a trembling voice. "because captain holt or someone else will, if you don't." "what right has he or anybody else to meddle with my affairs?" lucy retorted in an indignant tone. "because he cannot help it. i intended to keep the news from you for a time, but from what you have just told me you had best hear it now. barton holt is alive. he has been in brazil all these years, in the mines. he has written to his father that he is coming home." all the color faded from lucy's cheeks. "bart! alive! coming home! when?" "he will be here day after to-morrow; he is at amboy, and will come by the weekly packet. what i can do i will. i have worked all my life to save you, and i may yet, but it seems now as if i had reached the end of my rope." "who said so? where did you hear it? it can't be true!" jane shook her head. "i wish it was not true--but it is--every word of it. i have read his letter." lucy sank back in her chair, her cheeks livid, a cold perspiration moistening her forehead. little lines that jane had never noticed began to gather about the corners of her mouth; her eyes were wide open, with a strained, staring expression. what she saw was max's eyes looking into her own, that same cold, cynical expression on his face she had sometimes seen when speaking of other women he had known. "what's he coming for?" her voice was thick and barely audible. "to claim his son." "he--says--he'll--claim--archie--as--his--son!" she gasped. "i'd like to see any man living dare to--" "but he can try, lucy--no one can prevent that, and in the trying the world will know." lucy sprang from her seat and stood over her sister: "i'll deny it!" she cried in a shrill voice; "and face him down. he can't prove it! no one about here can!" "he may have proofs that you couldn't deny, and that i would not if i could. captain holt knows everything, remember," jane replied in her same calm voice. "but nobody else does but you and martha!" the thought gave her renewed hope--the only ray she saw. "true; but the captain is enough. his heart is set on archie's name being cleared, and nothing that i can do or say will turn him from his purpose. do you know what he means to do?" "no," she replied faintly, more terror than curiosity in her voice. "he means that you shall marry barton, and that archie shall be baptized as archibald holt. barton will then take you both back to south america. a totally impossible plan, but--" "i marry barton holt! why, i wouldn't marry him if he got down on his knees. why, i don't even remember what he looks like! did you ever hear of such impudence! what is he to me?" the outburst carried with it a certain relief. "what he is to you is not the question. it is what you are to archie! your sin has been your refusal to acknowledge him. now you are brought face to face with the consequences. the world will forgive a woman all the rest, but never for deserting her child, and that, my dear sister, is precisely what you did to archie." jane's gaze was riveted on lucy. she had never dared to put this fact clearly before--not even to herself. now that she was confronted with the calamity she had dreaded all these years, truth was the only thing that would win. everything now must be laid bare. lucy lifted her terrified face, burst into tears, and reached out her hands to jane. "oh, sister,--sister!" she moaned. "what shall i do? oh, if i had never come home! can't you think of some way? you have always been so good--oh, please! please!" jane drew lucy toward her. "i will do all i can, dear. if i fail there is only one resource left. that is the truth, and all of it. max can save you, and he will if he loves you. tell, him everything!" chapter xxi the man in the slouch hat the wooden arrow on the top of the cupola of the life-saving station had had a busy night of it. with the going down of the sun the wind had continued to blow east-southeast--its old course for weeks--and the little sentinel, lulled into inaction, had fallen into a doze, its feather end fixed on the glow of the twilight. at midnight a rollicking breeze that piped from out the north caught the sensitive vane napping, and before the dawn broke had quite tired it out, shifting from point to point, now west, now east, now nor'east-by-east, and now back to north again. by the time morgan had boiled his coffee and had cut his bacon into slivers ready for the frying-pan the restless wind, as if ashamed of its caprices, had again veered to the north-east, and then, as if determined ever after to lead a better life, had pulled itself together and had at last settled down to a steady blow from that quarter. the needle of the aneroid fastened to the wall of the sitting-room, and in reach of everybody's eye, had also made a night of it. in fact, it had not had a moment's peace since captain holt reset its register the day before. all its efforts for continued good weather had failed. slowly but surely the baffled and disheartened needle had sagged from "fair" to "change," dropped back to "storm," and before noon the next day had about given up the fight and was in full flight for "cyclones and tempests." uncle isaac polhemus, sitting at the table with one eye on his game of dominoes (green was his partner) and the other on the patch of sky framed by the window, read the look of despair on the honest face of the aneroid, and rising from his chair, a "double three" in his hand, stepped to where the weather prophet hung. "sompin's comin' sam," he said solemnly. "the old gal's got a bad setback. ain't none of us goin' to git a wink o' sleep to-night, or i miss my guess. wonder how the wind is." here he moved to the door and peered out. "nor'-east and puffy, just as i thought. we're goin' to hev some weather, sam--ye hear?--some weather!" with this he regained his chair and joined the double three to the long tail of his successes. good weather or bad weather--peace or war--was all the same to uncle isaac. what he wanted was the earliest news from the front. captain holt took a look at the sky, the aneroid and the wind--not the arrow; old sea-dogs know which way the wind blows without depending on any such contrivance--the way the clouds drift, the trend of the white-caps, the set of a distant sail, and on black, almost breathless nights, by the feel of a wet finger held quickly in the air, the coolest side determining the wind point. on this morning the clouds attracted the captain's attention. they hung low and drifted in long, straggling lines. close to the horizon they were ashy pale; being nearest the edge of the brimming sea, they had, no doubt, seen something the higher and rosier-tinted clouds had missed; something of the ruin that was going on farther down the round of the sphere. these clouds the captain studied closely, especially a prismatic sun-dog that glowed like a bit of rainbow snipped off by wind-scissors, and one or two dirt spots sailing along by themselves. during the captain's inspection archie hove in sight, wiping his hands with a wad of cotton waste. he and parks had been swabbing out the firing gun and putting the polished work of the cart apparatus in order. "it's going to blow, captain, isn't it?" he called out. blows were what archie was waiting for. so far the sea had been like a mill-pond, except on one or two occasions, when, to the boy's great regret, nothing came ashore. "looks like it. glass's been goin' down and the wind has settled to the nor'east. some nasty dough-balls out there i don't like. see 'em goin' over that three-master?" archie looked, nodded his head, and a certain thrill went through him. the harder it blew the better it would suit archie. "will the polly be here to-night?" he added. "your son's coming, isn't he?" "yes; but you won't see him to-night, nor to-morrow, not till this is over. you won't catch old ambrose out in this weather" (captain ambrose farguson sailed the polly). "he'll stick his nose in the basin some'er's and hang on for a spell. i thought he'd try to make the inlet, and i 'spected bart here to-night till i saw the glass when i got up. ye can't fool ambrose--he knows. be two or three days now 'fore bart comes," he added, a look of disappointment shadowing his face. archie kept on to the house, and the captain, after another sweep around, turned on his heel and reentered the sitting-room. "green!" "yes, captain." the surfman was on his feet in an instant, his ears wide open. "i wish you and fogarty would look over those new costons and see if they're all right. and, polhemus, perhaps you'd better overhaul them cork jackets; some o' them straps seemed kind o' awkward on practice yesterday--they ought to slip on easier; guess they're considerable dried out and a little mite stiff." green nodded his head in respectful assent and left the room. polhemus, at the mention of his name, had dropped his chair legs to the floor; he had finished his game of dominoes and had been tilted back against the wall, awaiting the dinner-hour. "it's goin' to blow a livin' gale o' wind, polhemus," the captain continued; "that's what it's goin' to do. ye kin see it yerself. there she comes now!" as he spoke the windows on the sea side of the house rattled as if shaken by the hand of a man and as quickly stopped. "them puffs are jest the tootin' of her horn--" this with a jerk of his head toward the windows. "i tell ye, it looks ugly!" polhemus gained his feet and the two men stepped to the sash and peered out. to them the sky was always an open book--each cloud a letter, each mass a paragraph, the whole a warning. "but i'm kind o' glad, isaac." again the captain forgot the surfman in the friend. "as long as it's got to blow it might as well blow now and be over. i'd kind o' set my heart on bart's comin', but i guess i've waited so long i kin wait a day or two more. i wrote him to come by train, but he wrote back he had a lot o' plunder and he'd better put it 'board the polly; and, besides, he said he kind o' wanted to sail into the inlet like he used to when he was a boy. then again, i couldn't meet him; not with this weather comin' on. no--take it all in all, i'm glad he ain't comin'." "well, i guess yer right, captain," answered uncle isaac in an even tone, as he left the room to overhaul the cork jackets. the occasion was not one of absorbing interest to isaac. by the time the table was cleared and the kitchen once more in order not only were the windows on the sea side of the house roughly shaken by the rising gale, but the sand caught from the dunes was being whirled against their panes. the tide, too, egged on by the storm, had crept up the slope of the dunes, the spray drenching the grass-tufts. at five o'clock the wind blew forty miles an hour at sundown it had increased to fifty; at eight o'clock it bowled along at sixty. morgan, who had been to the village for supplies, reported that the tide was over the dock at barnegat and that the roof of the big bathing-house at beach haven had been ripped off and landed on the piazza. he had had all he could do to keep his feet and his basket while crossing the marsh on his way back to the station. then he added: "there's a lot o' people there yit. that feller from philadelphy who's mashed on cobden's aunt was swellin' around in a potato-bug suit o' clothes as big as life." this last was given from behind his hand after he had glanced around the room and found that archie was absent. at eight o'clock, when parks and archie left the station to begin their patrol, parks was obliged to hold on to the rail of the porch to steady himself, and archie, being less sure of his feet, was blown against the water-barrel before he could get his legs well under him. at the edge of the surf the two separated for their four hours' patrol, archie breasting the gale on his way north, and parks hurrying on, helped by the wind, to the south. at ten o'clock parks returned. he had made his first round, and had exchanged his brass check with the patrol at the next station. as he mounted the sand-dune he quickened his steps, hurried to the station, opened the sitting-room door, found it empty, the men being in bed upstairs awaiting their turns, and then strode on to the captain's room, his sou'wester and tarpaulin drenched with spray and sand, his hip-boots leaving watery tracks along the clean floor. "wreck ashore at no. , sir!" parks called out in a voice hoarse with fighting the wind. the captain sprang from his cot--he was awake, his light still burning. "anybody drownded?" "no, sir; got 'em all. seven of 'em, so the patrol said. come ashore 'bout supper-time." "what is she?" "a two-master from virginia loaded with cord-wood. surf's in bad shape, sir; couldn't nothin' live in it afore; it's wuss now. everything's a bobble; turrible to see them sticks thrashin' 'round and slammin' things." "didn't want no assistance, did they?" "no, sir; they got the fust line 'round the foremast and come off in less'n a hour; warn't none of 'em hurted." "is it any better outside?" "no, sir; wuss. i ain't seen nothin' like it 'long the coast for years. good-night," and parks took another hole in the belt holding his tarpaulins together, opened the back door, walked to the edge of the house, steadied himself against the clapboards, and boldly facing the storm, continued his patrol. the captain stretched himself again on his bed; he had tried to sleep, but his brain was too active. as he lay listening to the roar of the surf and the shrill wail of the wind, his thoughts would revert to bart and what his return meant; particularly to its effect on the fortunes of the doctor, of jane and of lucy. jane's attitude continued to astound him. he had expected that lucy might not realize the advantages of his plan at first--not until she had seen bart and listened to what he had to say; but that jane, after the confession of her own weakness should still oppose him, was what he could not under stand, he would keep his promise, however, to the very letter. she should have free range to dissuade bart from his purpose. after that bart should have his way. no other course was possible, and no other course either honest or just. then he went over in his mind all that had happened to him since the day he had driven bart out into the night, and from that same house of refuge, too, which, strange to say, lay within sight of the station. he recalled his own and bart's sufferings; his loneliness; the bitterness of the terrible secret which had kept his mouth closed all these years, depriving him of even the intimate companionship of his own grandson. with this came an increased love for the boy; he again felt the warm pressure of his hand and caught the look in his eyes the morning archie congratulated him so heartily on bart's expected return, he had always loved him; he would love him now a thousand times more when he could put his hand on the boy's shoulder and tell him everything. with the changing of the patrol, tod and polhemus taking the places of archie and parks, he fell into a doze, waking with a sudden start some hours later, springing from his bed, and as quickly turning up the lamp. still in his stocking feet and trousers--on nights like this the men lie down in half their clothes--he walked to the window and peered out. it was nearing daylight; the sky still black. the storm was at its height; the roar of the surf incessant and the howl of the wind deafening. stepping into the sitting-room he glanced at the aneroid--the needle had not advanced a point; then turning into the hall, he mounted the steps to the lookout in the cupola, walked softly past the door of the men's room so as not to waken the sleepers, particularly parks and archie, whose cots were nearest the door--both had had four hours of the gale and would have hours more if it continued--and reaching the landing, pressed his face against the cool pane and peered out. below him stretched a dull waste of sand hardly distinguishable in the gloom until his eyes became accustomed to it, and beyond this the white line of the surf, whiter than either sky or sand. this writhed and twisted like a cobra in pain. to the north burned barnegat light, only the star of its lamp visible. to the south stretched alternate bands of sand, sky, and surf, their dividing lines lost in the night. along this beach, now stopping to get their breath, now slanting the brim of their sou'westers to escape the slash of the sand and spray, strode tod and polhemus, their eyes on and beyond the tumbling surf, their ears open to every unusual sound, their costons buttoned tight under their coats to keep them from the wet. suddenly, while his eyes were searching the horizon line, now hardly discernible in the gloom, a black mass rose from behind a cresting of foam, see-sawed for an instant, clutched wildly at the sky, and dropped out of sight behind a black wall of water. the next instant there flashed on the beach below him, and to the left of the station, the red flare of a coston signal. with the quickness of a cat captain holt sprang to the stairs shouting: "a wreck, men, a wreck!" the next instant he had thrown aside the door of the men's room. "out every one of ye! who's on the beach?" and he looked over the cots to find the empty ones. the men were on their feet before he had ceased speaking, archie before the captain's hand had left the knob of the door. "who's on the beach, i say?" he shouted again. "fogarty and uncle ike," someone answered. "polhemus! good! all hands on the cart, men; boat can't live in that surf. she lies to the north of us!" and he swung himself out of the door and down the stairs. "god help 'em, if they've got to come through that surf!" parks said, slinging on his coat. "the tide's just beginnin' to make flood, and all that cord-wood'll come a-waltzin' back. never see nothin' like it!" the front door now burst in and another shout went ringing through the house: "schooner in the breakers!" it was tod. he had rejoined polhemus the moment before he flared his light and had made a dash to rouse the men. "i seen her, fogarty, from the lookout," cried the captain, in answer, grabbing his sou'wester; he was already in his hip-boots and tarpaulin. "what is she?" "schooner, i guess, sir." "two or three masts?" asked the captain hurriedly, tightening the strap of his sou'wester and slipping the leather thong under his gray whiskers. "can't make out, sir; she come bow on. uncle ike see her fust." and he sprang out after the men. a double door thrown wide; a tangle of wild cats springing straight at a broad-tired cart; a grappling of track-lines and handle-bars; a whirl down the wooden incline, tod following with the quickly lighted lanterns; a dash along the runway, the sand cutting their cheeks like grit from a whirling stone; over the dune, the men bracing the cart on either side, and down the beach the crew swept in a rush to where polhemus stood waving his last coston. here the cart stopped. "don't unload nothin'," shouted polhemus. "she ain't fast; looks to me as if she was draggin' her anchors." captain holt canted the brim of his sou'wester, held his bent elbow against his face to protect it from the cut of the wind, and looked in the direction of the surfman's fingers. the vessel lay about a quarter of a mile from the shore and nearer the house of refuge than when the captain had first seen her from the lookout. she was afloat and drifting broadside on to the coast. her masts were still standing and she seemed able to take care of herself. polhemus was right. nothing could be done till she grounded. in the meantime the crew must keep abreast of her. her fate, however, was but a question of time, for not only had the wind veered to the southward--a-dead-on-shore wind--but the set of the flood must eventually strand her. at the track-lines again, every man in his place, uncle isaac with his shoulder under the spokes of the wheels, the struggling crew keeping the cart close to the edge of the dune, springing out of the way of the boiling surf or sinking up to their waists into crevices of sluiceways gullied out by the hungry sea. once archie lost his footing and would have been sucked under by a comber had not captain holt grapped him by the collar and landed him on his feet again. now and then a roller more vicious than the others would hurl a log of wood straight at the cart with the velocity of a torpedo, and swoop back again, the log missing its mark by a length. when the dawn broke the schooner could be made out more clearly. both masts were still standing, their larger sails blown away. the bowsprit was broken short off close to her chains. about this dragged the remnants of a jib sail over which the sea soused and whitened. she was drifting slowly and was now but a few hundred yards from the beach, holding, doubtless, by her anchors. over her deck the sea made a clean breach. suddenly, and while the men still tugged at the track-ropes, keeping abreast of her so as to be ready with the mortar and shot-line, the ill-fated vessel swung bow on toward the beach, rose on a huge mountain of water, and threw herself headlong. when the smother cleared her foremast was overboard and her deck-house smashed. around her hull the waves gnashed and fought like white wolves, leaping high, flinging themselves upon her. in the recoil captain holt's quick eye got a glimpse of the crew; two were lashed to the rigging and one held the tiller--a short, thickset man, wearing what appeared to be a slouch hat tied over his ears by a white handkerchief. with the grounding of the vessel a cheer went up from around the cart. "now for the mortar!" "up with it on the dune, men!" shouted the captain, his voice ringing above the roar of the tempest. the cart was forced up the slope--two men at the wheels, the others straining ahead--the gun lifted out and set, polhemus ramming the charge home, captain holt sighting the piece; there came a belching sound, a flash of dull light, and a solid shot carrying a line rose in the air, made a curve like a flying rocket, and fell athwart the wreck between her forestay and jib. a cheer went up from the men about the gun. when this line was hauled in and the hawser attached to it made fast high up on the mainmast and above the raging sea, and the car run off to the wreck, the crew could be landed clear of the surf and the slam of the cord-wood. at the fall of the line the man in the slouch hat was seen to edge himself forward in an attempt to catch it. the two men in the rigging kept their hold. the men around the cart sprang for the hawser and tally-blocks to rig the buoy, when a dull cry rose from the wreck. to their horror they saw the mainmast waver, flutter for a moment, and sag over the schooner's side. the last hope of using the life-car was gone! without the elevation of the mast and with nothing but the smashed hull to make fast to, the shipwrecked men would be pounded into pulp in the attempt to drag them through the boil of wreckage. "haul in, men!" cried the captain. "no use of another shot; we can't drag 'em through that surf!" "i'll take my chances," said green, stepping forward. "let me, cap'n. i can handle 'em if they haul in the slack and make fast." "no, you can't," said the captain calmly. "you couldn't get twenty feet from shore. we got to wait till the tide cleans this wood out. it's workin' right now. they kin stand it for a while. certain death to bring 'em through that smother--that stuff'd knock the brains out of 'em fast as they dropped into it. signal to 'em to hang on, parks." an hour went by--an hour of agony to the men clinging to the grounded schooner, and of impatience to the shore crew, who were powerless. the only danger was of exhaustion to the shipwrecked men and the breaking up of the schooner. if this occurred there was nothing left but a plunge of rescuing men through the surf, the life of every man in his hand. the beach began filling up. the news of a shipwreck had spread with the rapidity of a thunder-shower. one crowd, denser in spots where the stronger men were breasting the wind, which was now happily on the wane, were moving from the village along the beach, others were stumbling on through the marshes. from the back country, along the road leading from the hospital, rattled a gig, the horse doing his utmost. in this were doctor john and jane. she had, contrary to his advice, remained at the hospital. the doctor had been awakened by the shouts of a fisherman, and had driven with all speed to the hospital to get his remedies and instruments. jane had insisted upon accompanying him, although she had been up half the night with one of the sailors rescued the week before by the crew of no. . the early morning air--it was now seven o'clock--would do her good, she pleaded, and she might be of use if any one of the poor fellows needed a woman's care. farther down toward beach haven the sand was dotted with wagons and buggies; some filled with summer boarders anxious to see the crew at work. one used as the depot omnibus contained max feilding, lucy, and half a dozen others. she had passed a sleepless night, and hearing the cries of those hurrying by had thrown a heavy cloak around her and opening wide the piazza door had caught sight of the doomed vessel fighting for its life. welcoming the incident as a relief from her own maddening thoughts, she had joined max, hoping that the excitement might divert her mind from the horror that overshadowed her. then, too, she did not want to be separated a single moment from him. since the fatal hour when jane had told her of bart's expected return max's face had haunted her. as long as he continued to look into her eyes, believing and trusting in her there was hope. he had noticed her haggard look, but she had pleaded one of her headaches, and had kept up her smiles, returning his caresses. some way would be opened; some way must be opened! while waiting for the change of wind and tide predicted by captain holt to clear away the deadly drift of the cord-wood so dangerous to the imperilled men, the wreckage from the grounded schooner began to come ashore--crates of vegetables, barrels of groceries, and boxes filled with canned goods. some of these were smashed into splinters by end-on collisions with cord-wood; others had dodged the floatage and were landed high on the beach. during the enforced idleness tod occupied himself in rolling away from the back-suck of the surf the drift that came ashore. being nearest a stranded crate he dragged it clear and stood bending over it, reading the inscription. with a start he beckoned to parks, the nearest man to him, tore the card from the wooden slat, and held it before the surfman's face. "what's this? read! that's the polly walters out there, i tell ye, and the captain's son's aboard! i've been suspicionin' it all the mornin'. that's him with the slouch hat. i knowed he warn't no sailor from the way he acted. don't say nothin' till we're sure." parks lunged forward, dodged a stick of cord-wood that drove straight at him like a battering-ram and, watching his chance, dragged a floating keg from the smother, rolled it clear of the surf, canted it on end, and took a similar card from its head. then he shouted with all his might: "it's the polly, men! it's the polly--the polly walters! o god, ain't that too bad! captain ambrose's drowned, or we'd a-seen him! that feller in the slouch hat is bart holt! gimme that line!" he was stripping off his waterproofs now ready for a plunge into the sea. with the awful words ringing in his ears captain holt made a spring from the dune and came running toward parks, who was now knotting the shot-line about his waist. "what do you say she is?" he shouted, as he flung himself to the edge of the roaring surf and strained his eyes toward the wreck. "the polly--the polly walters!" "my god! how do ye know? she ain't left amboy, i tell ye!" "she has! that's her--see them kerds! they come off that stuff behind ye. tod got one and i got t'other!" he held the bits of cardboard under the rim of the captain's sou'wester. captain holt snatched the cards from parks's hand, read them at a glance, and a dazed, horror-stricken expression crossed his face. then his eye fell upon parks knotting the shot-line about his waist. "take that off! parks, stay where ye are; don't ye move, i tell ye." as the words dropped from the captain's lips a horrified shout went up from the bystanders. the wreck, with a crunching sound, was being lifted from the sand. she rose steadily, staggered for an instant and dropped out of sight. she had broken amidships. with the recoil two ragged bunches showed above the white wash of the water. on one fragment--a splintered mast--crouched the man with the slouch hat; to the other clung the two sailors. the next instant a great roller, gathering strength as it came, threw itself full length on both fragments and swept on. only wreckage was left and one head. with a cry to the men to stand by and catch the slack, the captain ripped a line from the drum of the cart, dragged off his high boots, knotted the bight around his waist, and started on a run for the surf. before his stockinged feet could reach the edge of the foam, archie seized him around the waist and held him with a grip of steel. "you sha'n't do it, captain!" he cried, his eyes blazing. "hold him, men--i'll get him!" with the bound of a cat he landed in the middle of the floatage, dived under the logs, rose on the boiling surf, worked himself clear of the inshore wreckage, and struck out in the direction of the man clinging to the shattered mast, and who was now nearing the beach, whirled on by the inrushing seas. strong men held their breath, tears brimming their eyes. captain holt stood irresolute, dazed for the moment by archie's danger. the beach women--mrs. fogarty among them--were wringing their hands. they knew the risk better than the others. jane, at archie's plunge, had run down to the edge of the surf and stood with tight-clenched fingers, her gaze fixed on the lad's head as he breasted the breakers--her face white as death, the tears streaming down her cheeks. fear for the boy she loved, pride in his pluck and courage, agony over the result of the rescue, all swept through her as she strained her eyes seaward. lucy, max, and mrs. coates were huddled together under the lee of the dune. lucy's eyes were staring straight ahead of her; her teeth chattering with fear and cold. she had heard the shouts of parks and the captain, and knew now whose life was at stake. there was no hope left; archie would win and pull him out alive, and her end would come. the crowd watched the lad until his hand touched the mast, saw him pull himself hand over hand along its slippery surface and reach out his arms. then a cheer went up from a hundred throats, and as instantly died away in a moan of terror. behind, towering over them like a huge wall, came a wave of black water, solemn, merciless, uncrested, as if bent on deadly revenge. under its impact the shattered end of the mast rose clear of the water, tossed about as if in agony, veered suddenly with the movement of a derrick-boom, and with its living freight dashed headlong into the swirl of cord-wood. as it ploughed through the outer drift and reached the inner line of wreckage, tod, whose eyes had never left archie since his leap into the surf, made a running jump from the sand, landed on a tangle of drift, and sprang straight at the section of the mast to which archie clung. the next instant the surf rolled clear, submerging the three men. another ringing order now rose above the roar of the waters, and a chain of rescuing surfmen--the last resort--with captain nat at the head dashed into the turmoil. it was a hand-to-hand fight now with death. at the first onslaught of the battery of wreckage polhemus was knocked breathless by a blow in the stomach and rescued by the bystanders just as a log was curling over him. green was hit by a surging crate, and mulligan only saved from the crush of the cord-wood by the quickness of a fisherman. morgan, watching his chance, sprang clear of a tangle of barrels and cord-wood, dashed into the narrow gap of open water, and grappling tod as he whirled past, twisted his fingers in archie's waistband. the three were then pounced upon by a relay of fishermen led by tod's father and dragged from under the crunch and surge of the smother. both tod and morgan were unhurt and scrambled to their feet as soon as they gained the hard sand, but archie lay insensible where the men had dropped him, his body limp, his feet crumpled under him. all this time the man in the slouch hat was being swirled in the hell of wreckage, the captain meanwhile holding to the human chain with one hand and fighting with the other until he reached the half-drowned man whose grip had now slipped from the crate to which he clung. as the two were shot in toward the beach, green, who had recovered his breath, dodged the recoil, sprang straight for them, threw the captain a line, which he caught, dashed back and dragged the two high up on the beach, the captain's arm still tightly locked about the rescued man. a dozen hands were held out to relieve the captain of his burden, but he only waved them away. "i'll take care of him!" he gasped in a voice almost gone from buffeting the waves, as the body slipped from his arms to the wet sand. "git out of the way, all of you!" once on his feet, he stood for an instant to catch his breath, wrung the grime from his ears with his stiff fingers, and then shaking the water from his shoulders as a dog would after a plunge, he passed his great arms once more under the bedraggled body of the unconscious man and started up the dune toward the house of refuge, the water dripping from both their wet bodies. only once did he pause, and then to shout: "green,--mulligan! go back, some o' ye, and git archie. he's hurt bad. quick, now! and one o' ye bust in them doors. and-- polhemus, pull some coats off that crowd and a shawl or two from them women if they can spare 'em, and find doctor john, some o' ye! d'ye hear! doctor john!" a dozen coats were stripped from as many backs, a shawl of mrs. fogarty's handed to polhemus, the doors burst in and uncle isaac lunging in tumbled the garments on the floor. on these the captain laid the body of the rescued man, the slouch hat still clinging to his head. while this was being done another procession was approaching the house. tod and parks were carrying archie's unconscious form, the water dripping from his clothing. tod had his hands under the boy's armpits and parks carried his feet. behind the three walked jane, half supported by the doctor. "dead!" she moaned. "oh, no--no--no, john; it cannot be! not my archie! my brave archie!" the captain heard the tramp of the men's feet on the board floor of the runway outside and rose to his feet. he had been kneeling beside the form of the rescued man. his face was knotted with the agony he had passed through, his voice still thick and hoarse from battling with the sea. "what's that she says?" he cried, straining his ears to catch jane's words. "what's that! archie dead! no! 'tain't so, is it, doctor?" doctor john, his arm still supporting jane, shook his head gravely and pointed to his own forehead. "it's all over, captain," he said in a broken voice. "skull fractured." "hit with them logs! archie! oh, my god! and this man ain't much better off--he ain't hardly breathin'. see for yerself, doctor. here, tod, lay archie on these coats. move back that boat, men, to give 'em room, and push them stools out of the way. oh, miss jane, maybe it ain't true, maybe he'll come round! i've seen 'em this way more'n a dozen times. here, doctor let's get these wet clo'es off 'em." he dropped between the two limp, soggy bodies and began tearing open the shirt from the man's chest. jane, who had thrown herself in a passion of grief on the water-soaked floor beside archie, commenced wiping the dead boy's face with her handkerchief, smoothing the short wet curls from his forehead as she wept. the man's shirt and collar loosened, captain holt pulled the slouch hat from his head, wrenched the wet shoes loose, wrapped the cold feet in the dry shawl, and began tucking the pile of coats closer about the man's shoulders that he might rest the easier. for a moment he looked intently at the pallid face smeared with ooze and grime, and limp body that the doctor was working over, and then stepped to where tod now crouched beside his friend, the one he had loved all his life. the young surfman's strong body was shaking with the sobs he could no longer restrain. "it's rough, tod," said the captain, in a choking voice, which grew clearer as he talked on. "almighty rough on ye and on all of us. you did what you could--ye risked yer life for him, and there ain't nobody kin do more. i wouldn't send ye out again, but there's work to do. them two men of cap'n ambrose's is drowned, and they'll come ashore some'er's near the inlet, and you and parks better hunt 'em up. they live up to barnegat, ye know, and their folks'll be wantin' 'em." it was strange how calm he was. his sense of duty was now controlling him. tod had raised himself to his feet when the captain had begun to speak and stood with his wet sou'wester in his hand. "been like a brother to me," was all he said, as he brushed the tears from his eyes and went to join parks. the captain watched tod's retreating figure for a moment, and bending again over archie's corpse, stood gazing at the dead face, his hands folded across his girth--as one does when watching a body being slowly lowered into a grave. "i loved ye, boy," jane heard him say between her sobs. "i loved ye! you knowed it, boy. i hoped to tell ye so out loud so everybody could hear. now they'll never know." straightening himself up, he walked firmly to the open door about which the people pressed, held back by the line of surfmen headed by polhemus, and calmly surveyed the crowd. close to the opening, trying to press her way in to jane, his eyes fell on lucy. behind her stood max feilding. "friends," said the captain, in a low, restrained voice, every trace of his grief and excitement gone, "i've got to ask ye to git considerable way back and keep still. we got doctor john here and miss jane, and there ain't nothin' ye kin do. when there is i'll call ye. polhemus, you and green see this order is obeyed." again he hesitated, then raising his eyes over the group nearest the door, he beckoned to lucy, pushed her in ahead of him, caught the swinging doors in his hands, and shut them tight. this done, he again dropped on his knees beside the doctor and the now breathing man. chapter xxii the claw of the sea-puss with the closing of the doors the murmur of the crowd, the dull glare of the gray sky, and the thrash of the wind were shut out. the only light in the house of refuge now came from the two small windows, one above the form of the suffering man and the other behind the dead body of archie. jane's head was close to the boy's chest, her sobs coming from between her hands, held before her face. the shock of archie's death had robbed her of all her strength. lucy knelt beside her, her shoulder resting against a pile of cordage. every now and then she would steal a furtive glance around the room--at the boat, at the rafters overhead, at the stove with its pile of kindling--and a slight shudder would pass through her. she had forgotten nothing of the past, nor of the room in which she crouched. every scar and stain stood out as clear and naked as those on some long-buried wreck dug from shifting sands by a change of tide. a few feet away the doctor was stripping the wet clothes from the rescued man and piling the dry coats over him to warm him back to life. his emergency bag, handed in by polhemus through the crack of the closed doors, had been opened, a bottle selected, and some spoonfuls of brandy forced down the sufferer's throat. he saw that the sea-water had not harmed him; it was the cordwood and wreckage that had crushed the breath out of him. in confirmation he pointed to a thin streak of blood oozing from one ear. the captain nodded, and continued chafing the man's hands--working with the skill of a surfman over the water-soaked body. once he remarked in a half-whisper--so low that jane could not hear him: "i ain't sure yet, doctor. i thought it was bart when i grabbed him fust; but he looks kind o' different from what i expected to see him. if it's him he'll know me when he comes to. i ain't changed so much maybe. i'll rub his feet now," and he kept on with his work of resuscitation. lucy's straining ears had caught the captain's words of doubt, but they gave her no hope. she had recognized at the first glance the man of all others in the world she feared most. his small ears, the way the hair grew on the temples, the bend of the neck and slope from the chin to the throat. no--she had no misgivings. these features had been part of her life--had been constantly before her since the hour jane had told her of bart's expected return. her time had come; nothing could save her. he would regain consciousness, just as the captain had said, and would open those awful hollow eyes and would look at her, and then that dreadful mouth, with its thin, ashen lips, would speak to her, and she could deny nothing. trusting to her luck--something which had never failed her--she had continued in her determination to keep everything from max. now it would all come as a shock to him, and when he asked her if it was true she could only bow her head. she dared not look at archie--she could not. all her injustice to him and to jane; her abandonment of him when a baby; her neglect of him since, her selfish life of pleasure; her triumph over max--all came into review, one picture after another, like the unrolling of a chart. even while her hand was on jane's shoulder, and while comforting words fell from her lips, her mind and eyes were fixed on the face of the man whom the doctor was slowly bringing back to life. not that her sympathy was withheld from archie and jane. it was her terror that dominated her--a terror that froze her blood and clogged her veins and dulled every sensibility and emotion. she was like one lowered into a grave beside a corpse upon which every moment the earth would fall, entombing the living with the dead. the man groaned and turned his head, as if in pain. a convulsive movement of the lips and face followed, and then the eyes partly opened. lucy clutched at the coil of rope, staggered to her feet, and braced herself for the shock. he would rise now, and begin staring about, and then he would recognize her. the captain knew what was coming; he was even now planning in his mind the details of the horrible plot of which jane had told her! captain holt stooped closer and peered under the half-closed lids. "brown eyes," she heard him mutter to himself, "just 's the swede told me." she knew their color; they had looked into her own too often. doctor john felt about with his hand and drew a small package of letters from inside the man's shirt. they were tied with a string and soaked with salt water. this he handed to the captain. the captain pulled them apart and examined them carefully. "it's him," he said with a start, "it's bart! it's all plain now. here's my letter," and he held it up. "see the printing at the top--'life-saving service'? and here's some more--they're all stuck together. wait! here's one--fine writing." then his voice dropped so that only the doctor could hear: "ain't that signed 'lucy'? yes--'lucy'--and it's an old one." the doctor waved the letters away and again laid his hand on the sufferer's chest, keeping it close to his heart. the captain bent nearer. jane, who, crazed with grief, had been caressing archie's cold cheeks, lifted her head as if aware of the approach of some crisis, and turned to where the doctor knelt beside the rescued man. lucy leaned forward with straining eyes and ears. the stillness of death fell upon the small room. outside could be heard the pound and thrash of the surf and the moan of the gale; no human voice--men and women were talking in whispers. one soul had gone to god and another life hung by a thread. the doctor raised his finger. the man's face twitched convulsively, the lids opened wider, there came a short, inward gasp, and the jaw dropped. "he's dead," said the doctor, and rose to his feet. then he took his handkerchief from his pocket and laid it over the dead man's face. as the words fell from his lips lucy caught at the wall, and with an almost hysterical cry of joy threw herself into jane's arms. the captain leaned back against the life-boat and for some moments his eyes were fixed on the body of his dead son. "i ain't never loved nothin' all my life, doctor," he said, his voice choking, "that it didn't go that way." doctor john made no reply except with his eyes. silence is ofttimes more sympathetic than the spoken word. he was putting his remedies back into his bag so that he might rejoin jane. the captain continued: "all i've got is gone now--the wife, archie, and now bart. i counted on these two. bad day's work, doctor--bad day's work." then in a firm tone, "i'll open the doors now and call in the men; we got to git these two bodies up to the station, and then we'll get 'em home somehow." instantly all lucy's terror returned. an unaccountable, unreasoning panic took possession of her. all her past again rose before her. she feared the captain now more than she had bart. crazed over the loss of his son he would blurt out everything. max would hear and know--know about archie and bart and all her life! springing to her feet, maddened with an undefinable terror, she caught the captain's hand as he reached out for the fastenings of the door. "don't--don't tell them who he is! promise me you won't tell them anything! say it's a stranger! you are not sure it's he--i heard you say so!" "not say it's my own son! why?" he was entirely unconscious of what was in her mind. jane had risen to her feet at the note of agony in lucy's voice and had stepped to her side as if to protect her. the doctor stood listening in amazement to lucy's outbreak. he knew her reasons, and was appalled at her rashness. "no! don't--don't!" lucy was looking up into the captain's face now, all her terror in her eyes. "why, i can't see what good that'll do!" for the moment he thought that the excitement had turned her head. "isaac polhemus'll know him," he continued, "soon's he sets his eyes on him. and even if i was mean enough to do it, which i ain't, these letters would tell. they've got to go to the superintendent 'long with everything else found on bodies. your name's on some o' 'em and mine's on some others. we'll git 'em ag'in, but not till gov'ment see 'em." these were the letters which had haunted her! "give them to me! they're mine!" she cried, seizing the captain's fingers and trying to twist the letters from his grasp. a frown gathered on the captain's brow and his voice had an ugly ring in it: "but i tell ye the superintendent's got to have 'em for a while. that's regulations, and that's what we carry out. they ain't goin' to be lost--you'll git 'em ag'in." "he sha'n't have them, i tell you!" her voice rang now with something of her old imperious tone. "nobody shall have them. they're mine--not yours--nor his. give them--" "and break my oath!" interrupted the captain. for the first time he realized what her outburst meant and what inspired it. "what difference does that make in a matter like this? give them to me. you dare not keep them," she cried, tightening her fingers in the effort to wrench the letters from his hand. "sister--doctor--speak to him! make him give them to me--i will have them!" the captain brushed aside her hand as easily as a child would brush aside a flower. his lips were tight shut, his eyes flashing. "you want me to lie to the department?" "yes!" she was beside herself now with fear and rage. "i don't care who you lie to! you brute--you coward-- i want them! i will have them!" again she made a spring for the letters. "see here, you she-devil. look at me!"--the words came in cold, cutting tones. "you're the only thing livin', or dead, that ever dared ask nathaniel holt to do a thing like that. and you think i'd do it to oblige ye? you're rotten as punk--that's what ye are! rotten from yer keel to yer top-gallant! and allus have been since i knowed ye!" jane started forward and faced the now enraged man. "you must not, captain--you shall not speak to my sister that way!" she commanded. the doctor stopped between them: "you forget that she is a woman. i forbid you to--" "i will, i tell ye, doctor! it's true, and you know it." the captain's voice now dominated the room. "that's no reason why you should abuse her. you're too much of a man to act as you do." "it's because i'm a man that i do act this way. she's done nothin' but bring trouble to this town ever since she landed in it from school nigh twenty year ago. druv out that dead boy of mine lyin' there, and made a tramp of him; throwed archie off on miss jane; lied to the man who married her, and been livin' a lie ever since. and now she wants me to break my oath! damn her--" the doctor laid his hand over the captain's mouth. "stop! and i mean it!" his own calm eyes were flashing now. "this is not the place for talk of this kind. we are in the presence of death, and--" the captain caught the doctor's wrist and held it like a vice. "i won't stop. i'll have it out--i've lived all the lies i'm goin' to live! i told you all this fifteen year ago when i thought bart was dead, and you wanted me to keep shut, and i did, and you did, too, and you ain't never opened your mouth since. that's because you're a man--all four square sides of ye. you didn't want to hurt miss jane, and no more did i. that's why i passed archie there in the street; that's why i turned round and looked after him when i couldn't see sometimes for the tears in my eyes; and all to save that thing there that ain't worth savin'! by god, when i think of it i want to tear my tongue out for keepin' still as long as i have!" lucy, who had shrunk back against the wall, now raised her head: "coward! coward!" she muttered. the captain turned and faced her, his eyes blazing, his rage uncontrollable: "yes, you're a thing, i tell ye!--and i'll say it ag'in. i used to think it was bart's fault. now i know it warn't. it was yours. you tricked him, damn ye! do ye hear? ye tricked him with yer lies and yer ways. now they're over--there'll be no more lies--not while i live! i'm goin' to strip ye to bare poles so's folks 'round here kin see. git out of my way--all of ye! out, i tell ye!" the doctor had stepped in front of the infuriated man, his back to the closed door, his open palm upraised. "i will not, and you shall not!" he cried. "what you are about do to is ruin--for lucy, for jane, and for little ellen. you cannot--you shall not put such a stain upon that child. you love her, you--" "yes--too well to let that woman touch her ag'in if i kin help it!" the fury of the merciless sea was in him now--the roar and pound of the surf in his voice. "she'll be a curse to the child all her days; she'll go back on her when she's a mind to just as she did on archie. there ain't a dog that runs the streets that would 'a' done that. she didn't keer then, and she don't keer now, with him a-lyin' dead there. she ain't looked at him once nor shed a tear. it's too late. all hell can't stop me! out of my way, i tell ye, doctor, or i'll hurt ye!" with a wrench he swung back the doors and flung himself into the light. "come in, men! isaac, green--all of ye--and you over there! i got something to say, and i don't want ye to miss a word of it! you, too, mr. feilding, and that lady next ye--and everybody else that kin hear! "that's my son, barton holt, lyin' there dead! the one i druv out o' here nigh twenty year ago. it warn't for playin' cards, but on account of a woman; and there she stands--lucy cobden! that dead boy beside him is their child--my own grandson, archie! out of respect to the best woman that ever lived, miss jane cobden, i've kep' still. if anybody ain't satisfied all they got to do is to look over these letters. that's all!" lucy, with a wild, despairing look at max, had sunk to the floor and lay cowering beneath the lifeboat, her face hidden in the folds of her cloak. jane had shrunk back behind one of the big folding doors and stood concealed from the gaze of the astonished crowd, many of whom were pressing into the entrance. her head was on the doctor's shoulder, her fingers had tight hold of his sleeve. doctor john's arms were about her frail figure, his lips close to her cheek. "don't, dear--don't," he said softly. "you have nothing to reproach yourself with. your life has been one long sacrifice." "oh, but archie, john! think of my boy being gone! oh, i loved him so, john!" "you made a man of him, jane. all he was he owed to you." he was holding her to him--comforting her as a father would a child. "and my poor lucy," jane moaned on, "and the awful, awful disgrace!" her face was still hidden in his shoulder, her frame shaking with the agony of her grief, the words coming slowly, as if wrung one by one out of her breaking heart. "you did your duty, dear--all of it." his lips were close to her ear. no one else heard. "and you knew it all these years, john--and you did not tell me." "it was your secret, dear; not mine." "yes, i know--but i have been so blind--so foolish. i have hurt you so often, and you have been so true through it all. o john, please--please forgive me! my heart has been so sore at times--i have suffered so!" then, with a quick lifting of her head, as if the thought alarmed her, she asked in sudden haste: "and you love me, john, just the same? say you love me, john!" he gathered her closer, and his lips touched her cheek: "i never remember, my darling, when i did not love you. have you ever doubted me?" "no, john, no! never, never! kiss me again, my beloved. you are all i have in the world!" the end starry flag series oliver optic the starry flag series, by oliver optic. i. the starry flag; or, the young fisherman of cape ann. ii. freaks of fortune; or, half round the world. iii. breaking away; or, the fortunes of a student. iv. seek and find; or, the adventures of a smart boy. v. make or break; or, the rich man's daughter. vi. down the river; or, buck bradford and his tyrants. [illustration: the banker's private office.--page .] make or break; or, the rich man's daughter. by oliver optic, author of "young america abroad," "the army and navy stories," "the woodville stories," "the boat-club stories," "the riverdale stories," etc. boston lee and shepard publishers entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by william t. adams, in the clerks office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. copyright, , by william t. adams. all rights reserved. make or break. to my young friend kate v. austin this book is affectionately dedicated. preface. "make or break," is the fifth of the serial stories published in "our boys and girls"--a magazine which has become so much the pet of the author, that he never sits down to write a story for it without being impressed by a very peculiar responsibility. twenty thousand youthful faces seem to surround him, crying out for something that will excite their minds, and thrill their very souls, while a calmer, holier voice, speaking in the tones of divine command, breathes gently forth, "feed my lambs." the lambs will not eat dry husks; they loathe the tasteless morsel which well-meaning sectarians offer them, and hunger for that which will warm their hearts and stir their blood. the heart may be warmed, and the blood may be stirred, without corrupting the moral nature. the writer has endeavored to meet this demand in this way, and he is quite sure that the patient, striving, toiling leo, and the gentle, self-sacrificing, and devoted maggie, do nothing in the story which will defile the mind or the heart of the young people. the bible teaches what they sought to practise. he is satisfied that none of his readers will like mr. fitzherbert wittleworth well enough to make him their model. the author is willing the story should pass for what it is worth; and there is no danger that it will be over or undervalued, for the young people are even more critical than their elders. but the favor already bestowed upon it has added to the weight of the writer's obligation to the juvenile reading public; and in giving them the story in its present permanent form, he trusts that it will continue to be not only a source of pleasure, but a stimulus to higher aims, and a more resolute striving for what is worth having both in the moral and material world. william t. adams. harrison square, mass., july , . contents. page chapter i. mr. wittleworth gets shaved chapter ii. boy wanted chapter iii. mr. checkynshaw is violent chapter iv. mr. checkynshaw rushes chapter v. leo maggimore chapter vi. leo's workshop chapter vii. mon pere chapter viii. make or break chapter ix. mr. checkynshaw and family chapter x. the wittleworth family chapter xi. the mouse business chapter xii. leo's wonderful performers chapter xiii. wittleworth _vs._ checkynshaw chapter xiv. mr. checkynshaw is liberal chapter xv. a success in the mouse business chapter xvi. the letter from marguerite chapter xvii. the letter from france chapter xviii. the quitclaim deed chapter xix. five hundred dollars reward chapter xx. an avalanche of good fortune chapter xxi. mr. wittleworth's wrongs chapter xxii. the two marguerites chapter xxiii. the gold locket chapter xxiv. me and choate chapter xxv. the elegant young lady chapter xxvi. the rich man's daughter make or break; or, the rich man's daughter. chapter i. mr. wittleworth gets shaved. "next gentleman!" said andré maggimore, one of the journeyman barbers in the extensive shaving saloon of cutts & stropmore, which was situated near the plutonian temples of state street, in the city of boston. "next gentleman!" repeated andré, in tones as soft and feminine as those of a woman, when no one responded to his summons. "my turn?" asked a spare young man of sixteen, throwing down the post, with a languid air, and rising to his feet. "yes, sir," replied andré, politely; and if the speaker had been out of sight, one would have supposed it was a lady who spoke. "have your hair cut?" "no; shave." the barber seemed to be startled by the announcement, though there was not the faintest smile on his face to discourage the candidate for tonsorial honors. the young man looked important, threw his head back, pursed up his lips, and felt of his chin, on which there was not the slightest suspicion of a beard visible to the naked eye. mr. fitzherbert wittleworth would not have been willing to acknowledge that he had not been shaved for three weeks; but no one could have discovered the fact without the aid of a powerful microscope. mr. wittleworth spread out his attenuated frame in the barber's chair, and dropped his head back upon the rest. andré looked as grave and serious as though he had been called to operate upon the face of one of the venerable and dignified bank presidents who frequented the shop. he was a journeyman barber, and it was his business to shave any one who sat down in his chair, whether the applicant had a beard or not. if andré's voice was soft and musical, his resemblance to the gentler sex did not end there, for his hand was as silky and delicate, and his touch as velvety, as though he had been bred in a boudoir. he adjusted the napkin to the neck of the juvenile customer with the nicest care, and then, from the force of habit, passed his downy hand over the face upon which he was to operate, as if to determine whether it was a hard or a tender skin. several of the customers smiled and coughed, and even the half-dozen journeymen were not unmoved by the spectacle. "what are you going to do, fitz?" asked the occupant of the adjoining chair, who had just straightened himself up to be "brushed off." "i'm going to have a shave," answered mr. wittleworth, as confidently as though the proceedings were entirely regular. "what for?" "to have my beard taken off, of course. what do you shave for?" "put on the cream, and let the cat lick it off." "that's a venerable joke. i dare say the barber did not gap his razor when he shaved you. i always feel better after i have been shaved," added mr. wittleworth, as andré laid a brush full of lather upon his smooth chin. those in the shop chuckled, and some of them were ill-mannered enough to laugh aloud, at the conceit of the young man who thus announced to the world that his beard had grown. even the proprietors of the extensive shaving saloon looked uncommonly good-natured, though it was not prudent for them to rebuke the ambition of the prospective customer. andré lathered the face of the juvenile with as much care as though it had been that of the parsimonious broker at the corner, who shaved only when his beard was an eighth of an inch in length. not satisfied with this preparatory step, he resorted to the process used for particularly hard beards, of rubbing the lather in with a towel wet in hot water; but andré did not smile, or by word or deed indicate that all he was doing was not absolutely necessary in order to give his customer a clean and an easy shave. then he stropped his razor with zealous enthusiasm, making the shop ring with the melody of the thin steel, as he whipped it back and forth on the long strip of soft leather, one end of which was nailed to the case, and the other end held in his hand. the music was doubtless sweet to the listening ears of mr. wittleworth, if not as the prelude of an easy shave, at least as an assurance that all the customary forms had been scrupulously complied with in his individual case. [illustration: mr. wittleworth gets shaved.--page .] slapping the broad-bladed razor on his soft hand, the barber approached the young man in the chair. with a graceful movement he brought the instrument to bear gently on the face. "does it pull, fitz?" asked the tormentor in the next chair. "of course not; andré always gives a man an easy shave," replied mr. wittleworth. "certainly; but some people have tough beards and tender faces." "if your beard is as soft as your head, it won't hurt you to shave with a handsaw," retorted mr. wittleworth. the laugh was at the expense of the tormentor, and he retreated from the shop in the "guffaw," and fitz was permitted to finish his shave in peace--in peace, at least, so far as this particular tormentor was concerned, for a more formidable one assailed him before his departure. andré went over his face with the nicest care; then lathered it again, and proceeded to give it the finishing touches. he was faithful to the end, and gave the juvenile patron the benefit of the entire length and breadth of his art, omitting nothing that could add dignity or perfection to the operation. it was quite certain that, if there was anything like an imperceptible down on his face at the commencement of the process, there was nothing left of it at the end. mr. wittleworth's hair was oiled, moistened with diluted cologne water, combed, brushed, parted, and tossed in wavy flakes over his head, and was as fragrant, glossy, and unctuous as the skill of andré could make it. "one feels more like a christian after a clean shave," said mr. wittleworth, as he rose from the chair, and passed his hand approvingly over his polished chin. "barbers, good barbers, do a missionary work in the world." "what are you doing here, fitz?" demanded a stern-looking gentleman, who had just entered the shop, and stepped up behind the juvenile customer. "i came in to get shaved," replied mr. wittleworth, abashed by the harsh tones. "shaved!" exclaimed mr. checkynshaw, the stern-looking gentleman, well known as the senior partner of the great banking house of checkynshaw, hart, & co. "shaved!" "yes, sir; i came here to be shaved, and i have been shaved," replied the young man, trying to assume an air of bravado, though he was actually trembling in his boots before the lofty and dignified personage who confronted and confounded him. "is this the way you waste your time and your money? i sent you to the post-office, and you have been gone over half an hour." "i had to wait for my turn," pleaded mr. wittleworth. "when i send you to the post-office, you will not loiter away your time in a barber's shop, you conceited puppy. i'll discharge you!" "discharge _me_!" exclaimed mr. wittleworth, stung by the epithet of the banker. "i think not, sir." the young gentleman placed his hat upon his head, canting it over on one side, so as to give him a saucy and jaunty appearance. mr. checkynshaw, whose clerk, or rather "boy," he was, had often scolded him, and even abused him, in the private office of the banking-house, but never before in a place so public as a barber's shop in 'change street, and in 'change hours. he felt outraged by the assault; for mr. wittleworth, as his employer had rather indelicately hinted, had a high opinion of himself. he straightened himself up, and looked impudent--a phase in his conduct which the banker had never before observed, and he stood aghast at this indication of incipient rebellion. "you think not, you puppy!" exclaimed the banker, stamping his feet with rage. "i think not! it wouldn't be a prudent step for you to take," answered mr. wittleworth, stung again by the insulting appellations heaped upon him. "i know rather too much about your affairs to be cast out so thoughtlessly." "i will discharge you this very day!" replied the banker, his teeth set firmly together. "i think you will find that the affairs of messrs. checkynshaw, hart, & co. will not go on so smoothly without me as they do with me," added mr. wittleworth, as he canted his hat over a little more on one side, and pulled up his shirt collar. "without you!" gasped the banker, confounded by the assumption of his employee. "perhaps you will find it so, after you have done your worst." "conceited puppy! i took you into my office out of charity! go to your place. charity can do no more for you." "if you can afford to discharge me, i can afford to be discharged," replied mr. wittleworth, as he stroked his chin, and walked out of the shop. "the young vagabond!" muttered mr. checkynshaw. "i took him to keep his mother from starving. andré," he added, imperiously. the barber with the effeminate voice and the silky hands turned from the customer he was shaving, and bowed politely to the magnate of the house of checkynshaw, hart, & co. "andré, my daughter elinora goes to a juvenile party this evening, and wishes you to dress her hair at four o'clock." "yes, sir; with mr. cutts's permission, i will attend her at that hour." mr. checkynshaw looked as though mr. cutts's permission was not at all necessary when he desired anything; but mr. cutts did not venture to interpose any obstacle to the wish of a person so influential as the banker. mr. checkynshaw turned to leave, went as far as the door, and then returned. "andré," he continued, "you spoke to me of a boy of yours." "my adopted son, sir," replied the barber. "i don't care whether he is your son, or your adopted son. what sort of a boy is he?" "he is a very good boy, sir," answered andré. "can he read and write?" "very well indeed, sir. the master of his school says he will take the medal at the close of the year." "i shall discharge that puppy, and i want a good boy in his place. send him to me at half past two this afternoon." "i beg your pardon, mr. checkynshaw. perhaps i spoke too soon, sir; but i did not want a place for him till next vacation." "send him up, and i will talk with him," said the banker, imperatively and patronizingly, as he hurried out of the shop. he was met at the door by a girl of fifteen, who modestly stepped out of the way to let the magnate pass. she was dressed very plainly, but very neatly, and in her hand she carried a tin pail. the loud talk of the barber's shop politicians and the coarse jests of rude men ceased as she walked behind the long line of chairs to that where andré was at work. she was rather tall for her age; her face was pretty, and her form delicately moulded. she was all gentleness and grace, and rude men were awed by her presence. andré smiled as sweetly as a woman when he saw her, and his eye followed her as she went to the stove, and placed the pail by its side. "maggie, send leo to me as soon as you go home," said he, in the softest of his soft tones, as she left the shop. chapter ii. boy wanted. from the tin kettle, which maggie had placed by the stove, there arose an odor of fried sausages--a savory mess to a hungry man, possessed of a reasonable amount of confidence in the integrity and conscientiousness of sausage-makers in general. andré made himself as useful as possible to his employers, and they could not well spare him in the middle of the day to go home to his dinner, for during 'change hours the shop was full of customers. if there was a lull any time before three o'clock, he ate the contents of the tin pail; if not, he dined at a fashionable hour. andré could not well be spared, because there were certain dignified men, presidents of banks and insurance companies, venerable personages with a hold upon the last generation, who came from their homes in the middle of the day to read the newspapers at the "china," or the "fireman;" staid old merchants, who had retired from active life, and went to the counting-room only to look after the junior partners--men who always shaved down town, and would not let any barber but andré touch their faces. his hand was so soft and silky, his touch so tender and delicate, and his razors were so keen and skilfully handled, that he was a favorite in the shop. years before, andré had set up a shop for himself; but he had no talent for business, and the experiment was a failure. he was too effeminate to control his journeymen, and his shop was not well ordered. all his regular customers insisted on being shaved by andré; and, while he paid the wages of two men, he did all the work himself. the rent and other expenses overwhelmed him; but he had the good sense to sell out before he became involved in debt. there he was, in the shop of cutts & stropmore, and there he was likely to be--a journeyman barber to the end of his mortal pilgrimage. the highest wages were paid him; but andré had no ambition to gratify, and when one week's wages were due, every cent of the earnings of the preceding one was invariably used up. if there was a ten-cent piece left in his pocket on saturday morning, he took care to spend it for something to gratify maggie or leo before he went to the shop. for this boy and girl--though they were not his own children, or even of any blood relation to him--he lived and labored as lovingly and patiently as though god had blessed him in the paternal tie. half an hour after maggie left the shop there was a brief lull in the business, and andré seized his kettle, and bore it to a kind of closet, where hair oils, hair washes, and the "celebrated capillary compound" were concocted. with a sausage in one hand and a penny roll in the other, he ate as a hungry man eats when the time is short. andré's appetite was good, and thus pleasantly was he employed when leo, the barber's adopted son, entered the laboratory of odoriferous compounds. "maggie says you want to see me," said leo. the boy was dressed as neatly as the barber himself, but in other respects he was totally unlike him. he had a sharp, bright eye, and his voice was heavy, and rather guttural, being in the process of changing, for he was fifteen years old. on the books of the grammar school, where he was a candidate for the highest honors of the institution, his name was recorded as leopold maggimore. if leo was his pet name, it was not because he bore any resemblance to the lion, though he was a bold fellow, with no little dignity in his expression. "i sent for you, leo," replied andré, when he had waited long enough after the entrance of the boy to enable us to describe the youth, and himself to dispose of the overplus of fried sausage in his mouth, so that he could utter the words; "mr. checkynshaw spoke to me about you. he wishes to see you at half past two o'clock." "mr. checkynshaw!" exclaimed leo, wondering what the head of the well-known banking house could want with an individual so insignificant as himself. "he wants a boy." "does he want me?" "i suppose he does." "but, father, i shall lose my medal if i leave school now," added leo. "you must not leave now; but you can see mr. checkynshaw, and explain the matter to him. he is a great man, and when you want a place, he may be able to help you." "the cat may look at the king, and i will go and see him; but i don't see what good it will do. fitz wittleworth is there." "he is to be discharged," quietly added andré, as he deposited half a sausage in his mouth. "fitz discharged!" exclaimed leo, opening his eyes. "yes; he has been, or will be to-day." "but what will the firm of checkynshaw, hart, & co. do without him? fitz tells me that he carries on the concern himself." "fitz is conceited; and i think the concern will be able to get along without him." "but he is some relation to mr. checkynshaw." "i think not; the banker says he took him into his office to keep him from starving." "fitz says mr. checkynshaw's first wife was his mother's sister." "that is not a very near relation, and the banker will not tolerate his impudence on that account. no matter about that; mr. checkynshaw wishes to see you at half past two. you can tell him about your medal, and tell him, very respectfully and politely, that you can't leave school. he may like the looks of you, and help you to a place when you do want one." andré did not think it would be possible for any one to see leo without liking the looks of him; and he was quite sure that he would make a favorable impression upon even the cold, stern banker. a call-bell on the case of mr. cutts sounded, and andré hastened back to the shop, having only half satisfied the cravings of his hunger. a customer was already seated in his chair, and he went to work upon him, with his thoughts still following leo to the banker's private office. he had high hopes for that boy. mr. cutts had proposed to take him as an apprentice to the barber's business; but, while andré had no ambition for himself, he had for leo, and he would not think of such a thing as permitting him to follow his trade, which, however honorable and useful did not open to the youth the avenues of fame and fortune. on this important subject leo had some views of his own. he certainly did not wish to be a barber, and he was almost as much opposed to being a banker or a merchant. he wished to be a carpenter or a machinist. he was born to be a mechanic, and all his thoughts were in this direction, though he had not yet decided whether he preferred to work in wood or in iron. but his foster-father had higher aspirations for him, and leo had not the heart to disappoint him, though he continued to hope that, before the time came for him to commence in earnest the business of life, he should be able to convince him that the path to fame and fortune lay in the mechanic arts as well as in commerce and finance. leo walked out into state street, and, by the clock on the old state house, saw that it was too early to call upon the banker. mr. fitzherbert wittleworth did not go to the banker's office when ordered to do so. he went to his mother's house, to tell her that mr. checkynshaw had threatened to discharge him. he had a long talk with her. she was a sensible woman, and reproved his self-conceit, and insisted that he should make peace with the powerful man by a humble apology. "mother, you may eat humble pie at the feet of mr. checkynshaw, if you like; i shall not," replied fitz, as he was familiarly called, though the brief appellative always galled him, and the way to reach his heart was to call him _mr._ wittleworth. "if you get turned off, what will become of us? your father isn't good for anything, and what both of us can earn is hardly enough to keep us from starving," answered the poor woman, whose spirit had long before been broken by poverty, disappointment, and sorrow. "i would rather starve than have the heel of that man on my neck. i have done everything i could for the concern. i have worked early and late, and kept everything up square in the private office; but there is no more gratitude in that man than there is in a truck horse. he don't even thank me for it." "but he pays you wages; and that's enough," replied his more practical mother. "that is not enough, especially when he pays me but five dollars a week. i am worth a thousand dollars a year, at least, to the concern. checkynshaw will find that out after he has discharged me," added mr. wittleworth, pulling up his collar, as was his wont when his dignity was damaged. "go back to him; tell him you are sorry for what you said, and ask him to forgive you," persisted mrs. wittleworth. "this is no time for poor people to be proud. the times are so hard that i made only a dollar last week, and if you lose your place, we must go to the almshouse." "what's the use of saying that, mother?" continued the son. "it seems to me you take pride in talking about our poverty." "it's nothing but the truth," added mrs. wittleworth, wiping the tears from her pale, thin face, which was becoming paler and thinner every day, for she toiled far into the night, making shirts at eight cents apiece. "i have only fifty cents in money left to buy provisions for the rest of the week." "folks will trust you," said fitz, impatiently. "i don't want them to trust me, if i am not to have the means of paying them. it was wrong for you to pay six cents to be shaved; it's silly and ridiculous, to say nothing of leaving the office for half an hour. you did wrong, and you ought to acknowledge it." "mother, i'm tired of this kind of a life." "so am i; but we cannot starve," replied the poor woman, bitterly. "it is harder for me than for you, for i was brought up in plenty and luxury, and never knew what it was to want for anything till your father spent all my property, and then became a burden upon me. you have been a good boy, fitzherbert, and i hope you will not disappoint me now." "i shall do everything i can for you, mother, of course; but it is hard to be ground down by _that_ man, as i am." the young gentleman said _that_ man with an emphasis which meant something. "i cannot help it," sighed the mother. "yes, you can. in my opinion,--and i think i understand the matter as well as any other man,--in my opinion, mr. checkynshaw owes you fifty thousand dollars, and is keeping you out of your just due. that's what galls me," added fitz, rapping the table violently with his fist. "it may be and it may not be. i don't know." "i know! that man is not an honest man. i know something about his affairs, and if he presumes to discharge me, i shall devote some of my valuable time to the duty of ventilating them." "don't you do any such thing, fitz." "i will, mother! i will find out whether the money belongs to you or not," added the young man, decidedly. "i have my private opinion about the matter. i know enough about checkynshaw to feel certain that he wouldn't let fifty thousand dollars slip through his fingers, if by any trickery he could hold on to it. if he has a daughter in france, fifteen years old, as she must be, wouldn't she write to him? wouldn't he write to her? wouldn't he go and see her? wouldn't he send her money? she don't do it; he don't do it. i do all the post-office business for the firm, and no such letters go or come." mr. wittleworth was very decided in his "private opinion;" but at last he so far yielded to the entreaties of his mother as to consent to return to the office, and if mr. checkynshaw wasn't savage, he would apologize. this he regarded as a great concession, very humiliating, and to be made only to please his mother. chapter iii. mr. checkynshaw is violent. mr. fitzherbert wittleworth walked slowly and nervously from his home to the banking-house in state street. the situation was just as far from pleasant as it could be. he did not wish to deprive the family of the necessaries of life, which were purchased with his meagre salary, on the one hand, and it was almost impossible to endure the tyranny of mr. checkynshaw on the other hand. to a young man with so high an opinion of himself as the banker's clerk entertained, the greatest privation to which he could be subjected was a want of appreciation of his personal character and valuable services. the banker had an utter contempt for him personally, and regarded his salary as high at five dollars a week, which was indeed a high rate for a young man of sixteen. mr. checkynshaw sat in his private office, adjoining the banking-house, when mr. wittleworth presented himself. he scowled savagely as the young man entered. "you have concluded to come back--have you?" said he. "yes, sir," replied fitz. "well, sir, you have only come to be discharged; for i will no longer have a stupid and useless blockhead about. i was willing to tolerate you for your mother's sake; but i won't submit to your impudence." stupid and useless blockhead! it was no use to attempt to effect a reconciliation with a person who had, or professed to have, such an opinion of him. not even the strait to which his family was reduced could justify him in submitting to such abuse. "mr. checkynshaw, i don't allow any man to insult me," fitz began. "i have treated you like a gentleman, and i demand as much in return." "insult you? impudent puppy!" gasped mr. checkynshaw. "what are we coming to?" "you insulted me in a public barber's shop. not content with that, you call me a stupid and useless blockhead--_me_, sir." "no more of this! take your pay, and be gone! there's five dollars, a full week's salary for three days' service," added the banker, pushing a five-dollar bill across the desk towards fitz. the young man was not too proud to take it. "go! don't stop here another minute," said the wrathy banker, glancing at the clock, which now indicated the time he had appointed for the coming of leo maggimore. "i am not ready to go just yet. i have a demand to make upon you. you have defrauded my mother out of a fortune." "that will do! not another word," said mr. checkynshaw, turning red in the face. "my mother will take steps to obtain her rights." "will you go?" demanded the banker. "no, sir. i will not till i have said what i have to say. you shall either prove that your first daughter is alive, or you shall deliver to my mother the property." mr. checkynshaw could not endure such speech as this from any man, much less from his discharged clerk. he rose from his chair, and rushed upon the slender youth with a fury worthy a more stalwart foe. grasping him by the collar, he dragged him out of the private office, through the long entry, to the street, and then pitched him far out upon the sidewalk. as he passed through the entry, leo maggimore was going into the banking-office. not knowing the way, he inquired of a person he met in the long hall. leo did not know the banker, and was not aware that the excited gentleman he had seen was he; and he did not recognize fitz in the young man who was so violently hurried before him. he followed the direction given him, and reached the private office of the banker. through an open window he saw the clerks and cashiers rushing to the door to witness the extraordinary scene that was transpiring in the street. taking off his cap, he waited for the appearance of mr. checkynshaw, who, he supposed, had also gone to "see the fun." as he stood there, a jaunty-looking individual hastily entered the office. "what do you want?" asked this person. "i want to see mr. checkynshaw," replied leo. "go through that door, and you will find him," added the jaunty-looking man, in hurried tones. leo, supposing the man belonged there, did as he was directed, and inquired of an elderly clerk, who had not left his desk, for the banker. he was told to wait in the private office, and he returned, as he was bidden. he found the jaunty-looking person taking some papers from the safe. he put a quantity of them into the pockets of his overcoat, locked the heavy iron door, and took out the key. "mr. checkynshaw won't be here again to-day. you will have to call to-morrow," said the man, in sharp and decided business tones. "he sent for me to come to-day at half past two," replied leo. "he was unexpectedly called away; come again to-morrow at this time," added the jaunty person, briskly. "i can't come to-morrow at this hour; school keeps." "come at one, then," replied the business man, who did not seem to care whether school kept or not. "will you tell him, sir, that i came as he wished, and will call again at one to-morrow?" "yes, yes. i will tell him all about it," answered the brisk personage, as he took a small carpet-bag in his hand, and led the way out through the banking-room. the clerks had returned to their desks, and were again busy over their books and papers; for the excitement had subsided, and people went their way as though nothing had happened. the unwonted scene of a man in mr. checkynshaw's position putting a clerk out of his office excited a little comment, and the banker had stopped in the long hall to explain to a bank president the occasion of his prompt and decisive action. leo and the jaunty man passed him as they left the building; but the boy did not know him from adam. "where do you live, my boy?" asked the jaunty man, coming up to him when he had crossed state and entered congress street. "no. phillimore court," replied leo. he had before lost sight of the man, who, he had already concluded, from finding him in the private office and at the safe, was one of the partners in the house of checkynshaw, hart, & co. he could not imagine what a person of so much importance could want of him, or how it concerned him to know where he lived. "is it far from here?" "not very far." "i want the use of a room for five minutes, to change my clothes. i live out of town, and am going to new york to-night. perhaps your mother would let me have a room for a short time," added the person. "i haven't any mother; but you can have my room as long as you like," answered leo, glad to accommodate so important a person. "it isn't a very nice one." "nice enough for me. how far is it?" "close by high street; but it's right on your way to the cars." "very well; thank you. i'm much obliged to you. if it's far off, i can run up to a hotel, for i'm in a hurry. i have no time to spare." the jaunty man walked at a rapid pace, and seemed to be greatly excited, which leo attributed to his proposed journey, or to the pressure of his business. "do you know mr. checkynshaw?" asked the man of business. "no, sir; i never saw him in my life, that i know of," replied leo. "you are one of the partners--are you not?" "yes," replied the jaunty man, promptly. "are you mr. hart, sir?" "that is my name. how did you know me?" "i didn't know you; but i guessed it was mr. hart." they hurried along in silence for a few moments more. leo was thinking, just then, how it would be possible for mr. hart to tell mr. checkynshaw that he had called that day, and that he would call at one the next day, if he was going to new york by the afternoon train. he was quite sure mr. hart could not get back in time to tell the banker that he had obeyed his mandate. he was a little perplexed, and he was afraid the mighty man would be angry with him for not keeping the appointment, and perhaps visit the neglect upon his foster-father. being unable to solve the problem himself, he ventured to ask mr. hart for a solution. "it won't make any difference. mr. checkynshaw will not think of the matter again till he sees you to-morrow," replied mr. hart. "he will have enough to think of when he gets to the office to-morrow without troubling his head about you." "perhaps, as you are his partner, mr. hart, you can do the business just as well," said leo. "very likely i can. what did mr. checkynshaw want of you?" asked the partner. "he is going to discharge fitz, and--" "discharge fitz! what is that for?" demanded mr. hart, as if very much astonished at the intelligence. "i don't exactly understand what for; but he wants me to come in his place; or at least he wants to see me about coming." "well, you seem to be a very likely young fellow, and i have no doubt you will suit us. i am willing to engage you, even after what little i have seen of you." "but i can't go yet, mr. hart," interposed leo. "why not? when can you come?" "i can't go till the first of august; that's what i wanted to tell mr. checkynshaw. he was so kind as to think of me when he wanted a boy; and i want to have it made all right with him. i expect to take one of the franklin medals at the next exhibition, and if i leave now i shall lose it." "that's right, my boy; stick to your school, and i will see that you have a first-rate place when you have taken the medal. haven't we got most to your house?" "just round the corner, sir. i'm afraid mr. checkynshaw will not like it because he did not see me this afternoon." "he was out, and it isn't your fault; but i will tell him all about it when i come back, and he will not think of it again." "but he wants a boy." "well, he can find a hundred of them in an hour's time; and, as you can't take the place, it will make no difference to you. i will make it all right with him so far as you are concerned." "this is my house," said leo, when they reached the dwelling at no. phillimore court. leo opened the front door,--which was indeed the only door,--and led the banker to his own room on the second floor. the gentleman closed the door, and as there was no lock upon it, he placed a chair against it to serve as a fastening. he did not appear to be in a very great hurry now, and it was evident that he did not intend to change his clothes; for, instead of doing so, he took from the pockets of his overcoat the papers and packages he had removed from the safe. he broke the seals on some of the parcels, and opened the papers they contained. he did not stop to read any of them. in a bank book he found a package of bank notes. "three hundred and fifty dollars," muttered he, as he counted the money. "a mean haul!" he examined all the papers, but no more money was discovered. the jaunty man looked as though he was sorely disappointed. he gathered up the papers, rolled them together, and then looked about the little chamber. on one side of it there was a painted chest, which contained leo's rather scanty wardrobe. he raised the lid, and thrust the bundle of papers down to the bottom of it, burying them beneath the boy's summer clothing. closing the chest, he took his carpet-bag, and left the room. leo was waiting for him in the entry; but "mr. hart" was again in a hurry, and could not do anything more than say again he would make it all right with mr. checkynshaw. probably he did not keep his promise. chapter iv. mr. checkynshaw rushes. mr. checkynshaw felt that he had fully vindicated his personal dignity, and that of the well-known house whose head he was. the bank president he met in the entry did not think so, but believed that a person of such eminent gravity ought to call a policeman, instead of making himself ridiculous by resorting to violence. the banker explained, and then returned to his office. he was alone; and, seating himself in his cushioned chair, he gave himself up to the reflections of the moment, whatever they were. whether the grave charges and the angry threats of mr. fitzherbert wittleworth were the subject of his thoughts was known only to himself; but as he reflected, the muscles of his mouth moved about, his brow contracted, and he seemed to be mentally defending himself from the charges, and repelling the threats. certainly the bold accusation of the banker's late clerk had produced an impression, and stirred up the anger of the great man; but it was very impolitic for the discharged clerk to "beard the lion in his den." the safe in the private office contained the valuable papers of the banker, while those of the firm whose head he was were placed in the vaults of the great banking-room. he kept the key of this safe himself. if it ever went into the hands of the clerk, it was only to bring it from the lock-drawer in the vaults; he was never trusted to deposit it there. mr. checkynshaw did not look at the safe till he had thoroughly digested the affair which had just transpired. when he was ready to go home to dinner, just before three o'clock, he went to the safe to lock it, and secure the key where prying curiosity could not obtain it. it was not in the door, where he had left it; but this did not startle him. his thoughts appeared to be still abstracted by the subject which had occupied them since the affray, and he was walking mechanically about the office. he went to the safe as much from the force of habit as for any reason, for he always secured it when he was about to leave. "charles!" he called, raising one of the ground-glass windows between the office and the banking-room. the door opened, and one of the younger clerks presented himself. "bring me the key of this safe from the drawer in the vault." charles bowed, and mr. checkynshaw continued to walk back and forth, absorbed in thought. "the key of the safe is not in the drawer, sir," replied the clerk. the banker tried the safe door, and then felt in all his pockets. the safe was locked, but he had not the key. he went to the vault himself, but with no better success than the clerk had had. "the puppy!" muttered the banker. "he has stolen that key!" mr. checkynshaw's lips were compressed, and his teeth were set tight together. he paced the room more rapidly than before. "fudge!" exclaimed he, after he had worked himself into a state of partial frenzy, as the hard muscles of his face suddenly relaxed, and something like a smile rested upon his lips. "he couldn't have done it." certainly not. the banker had not opened the safe till after his return from the barber's shop, where he had reproved his clerk, and fitz did not go near the safe during the sharp interview in the office. "burnet," said the banker, going to the open window. this time the elderly man, to whom leo maggimore had applied, presented himself. "have you seen the key of my safe?" demanded mr. checkynshaw. "no, sir." "where is it, then?" "i do not know, sir," replied burnet, whose communications were always "yea, yea; nay, nay." "i have discharged fitz." burnet bowed. "he was saucy." burnet bowed again. "i kicked him out for his impudence." burnet bowed a third time. "my key is gone." burnet waited. "but the safe is locked." burnet glanced at the safe. "who has been in my office?" "a boy, sir." "who?" "i don't know, sir; he asked for you. i sent him to your office." "that was the barber's boy." burnet bowed: he never wasted words; never left his desk to see a row or a military company, and would not have done so if an earthquake had torn up the pavement of state street, so long as the banking-house of checkynshaw, hart, & co. was undisturbed. "who else?" asked the banker. "a man, sir." "who?" "i don't know; he entered by your private door; the boy and the man went out together." "send for the safe people." burnet bowed, and retired. in half an hour two men from the safe manufactory appeared. they opened the iron door, and the banker turned pale when he found that his valuable papers had been abstracted. the three hundred and fifty dollars which "mr. hart" had taken was of no consequence, compared with the documents that were missing; for they were his private papers, on which other eyes than his own must not look. the safe men fitted a new key, altering the wards of the lock, so that the old one would not open the door. what remained of the papers were secured; but those that were gone were of more importance than those that were left. mr. checkynshaw groaned in spirit. the threats of mr. fitzherbert wittleworth seemed to have some weight now, and that young gentleman suddenly became of more consequence than he had ever been before. fitz could not have stolen these papers himself, but he might have been a party to the act. "burnet!" called the banker. the old clerk came again. nothing ever excited or disturbed him, and that was what made him so reliable as a financial clerk and cashier. he never made any mistakes, never overpaid any one, and his cash always "balanced." "what shall i do? my private papers have been stolen!" said the banker, nervously. "who was the man that came out of the office?" "i don't know, sir." "what was he like?" demanded mr. checkynshaw, impatiently. "well-dressed, rowdyish, foppish." "and the boy?" "fourteen or fifteen--looked well." "send for andré maggimore, the barber." burnet bowed and retired. charles was sent to the saloon of cutts & stropmore; but it was four o'clock, and andré had gone to dress the hair of elinora checkynshaw. the banker was annoyed, vexed, angry. he wanted to see the boy who had left the office with the man "well-dressed, rowdyish, foppish." he did not know where leo lived, and the barber had no business to be where he could not put his hand on him when wanted. impatiently he drew on his overcoat, rushed out of the office, and rushed into the shop of cutts & stropmore. mr. cutts did not know where andré lived, and mr. stropmore did not know. andré was always at the shop when he was wanted there, and they had no occasion to know where he lived. probably they had known; if they had, they had forgotten. it was somewhere in high street, or in some street or court that led out of high street, or somewhere near high street; at any rate, high street was in the direction. there was nothing in this very definite information that afforded mr. checkynshaw a grain of comfort. he was excited; but, without telling the barbers what the matter was, he rushed up state street, up court street, up pemberton square, to his residence. he wanted a carriage; but of course there was no carriage within hailing distance, just because he happened to want one. he reached his home out of breath; but then his key to the night-latch would not fit, just because he was excited and in a hurry. he rang the bell furiously. lawrence, the man servant, was eating his dinner, and he stopped to finish his pudding. the banker rang again; but lawrence, concluding the person at the door was a pedler, with needles or a new invention to sell, finished the pudding--pedlers ring with so much more unction than other people. the banker rang again. fortunately for the banker, more fortunately for himself, lawrence had completely disposed of the pudding, and went to the door. "what are you about, you blockhead? why don't you open the door when i ring?" stormed the banker. "i think the bell must be out of order, sir," pleaded lawrence, who had heard it every time it rang. "go and get a carriage, quick! if you are gone five minutes i'll discharge you!" added the great man, fiercely, as he rushed into the parlor. "you are late to dinner," said mrs. checkynshaw. "don't talk to me about dinner! where is elinora?" "why, what is the matter?" asked the lady, not a little alarmed by the violent manner of the husband. "matter enough! where is elinora? answer me, and don't be all day about it!" "in her dressing-room. andré, the hair-dresser, is with her." mr. checkynshaw rushed up stairs, and rushed into the apartment where andré was curling the hair of a pale, but rather pretty young lady of twelve. his abrupt appearance and his violent movements startled the nervous miss, so that, in turning her head suddenly, she brought one of her ears into contact with the hot curling-tongs with which the barber was operating upon her flowing locks. "o, dear! mercy! you have killed me, andré!" screamed elinora, as her father bolted into the room. "i beg your pardon, miss checkynshaw," pleaded andré. "you have burned me to death! how you frightened me, pa!" gasped the young lady. "mind what you are about, andré!" exclaimed the banker, sternly, as he examined the ear, which was not badly damaged. "the young lady moved her head suddenly. it was really not my fault, sir," added andré. "yes, it was your fault, andré," replied elinora, petulantly. "you mean to burn me to death." "i assure you, mademoiselle--" "where do you live, andré?" demanded the banker, interrupting him. "phillimore court, no. ," replied the barber. "i want you to go there with me at once," bustled the banker. "is your boy--what's his name?" "leo, sir." "leo. is he at home?" "i think he is. do you wish to see him, sir?" "i do. come with me, and be quick!" "leo would not be able to serve you, sir; he cannot leave his school." "i want to see him; my safe has been robbed, and your boy was with the man who did it." "leo!" gasped the barber, dropping his hot iron upon the floor, and starting back, as though a bolt of lightning had blasted him. "yes; but come along! i tell you i'm in a hurry!" snapped mr. checkynshaw. "he can't go now, pa," interposed the daughter. "he must finish dressing my hair." "he shall return in a short time, elinora," replied the banker. "he shall not go!" added she, decidedly, and with an emphasis worthy of an only daughter. "leo!" murmured the poor barber, apparently crushed by the terrible charge against the boy. "no. phillimore court, you say," continued the banker, as he moved towards the door, yielding to the whim of the spoiled child. the barber did not answer. his eyes rolled up in his head; he staggered and fell upon the floor. elinora shrieked in terror, and was hurried from the room by her father. chapter v. leo maggimore. andre maggimore had an apoplectic fit. perhaps the immense dinner he had eaten in the shop had some connection with his malady; but the shock he received when the banker told him that leo was implicated in the robbery of the safe was the immediate exciting cause. andré was a great eater, and took but little exercise in the open air, and was probably predisposed to the disease. the dark shadow of trouble which the banker's words foreboded disturbed the circulation, and hastened what might otherwise have been longer retarded. doubtless mr. checkynshaw thought it was very inconsiderate in andré maggimore to have an attack of apoplexy in his house, in the presence of his nervous daughter, and especially when he was in such a hurry to ascertain what had become of his valuable private papers. if the banker was excited before, he was desperate now. he rang the bells furiously, and used some strong expressions because the servants did not appear as soon as they were summoned. lawrence had gone for the carriage, and one of the female servants was sent for the doctor. mr. checkynshaw handed his daughter over to her mother, who also thought it was very stupid for the barber to have a fit before such a nervous miss as elinora. the banker returned to the room in which andré lay. he turned him over, and wished he was anywhere but in his house, which was no place for a sick barber. but the doctor immediately came to his relief. he examined the patient; andré might live, and might die--a valuable opinion; but the wisest man could have said no more. mr. checkynshaw could not afford to be bothered by the affair any longer. he had pressing business on his hands. he directed the doctor to do all that was necessary, and to have his patient removed to his own residence as soon as practicable. after assuring himself that elinora had neither been burned to death nor frightened to death, he stepped into the carriage, and ordered the driver to take him to no. phillimore court. the banker was very much annoyed by the awkwardness of the circumstances. he judged from what andré had said, that he was much attached to his foster-son, and he concluded that leo was equally interested in his foster-father. it was not pleasant to tell the boy that the barber had fallen in a fit, and might die from the effects of it; and if he did, leo might not be able to give him the information he needed. it would confuse his mind, and overwhelm him with grief. mr. checkynshaw could not see why poor people should grieve at the sickness or death of their friends, though it was a fact they did so, just like rich people of sensibility and cultivation. he thought of this matter as the driver, in obedience to his mandate, hurried him to phillimore court. if he told leo, there would be an awkward scene, and he would be expected to comfort the poor boy, instead of worming out of him the dry facts of the robbery. if he had ever heard of maggie, he had forgotten all about her. had he thought of her, the circumstances would have appeared still more awkward. he had already decided not to inform leo of the sudden illness of his father. when he reached the humble abode of the barber, and his summons at the door was answered by the fair maggie, he was the more determined not to speak of the calamity which had befallen them. leo was at home; but it would be disagreeable to examine him in his own house, and in the presence of maggie. he changed his tactics at once, and desired the boy to ride up to his office with him. leo wondered what mr. checkynshaw could want of him at that time of day. it was strange that a person of his consequence had thought of him at all; and even "mr. hart" had proved to be a false prophet. he concluded that the banker had discharged fitz, and needed a boy at once; but the gentleman was too imperative to be denied, and leo did not venture to object to anything he proposed. he followed the great man into the carriage, and regarded it as a piece of condescension on his part to permit a poor boy like him to ride in the same vehicle with him. mr. checkynshaw did not speak till the carriage stopped before the banking-house in state street; and leo was too much abashed by the lofty presence of the great man to ask any question, or to open the subject which he supposed was to be discussed in the private office. he followed the banker into that apartment, thinking only of the manner in which he should decline to enter the service of his intended employer before the completion of his school year. "burnet," said mr. checkynshaw, opening the window of the banking-room. the old cashier entered, and bowed deferentially to the head of the house. "send for mr. clapp," added the banker; and burnet bowed and retired, like an approved courtier. leo was not at all familiar with the police records, and had not learned that mr. clapp was the well-known constable,--the "old reed" or the "old hayes" of his day and generation,--and the name had no terrors to him. "boy, what is your name?" demanded mr. checkynshaw, when the door had closed behind the cashier. "leopold maggimore, sir," replied he. "leopold," repeated the banker. "i am generally called leo, sir." "did the barber--your father, if he is your father--send you to my office to-day?" "yes, sir; he sent me, and i came; but you were not in." "why didn't you wait for me?" "i was told you would not be back again to-day, sir." "what time were you here?" "at half past two, sir. there was some trouble in the entry at the time. a gentleman had a young fellow by the collar, and was putting him out of the building." "just so. who was the gentleman?" "i don't know, sir; i didn't see his face." "i was that gentleman." "i didn't know it, sir. it was just half past two, and i wanted to be on time." "who told you i should not be back again?" demanded the banker more sternly than he had before spoken. "mr. hart," replied leo, who regarded his informant as excellent authority. "mr. hart!" exclaimed mr. checkynshaw, staring into the bright eyes of leo to detect any appearance of deception. the banker prided himself upon his shrewdness. he believed that, if there was any person in the world who was peculiarly qualified to expose the roguery of a suspected individual, he was that person. in conducting the present examination he only wanted derastus clapp for the terror of his name, rather than his professional skill as a detective. mr. checkynshaw believed that he had intrapped his victim. mr. hart could not have told leo that the head of the house would not return to the office that day, for the very simple reason that mr. hart was dead and gone. the old style of the firm was retained, but the hart was gone out of it. the boy was telling a wrong story, and the banker laid his toils for unveiling the details of a gigantic conspiracy. fitz lived somewhere in the vicinity of high street,--mr. checkynshaw did not know where, for it would not be dignified for a great man like him to know where his clerk resided,--and it was more than possible that leo and he were acquainted. very likely the innocent-looking youth before him was an accomplice of fitz, who, since the disappearance of the papers, had really become a terrible character. "yes, sir; mr. hart told me," repeated leo, who could not see anything so very strange in the circumstance. "mr. hart told you!" said the banker, again, endeavoring to overwhelm the boy by the intensity of his gaze. "yes, sir, mr. hart." "was mr. hart in this office?" "yes, sir." "what was mr. hart doing?" "he wasn't doing anything. i was standing here waiting for you when he came in." "which way did he come in?" interrupted the banker. "the same way we did just now," added leo, pointing to the door which opened into the long entry. "very well; go on." "he told me to go into the big room," continued leo, pointing to the banking-room. "i went in there, and asked the man that just came in here for you." "you asked burnet for me?" "i didn't know what his name was; but it was the man you just called in here." "burnet; go on." "he told me to come in here and wait for you." "burnet told you so?" "yes, sir; and when i came back, mr. hart was taking some papers and things from that safe, and putting them in the pocket of his overcoat. then he locked the safe, and put the key in his pocket." "go on," said mr. checkynshaw, excited by these details. "then mr. hart told me mr. checkynshaw would not be in again to-day, and i must come again to-morrow." "what then?" "i went out through the big room, and he came right after me." leo, without knowing why he was required to do so, described in full all that had taken place after he left the banking-room till "mr. hart" had changed his clothes, and left the house of andré. "how did you know this person was mr. hart?" asked the banker. "he told me so, sir. i asked him before we got to my house if he was mr. hart, and he said he was. when he told me mr. checkynshaw was not in, and i saw him take the things out of the safe, and put the key in his pocket, i knew he belonged here, and being in this office, i guessed it was mr. hart. he promised to get me a good place when i leave school, and to explain the matter to you, and make it all right, when he came back from new york." "perhaps he will do so," added mr. checkynshaw, with a sneer. but the banker was completely "nonplussed." he found it difficult to believe that this boy had anything to do with the robbery of his safe. at this point in the investigation, mr. clapp arrived. it was now quite dark. most of the clerks in the banking-room had left; but burnet was called, and instructed to remain with leo, while the banker and the detective held a conference in the next room. leo could not tell what it was all about. not a word had been said about a boy to fill fitz's place. he asked burnet what mr. checkynshaw wanted of him; but the cashier was dumb. after the banker had told the officer all about the affair, they went into the private office, and leo was subjected to a long and severe questioning. then he learned that "mr. hart" was not mr. hart, and that the safe had been plundered. he was filled with astonishment, not to say horror; but every answer he gave was straightforward, and at the end of it the skilled detective declared that he had had nothing to do with the robbery. "do you know fitz wittleworth?" demanded mr. checkynshaw, sharply. "yes, sir." "did he ever say anything to you about me?" "i have heard him call you old checkynshaw; but he never said anything that i can remember, except that you couldn't get along in your business without him." "did he ever say anything about any papers of mine?" asked the banker, scowling fiercely. "no, sir." the banker plied leo with questions in this direction; but he failed to elicit anything which confirmed his fears. a carriage was called, and mr. checkynshaw and the constable, taking leo with them, were driven to the house of the barber. chapter vi. leo's workshop. when the banker and the detective reached the barber's house, the supper table was waiting for andré and leo. perhaps mr. checkynshaw wondered how even a poor man could live in such a small house, with such "little bits of rooms." it had been built to fill a corner, and it fitted very snugly in its place. andré thought it was the nicest house in boston, and for many years it had been a palace to him. it contained only four rooms, two on each floor. the two rooms up stairs were appropriated to the use of maggie and leo. the front room down stairs was required to do double duty, as a parlor, and a sleeping-room for andré; but the bedstead was folded up into a secretary during the day. in the rear of this was the "living room." in the winter the parlor was not used, for the slender income of the barber would not permit him to keep two fires. in this apartment, which served as a kitchen, dining and sitting room, was spread the table which waited for andré and leo. the barber almost always came home before six o'clock; for, in the vicinity of state street, all is quiet at this hour, and the shop was closed. maggie sat before the stove, wondering why andré did not come; but she was not alarmed at his non-appearance, for occasionally he was called away to dress a lady's hair, or to render other "professional" service at the houses of the customers. certainly she had no suspicion of the fearful truth. she was rather startled when the unexpected visitors were ushered into the room by leo; but the detective was gentle as a lamb, and even the banker, in the presence of one so fair and winning as maggie, was not disposed to be rude or rough. mr. clapp asked some questions about the man who had come to the house that afternoon, and gone up to leo's room. she had seen him, and her description of his appearance and his movements did not differ from that of her brother. no new light was obtained; but mr. clapp desired to visit the apartment which "mr. hart" had used. leo conducted the visitors to this room. it was possible, if the robber had changed his clothes there, that he had left something which might afford some clew to his identity. the detective searched the chamber, but not very carefully. as he did so, he told leo that he desired to clear him from any connection with the crime. "i hadn't anything to do with it, and i don't know anything about the man," replied leo, blushing deeply. "i don't think you had, my boy," added the officer, candidly. "but this man may have hidden something in the house, without your knowledge." "i hope you will find it if he did. you may search the house from cellar to garret, if you like; but he didn't go into any room but this one." "how long was he in this room?" "not more than twenty minutes, i guess; i don't know." "where were you while he was here?" "i was down cellar." "down cellar!" exclaimed mr. checkynshaw. "all the time he was in the room?" "yes, sir." "what were you doing there?" "i was at work there. when i heard mr. hart, or the man, whatever his name is, coming down stairs, i went up and met him in the entry. you can go down cellar, if you like." "i think we will," said mr. checkynshaw. the detective looked into the bed, under it, in the closets, drawers, and into the seaman's chest which contained leo's wardrobe. he did not expect to find anything, and his search was not very thorough. he examined the till, and felt in the clothing; but he did not put his hand down deep enough to find the papers the robber had deposited there. if the rogue had left anything, he had no object in concealing it; and mr. clapp reasoned that he would be more likely to leave it in sight than to hide it. when the search had been finished in the room, and the result was as the detective anticipated, leo led the way to the cellar. here was presented to the visitors a complete revelation of the boy's character and tastes--a revelation which assured the skilful detective, deeply versed as he was in a knowledge of human nature, that leo was not a boy to be in league with bad men, or knowingly to assist a robber in disposing of his ill-gotten booty. the cellar or basement was only partly under ground, and there was room enough for two pretty large windows at each end, the front and rear of the house, and in the daytime the apartment was as light and cheerful as the rooms up stairs. across the end, under the front windows, was a workbench, with a variety of carpenter's tools, few in number, and of the most useful kind. on the bench was an unfinished piece of work, whose intended use would have puzzled a philosopher, if several similar specimens of mechanism, completed and practically applied, had not appeared in the cellar to explain the problem. on the wall of the basement, and on a post in the centre of it, supported by brackets, were half a dozen queer little structures, something like miniature houses, all of them occupied by, and some of them swarming with, _white mice_. in the construction of these houses, or, as andré facetiously called them, "_les palais des mice_," leo displayed a great deal of skill and ingenuity. he was a natural-born carpenter, with inventive powers of a high order. he not only made them neatly and nicely, but he designed them, making regular working plans for their construction. the largest of them was about three feet long. at each end of a board of this length, and fifteen inches in width, was a box or house, seven inches deep, to contain the retiring rooms and nests of the occupants of the establishment. each of these houses was three stories high, and each story contained four apartments, or twenty-four in the whole palace. the space between the two houses was open in front, leaving an area of twenty-two by fifteen inches for a playground, or grand parade, for the mice. the three sides of this middle space were filled with shelves or galleries, from which opened the doors leading into the private apartments. the galleries were reached by inclined planes, cut like steps. monsieur souris blanc passed from the gallery into one room, and from this apartment to another, which had no exterior door, thus securing greater privacy, though on the outside was a slide by which the curious proprietor of the palace could investigate the affairs of the family. madame souris blanche, who considerately added from four to a dozen little ones to the population of the colony every three or four weeks, apparently approved this arrangement of rooms, though it was observed that three or four mothers, notwithstanding the multiplicity of strictly private apartments, would bring up their families in the same nest, cuddled up in the same mass of cotton wool. over the "grand parade" was a roof, which prevented the mice from getting out over the tops of the nest-houses. though this space was open in front, and the play-ground protected only by a fence an inch high, the little creatures seldom fell out, for it was five feet to the floor of the cellar, and this was a giddy height for them to look down. this establishment contained fifty or sixty white mice--from the venerable grandfather and grandmother down to the little juveniles two weeks old, to say nothing of sundry little ones which had not appeared on the "grand parade," and which looked like bits of beef, or more like pieces of a large fish worm. other establishments on the wall contained smaller numbers; and, though it was impossible to count them, there were not less than a hundred and fifty white mice in the basement. when leo conducted the visitors to the cellar, all the tribes of mice were in the highest enjoyment of colonial and domestic bliss. though most of them scampered to their lairs when the gentlemen appeared, they returned in a moment, looked at the strangers, snuffed and stared, and then went to work upon the buckwheat and canary seed, which leo gave them as a special treat. squatting on their hind legs, they picked up grains or seeds, and holding them in their fore paws, like squirrels, picked out the kernels. [illustration: leo's workshop.--page .] in other houses, they were chasing each other along the galleries, performing various gymnastics on the apparatus provided for the purpose, or revolving in the whirligigs that some of the cages contained. it was after dark; and, having reposed during the day, they were full of life and spirit at night. the detective was delighted, and even mr. checkynshaw for a few moments forgot that his valuable papers had been stolen. both of them gazed with interest at the cunning movements and the agile performances of the little creatures. "i see why you remained down cellar so long," said the detective, with a smile. "i was at work on that mouse-house," replied leo, pointing to the bench. the palace in process of construction was somewhat different from the others. instead of being open in front of the "grand parade," it had a glass door, so that the occupants of the establishment could be seen, but could not fall out. "what is that one for?" asked mr. clapp. "i'm making that for mr. stropmore," answered leo. "i gave him one lot, but his cat killed them all. the cat can't get at them in this house, and they can't fall out." "elinora would like to see them," said mr. checkynshaw, graciously. "i should be very glad to show them to her, or to give her as many of them as she wants," replied leo. "perhaps she will come and see them. but, mr. clapp, we must attend to business." the detective was in no hurry to attend to business, so interested was he in the performances of the mice. he was quite satisfied that a boy whose thoughts were occupied as leo's were could not be implicated in the robbery. the banker led the way up stairs, and leo was questioned again. he described the rogue once more, and was sure he should know him if he saw him again. the banker said he would call and see mrs. wittleworth and her son, while the detective was to take the night train for new york, where "mr. hart" was supposed to have gone. the officer, who knew all the rogues, was confident, from the description, that the thief was "pilky wayne," a noted "confidence man." the theft was according to his method of operation. "where do you suppose father is?" asked maggie, as leo was about to leave the house to show mr. checkynshaw where mrs. wittleworth lived. "it is after seven o'clock, and he is never so late as this." "i don't know," replied leo. "i haven't seen him since one o'clock." the banker was disturbed by the question. it would be annoying to tell such a pretty and interesting young lady, poor girl though she was, that her father was very ill. it would make a "scene," and he would be expected to comfort her in her great grief. "your father--is he your father, miss?" asked he, doubtfully. "he is just the same. he adopted both leo and me," replied maggie. "he went to my house, this afternoon, to dress my daughter's hair," added mr. checkynshaw; and there was something in his manner which disturbed the fair girl. "is he there now?" "yes, i think he is. my people will take good care of him." "why, what do you mean, sir?" demanded maggie. "take good care of him?" "he had an ill turn this afternoon." "my father!" exclaimed maggie. "i sent for the doctor, and he has had good care," added the banker, as soothingly as he could speak, which, however, was not saying much. "what ails him?" "well, it was an attack of apoplexy, paralysis, or something of that kind." "my poor father!" ejaculated maggie, her eyes filling with tears. "i must go to him at once." maggie took down her cloak and hood, and put them on. chapter vii. mon pere. maggie's ideas of apoplexy or paralysis were not very definite, and she only understood that something very terrible had happened to her foster-father, whom she loved as though he had been her real parent. leo was hardly less affected, though, being a boy, his susceptibility was not so keen. his first feeling was one of indignation that the banker had not told him before of the misfortune which had overtaken the family. it was cruel to have kept maggie from her father a single moment longer than was necessary. "where is poor father now?" asked maggie, as she adjusted her hood, and wiped the tears from her eyes. "he is at my house; but you need not worry about him," replied mr. checkynshaw. "the doctor has attended to his case, and he shall have everything he needs." "where do you live, sir?" asked leo. "no.--pemberton square." "come, maggie, we will go to him," added the boy. "i want you to go with me, and show me where fitz lives," interposed the banker. "he lives at no.--atkinson street, up the court," answered leo, rather coolly, as he picked up his cap and comforter. "i want you to show me the house." "i must go with maggie." mr. checkynshaw looked as though the barber's serious illness was of no consequence, compared with his affairs. "we can go that way, leo, and you can show him the house as we pass through atkinson street," said maggie, leading the way to the door. this arrangement was satisfactory to the banker; the house was locked, and leo led the way out of the court. the humble abode of mrs. wittleworth was pointed out to mr. checkynshaw; and, after he had been admitted, leo and maggie hastened to pemberton square, so sad and sorrowful that hardly a word was spoken till they reached the lofty mansion of the great man. with trembling hand leo rang the bell; and maggie's slender frame quivered with apprehension while they waited for a reply to the summons. lawrence answered the bell more promptly than when its call had disturbed him at his dinner. "is andré maggimore here?" asked leo, timidly. "who?" demanded lawrence. "andré maggimore--the barber--the hair-dresser," replied leo. "you mane the man that had the fit," added the servant. "indade, he's here, thin." "how is he?" asked maggie, her heart bounding with fear lest she should be told that her poor father was no more. "he's a little better; but the docthor says it'll be a long day till he is able to handle his razors again. what's this he called the disase? the para-_ly_-sis! that's just what it is!" "poor _mon père_!" sighed maggie. "we would like to see him, if you please," added leo. "and who be you? are you his children?" asked lawrence. "we are." "i'm sorry for you; but he's very bad," added lawrence, who had an irish heart under his vest, as he closed the front door. "is he--will he--" poor maggie could not ask the question she desired to ask, and she covered her face and wept. "no, he won't," replied lawrence, tenderly. "he won't die. the docthor says he's comin' out of it; but the para-_ly_-sis will bodther him for a long time." maggie was comforted by this reply, and she followed lawrence up stairs to the chamber where andré lay. he had been conveyed from elinora's dressing-room to an apartment in the l, over the dining-room, where the banker and his friends smoked their cigars after dinner. he was lying on a lounge, covered with blankets, and the housekeeper was attending him. "poor _mon père_!" exclaimed maggie, as she threw herself on her knees on the floor by the side of the sick man's couch, and kissed his pale, thin face. [illustration: poor mon pÈre.--page .] leo bent over his father's prostrate form, and clasped one of his silky hands, which now felt so cold that the touch chilled his heart. the doctor had just come in to pay his patient a second visit, and stood by the lounge, regarding with interest the devotion of the boy and girl. andré had "come out" of the fit, and recognized his children, as he always called them. he smiled faintly, and tried to return the pressure of leo's hand, and to kiss the lips of maggie, pressed to his own; but his strength was not yet equal to his desire. "i think it would be better to remove him to the hospital," said the doctor to the housekeeper. "he will be well nursed there." "no, no, no!" exclaimed maggie, rising and walking up to the physician. her idea of the hospital was not a very clear one, and she did not consider it much better than a prison; at least, it was to her a place where sick people who had neither home nor friends were sent; a place where other hands than her own would lave her father's fevered brow, and administer the cooling draught. to her it was sacrilege to permit any but herself to nurse him; and she felt that it was a privilege to stand day and night by his bed, and hold his hand, and anticipate all his wants. her womanly instincts were strong, and she heard with horror the suggestion to take the sufferer to the hospital. "your father would be very kindly cared for at the hospital," said the doctor. "but it would not be his own home!" pleaded maggie. "o, he so loves his own home! he always staid there when he was not in the shop. it would break his heart to send him away from his own home when he is sick." "have you a mother?" asked dr. fisher, kindly. "i have not; but i will nurse him by day and night. i will be mother, wife, and daughter to him. do not send him away from me--not from his own home!" continued maggie, so imploringly that the good physician had to take off his spectacles and wipe the moisture from his eyes. "we will take good care of him at home," added leo. "very well," replied the doctor. "he shall be removed to his own home, since you desire it so much. lawrence, will you send for a carriage?" "i will, sir," answered the servant, leaving the room. andré had turned his eyes towards the group, and appeared to understand the matter they were discussing. he smiled as he comprehended the decision, and made an effort to embrace maggie, when she again knelt at his side; but a portion of his frame was paralyzed, and he could not move. "your father may be sick a long time," said dr. fisher. "i'm so sorry! but i will take such good care of him!" replied maggie. "he needs very careful nursing." "o, he shall have it! he would rather have me nurse him than any other person. i will watch him all the time. i will sit by his bed all day and all night," added she, with womanly enthusiasm. "you will wear yourself out. you are not strong enough to do without your sleep." "i am very strong, sir. i do all the work in the house myself. i know how to make gruel, and porridge, and beef tea, and soup; and _mon père_ shall have everything nice." the doctor smiled, and felt sure that no better nurse could be provided for the sick man. "where is your mother?" he asked. "is she living?" "i have no mother. leo has no mother. we are not andré's own children; but we love him just the same, and he loves us just the same." "but who was your mother?" "i don't know." "doesn't andré know?" "he does not." "you have some kind of a history, i suppose," added the doctor, greatly interested in the girl. "_mon père_ don't like to talk about it. he seems to be afraid that some one will get me away from him; but i'm sure i don't want to go away from him; i wouldn't leave him for a king's palace." "why do you call him '_mon père_'?" "he taught me to call him so when i was little. andré's father was an italian, and his mother a french woman; but he was born in london." "where did he find you?" "at the cholera hospital." "where?" "i don't know. he always looked so sad, and his heart seemed to be so pained when i asked him any questions about myself, that i stopped doing so long ago. when i was five years old, he found me playing about the hospital, where hundreds and hundreds of people had died with cholera. i had the cholera myself; and he came to play with me every day; and when they were going to send me to an orphan asylum, or some such place, he took me away, and promised to take care of me. ah, _mon père_" said she, glancing tenderly at the sick man, and wiping a tear from her eyes, "how well he has kept his promise! i can't help thinking he loved me more than any real father could. i never saw any father who was so kind, and tender, and loving to his child as andré is to me." "and you don't know where this hospital was?" "no, sir; and i don't want to know. _mon père_ thinks my parents died of the cholera; but andré has been father and mother to me. he would die if he lost me." "and your brother--was he taken from the cholera hospital?" asked the doctor. "no, sir," replied maggie, rising and speaking in a whisper to the physician, so that leo should not hear what she said. "andré had to leave me all alone when he went to the shop, and he went to the almshouse to find a poor orphan to keep me company. he found leo, whose father and mother had both died from drinking too much. he took him home, and _mon père_ has been as good to him as he has to me." "his name is leo--the lion?" "no, sir; not the lion. _mon père_ called him leopold, after the king of belgium, in whose service he once was; but we always call him leo. he is a real good boy, and will get the medal at his school this year." "the carriage has come, sir," said lawrence, opening the door. the arrangements were made for the removal of the barber to his house. the hackman and the man servant came to carry him down stairs in an armchair, and the doctor was to go with his patient, and assist in disposing of him at his house. andré was placed in the chair, covered with blankets, and the door opened in readiness to carry him down. maggie kept close to him, comforting him with the kindest words, and adjusting the blanket so that the rude blasts of winter might not reach him. "lawrence!" called elinora, in a petulant tone, from the dressing-room on the same floor. under the circumstances, lawrence was not disposed to heed the call; but it was so often and so ill-naturedly repeated, that dr. fisher told him to go and see what she wanted, fearful that some accident had happened to her. the man went into the hall. elinora had come out of her room in her impatience, arrayed for the party she was to attend. another hair-dresser had been sent for to complete the work which andré had begun; but the young lady was more than an hour late, and proportionally impatient. "are you deaf, lawrence? the carriage has come," pouted elinora. "that's not the carriage for you, miss. it's to take the barber to his own place," replied lawrence. "that horrid barber again! i shall not get over the fright he gave me for a month! i will take this carriage, and he may have the other when it comes," said she, walking to the stairs. "go down and open the door for me." "if you plaze, miss, you can't go in this carriage. it's for the sick man." "i don't care what it's for! i'm in a hurry, lawrence. i must have the first carriage." "indade, miss, but we have the sick man up in the chair, ready to take him down the stairs. it's very bad he is." "let him wait! go down and open the door, as i tell you." "i beg your pardon, miss, but the docthor--" "if you don't do what i tell you this instant, i'll ask pa to discharge you." dr. fisher came out to ascertain the cause of the delay. he explained that the carriage had been ordered to convey the barber to his home, and he insisted that it should be used for that purpose. andré was his patient, and he would not permit any further delay. elinora pouted and flouted, and hopped back into her chamber. andré was borne carefully down the stairs, and placed in the carriage. maggie and the doctor entered the vehicle with him, and they were driven to the barber's own home, where he was placed upon his bed in the front room. chapter viii. make or break. maggie plied the kind-hearted physician with questions in regard to her father's condition--with questions which no man with merely human knowledge could answer. he thought andré would be able to talk to her by the next day; but he feared the patient would not be well enough to resume his place in the shop for weeks, and perhaps months. andré appeared to be quite comfortable, and did not seem to be suffering very severely. the doctor had given him some medicine before he was removed from the banker's house, and the sick man went to sleep soon after he was put to bed in his own room. dr. fisher then went out into the rear room, and told maggie that her father would probably sleep for several hours. "i will come again in the morning, maggie," said he. "is there anything i can do for you?" "nothing more, i thank you, sir," replied she. "i am very grateful to you for what you have done." "i know nothing about your father's circumstances; but if you need any assistance, i hope you will make it known." "thank you, sir; i don't think we need anything," replied maggie, a slight blush mantling her pretty face; for the idea of asking or accepting charity was painful to her. "i fear it will be a long time before your father will be able to work again," continued dr. fisher, glancing around the room to ascertain, if possible, whether the singular family were in poverty or in plenty. "i will take good care of him, whether it be for weeks or for months, or even for years. you don't know how sorry i am to have poor _mon père_ sick; but you can't think what a pleasure it is to me to have an opportunity to do something for him. i wish i could tell you how good and kind he has always been to me; how tenderly he watched over me when i was sick; how lovingly he prayed for me; but i cannot, though it makes me happy to think i can now do something for him." "you are a good girl, maggie, and i don't see how andré could have done any less for you," replied the doctor. "who keeps house here?" "o, i do that, sir." "then you must have to work very hard." "indeed, i don't! i have to keep busy almost all day; but it is such a pleasure to me to know that i am doing something for _mon père_, that i never think it is hard at all." everything looked so neat and nice in the house that the doctor could not decide whether any assistance was required or not. he was one of those good physicians who felt for the poor and the humble. though he practised in some of the richest and most aristocratic families in the city, his mission was not to them alone. he visited the haunts of poverty, and not only contributed his professional services in their aid, but he gave with no stinted hand from his own purse to relieve their wants. when he died, the sermon preached on the sunday after his funeral was from the text, "the beloved physician;" and no one ever went to his reward in heaven who better deserved the praise bestowed upon him. in the present instance, he felt that his work was not alone to heal the sick. his patient was a journeyman barber, with only a boy, and a girl of fifteen, to depend upon. this same doctor often went among his friends in state street, in 'change hours, to preach the gospel of charity in his own unostentatious way. all gave when he asked, and it was not a very difficult matter for him to raise fifty or a hundred dollars for a deserving family. he purposed to do this for those under the barber's humble roof, who, without being connected by the remotest tie of blood, were more loving and devoted towards each other than many whom god had joined by the ties of kindred. the doctor never told anybody of his good deeds. hardly did his left hand know what his right hand did; and one of his eyes, which followed not the other's apparent line of vision, seemed to be looking out all the time for some hidden source of human suffering. he was as tender of the feelings of others as he was of the visible wounds of his patients. he saw the blush upon the cheeks of maggie, and he interpreted it as readily as though the sentiment had been expressed in words. he forbore to make any further inquiries in regard to the pecuniary condition of the strange family; but he was determined that all their wants should be supplied, without injury to their laudable pride. he went away, and maggie and leo were left to themselves. "you haven't been to supper, leo," said maggie, when dr. fisher had gone. "i don't seem to care about any supper," replied leo, gloomily. "you must eat your supper, leo," added maggie, as she placed the teapot on the table. "there are some cold sausages i saved for _mon père_. sit down, leo. we must work now, and we need all the strength we can get." then she crept on tiptoe into the front room, and looked into the face of the sleeper. he was still slumbering, and she returned to the table, seating herself in her accustomed place, near the stove. leo looked heavy and gloomy, as well he might; for the sad event of that day promised to blast the bright hopes in which his sanguine nature revelled. he knew, and maggie knew, that andré maggimore had made no preparation for the calamity which had so suddenly overtaken him. it was wednesday, and the wages of the preceding week were more than half used. he had no money, no resources, no friends upon whom he could depend, to fall back on in the day of his weakness. the barber was faithful and affectionate as a woman, but he had no business calculation, and his forethought rarely extended beyond the duration of a single week. while he owed no man anything, and never contracted any debts, he had never saved a dollar beyond what he had invested in furnishing the small house. the dark day had come, and leo was the first to see it. in another week, or, at most, in two weeks, every dollar the barber had would have been spent. it was plain enough to him that he could not continue to attend school till exhibition day came, and he would lose the medal he coveted, and for which he had worked most diligently. maggie poured out his cup of tea, and handed it to him. he was eating his supper; but his head was bowed down. "leo," said she. he looked up with a start, took his tea, and immediately lost himself again. "leo!" added maggie, in her peculiarly tender tones. he looked up again. "what are you thinking about, leo?" she continued, gazing earnestly at him. "i need not ask you, leo. you are thinking of poor _mon père_." "i was thinking of him. i was thinking, too, that i should lose my medal now," replied leo, gloomily. "fie on your medal! don't think of such a trifle as that!" she added, gently rebuking the selfish thought of her brother. "you don't quite understand me, maggie." "i hope you are not thinking of yourself, leo--only of _mon père_." "i was thinking that he has worked for me, and now i must work for him. i must give up my school now." "you must, indeed, leo." "we can't stay in this house unless we pay the rent. father made ten dollars a week, and it took every cent of it to pay the expenses. what shall we do now?" "we must both work." "we can't make ten dollars a week if both of us work. but you can't do anything more than take care of father. i don't see how we are going to get along. fitz wittleworth has only five dollars a week at mr. checkynshaw's. if he gave me the same wages, it wouldn't more than half pay our expenses." maggie looked puzzled and perplexed at this plain statement. it was a view of the situation she had not before taken, and she could not suggest any method of solving the difficult problem. "we can reduce our expenses," said she, at last, a cheerful glow lighting up her face as she seemed to have found the remedy. "you can't reduce them. the doctor's bill and the medicines will more than make up for anything we can save in things to eat and drink." "that's very true, leo. what shall we do?" inquired maggie, sorrowfully, as her ingenious argument was overthrown. "i don't know what we can do. they say doctors charge a dollar a visit, and that will make seven dollars a week. the medicines will cost another dollar, at least, perhaps two or three. that makes eight dollars. even if we save three dollars a week in provisions and such things, it will cost fifteen dollars a week. i might as well try to fly as to make that. i couldn't do it. it's half as much again as father could make." "o, dear!" sighed maggie, appalled by this array of financial demands. "i suppose the doctor won't bring in his bill yet a while," added leo. "but we must pay him. _mon père_ would worry himself to death in a short time if he knew he was getting in debt." "i don't see how we can do it." leo relapsed into silence again, and finished his supper. the problem troubled him. he sat down by the stove, and did not move for half an hour. maggie cleared off the table, washed the dishes and put them away, creeping stealthily into the front room every few moments to assure herself that all was well with her father. "leo, don't worry any more. we shall be cared for somehow. our good father in heaven will watch over us in the future, as he has in the past. trust in god, leo," said maggie, impressively. "i will not worry any more, and you must not." "i will trust in god; but god expects me to do something more than that. he helps those who help themselves. i am going to do something!" exclaimed he, springing to his feet. "make or break, i'm going to do my duty; i'm going to do my whole duty." "what are you going to do, leo?" "i don't know yet; but, make or break, i'm going to do something. it's no use for me to work for mr. checkynshaw at five dollars a week, when it will cost us fifteen dollars a week to get along. i'm going to do something," continued leo, as he took a lamp from the shelf and lighted it. then he stopped before maggie, and looked her full in the face, his eyes lighting up with unusual lustre. "why, what's the matter, leo? what makes you look at me so?" "maggie, andré is not our own father; but he has done all that an own father could do for us. maggie, let me take your hand." she gave him her hand, and was awed by the impressive earnestness of his manner. "maggie, i'm going to do my duty now. i want to promise you that poor father shall never want for anything. i want to promise you that i will do all for him that a real son could do." "good, kind leo! we will both do our whole duty." leo dropped her hand, and went down stairs into his workshop. the white mice were capering and gamboling about their palatial abodes, all unconscious that poor andré had been stricken down. leo gave them their suppers, and sat down on the work-bench. he was in deep thought, and remained immovable for a long time. he was a natural mechanic. his head was full of mechanical ideas. was there not some useful article which he could make and sell--a boot-jack, a work-box, a writing-desk--something new and novel? he had half a dozen such things in his mind, and he was thinking which one it would pay best to mature. his thought excited him, and he twisted about on the bench, knocking a chisel on the floor. the noise frightened the mice, and they made a stampede to their nests. he looked up at them. "that's an idea!" exclaimed he, leaping off the bench. "make or break, i'll put it through!" chapter ix. mr. checkynshaw and family. we left mr. checkynshaw entering the house of mrs. wittleworth, in atkinson street; and, as he was a gentleman of eminent dignity and gravity, we feel compelled to beg his pardon for leaving him so long out in the cold of a winter night. having made the barber as comfortable as the circumstances would permit, we are entirely willing to let the banker in, though the abode at which he sought admission was hardly worthy of the distinguished honor thus conferred upon it. mrs. wittleworth cautiously opened the door, for those who have the least to steal are often the most afraid of robbers; but, recognizing the lofty personage at the door, she invited him to enter, much wondering what had driven him from his comfortable abode in pemberton square to seek out her obscure residence at that hour in the evening. mr. checkynshaw was conducted to an apartment which served as kitchen, parlor, and bed-room for the poor woman, her son having a chamber up stairs. a seat was handed to the great man, and he sat down by the cooking-stove, after bestowing a glance of apparent disgust at the room and its furnishings. the banker rubbed his hands, and looked as though he meant business; and mrs. wittleworth actually trembled with fear lest some new calamity was about to be heaped upon the pile of misfortunes that already weighed her down. mr. checkynshaw had never before darkened her doors. though she had once been a welcome guest within his drawing-rooms, she had long since been discarded, and cast out, and forgotten. when the poor woman, worse than a widow, pleaded before him for the means of living, he had given her son a place in his office, at a salary of five dollars a week. if she had gone to him again, doubtless he would have done more for her; but, as long as she could keep soul and body together by her ill-paid drudgery, she could not endure the humiliation of displaying her poverty to him. mrs. wittleworth had once lived in affluence. she had been brought up in ease and luxury, and her present lot was all the harder for the contrast. her father, james osborne, was an enterprising merchant, who had accumulated a fortune of a hundred thousand dollars, on which he had the good sense to retire from active business. of his four children, the two sons died, leaving the two daughters to inherit his wealth. john wittleworth, the father of fitz, was a clerk in the counting-room of mr. osborne, and finally became the partner of his employer, whose confidence he obtained to such a degree that the merchant was willing to trust him with all he had. he married ellen osborne; and when her father retired from business, his son-in-law carried it on alone. at this time, doubtless, john wittleworth was worthy of all the confidence reposed in him, for the terrible habit, which eventually beggared him, had not developed itself to an extent which seemed perilous even to the eye of affection. a few years after the marriage of ellen, mr. checkynshaw, then aspiring to no higher title than that of a simple broker, presented himself as the suitor of mary, the younger daughter of the retired merchant. mr. osborne did not like him very well; but mary did, and their affair was permitted to take its course. only a few months after this alliance of the checkynshaw and the osborne, the merchant was taken sick. when it was evident that his days were drawing to a close, he made his will. his property consisted of about one hundred thousand dollars. one half of it was invested in a block of stores, which paid a heavy rental, and the other half was in money, stocks, and debts. in settling the affairs of the firm he had taken john wittleworth's notes for thirty thousand dollars, secured by a mortgage on the stock. in making his will, mr. osborne gave to ellen or--what was the same thing in those days, when a woman did not own her own property--to her husband, all the money, stocks, and debts due from wittleworth. he did this because his late partner wanted more capital to increase his business. to mary, the wife of mr. checkynshaw, he gave the block of stores; but, not having so much confidence in mary's husband as in ellen's, he gave her the property with certain restrictions. the income of the estate was to be hers--or her husband's--during her life. at her death the estate was to pass to her children. if she died without children, the property was to be her sister's, or her sister's children's. but mr. osborne did not wish to exhibit any want of confidence in mary's husband; so he made mr. checkynshaw the trustee, to hold the block of stores for his wife and for her children. he had the power to collect the rents, and as long as his wife lived, or as long as her children lived, the money was practically his own. mary, the first mrs. checkynshaw, was in rather feeble health, and the doctors advised her to spend the winter in the south of france. her husband complied with this advice; and her child, marguerite, was born in perpignan, and had a french name because she was born in france. the family returned home in the following spring; but mrs. checkynshaw died during the succeeding winter. marguerite was a fine, healthy child; and to her now belonged the block of stores bequeathed by her grandfather, her father holding it in trust for her. in another year mr. checkynshaw married his second wife, who treated little marguerite well enough, though she felt no deep and motherly interest in her, especially after elinora, her own daughter, was born. mr. checkynshaw called himself a banker now. he had taken mr. hart and another gentleman into the concern as partners, and the banking-house of checkynshaw, hart, & co. was a rising establishment. the second mrs. checkynshaw was an ambitious woman, vain and pretentious. her friends had been to london, paris, naples, and rome. she had never been in europe, and it galled her to be out of the fashion. when elinora was only two years old, she insisted upon going abroad. her husband did not like the idea of travelling with two children, one five and the other two years old. but he was over-persuaded, and finally consented to go. they arrived in paris in july, and intended to remain there two months; but, before this period elapsed, the banker received a letter from mr. hart informing him of the sudden death of the third partner in their house. this event compelled him to return immediately; but mrs. checkynshaw was so well pleased with parisian life, that she was unwilling to leave the city so soon. the voyage to her was terrible, and she had seen little or nothing of europe. the family had taken apartments, and she was loath to leave them. a friend of the banker, who with his wife occupied rooms in the same house, suggested that mrs. checkynshaw and her children should remain until her husband could return, two or three months later. an arrangement to this effect was made, and the banker hastened home to settle his business affairs. he had hardly departed before the cholera broke out with fearful violence in paris. one of its first victims was the gentleman who had charge of mr. checkynshaw's family. his wife followed him, only a day later, to the cholera hospital. of course the banker's wife was terribly frightened, and instantly made her preparations to leave the infected city. poor little marguerite was the first of the family to take the disease, and she was hurried off to the hospital by the landlord of the house, who was very polite, but very heartless. this event would not have delayed the departure of mrs. checkynshaw, but she was stricken down herself before she could leave. the fearful malady raged with awful violence; hospitals were crowded with patients, and the dead were hurried to their last resting-place without a prayer or a dirge. little elinora was taken by her nurse to the sisters of charity, and escaped the disease. mrs. checkynshaw recovered, and as soon as she was able, reclaimed her child, and fled to the interior of switzerland, to a small town which the plague had not yet visited. when the panic had subsided, she returned to paris. she bad been informed, before her departure, that little marguerite had died of the disease; but, on her return, she visited the hospital, and made more careful inquiry in regard to the little patient. she was told that the child answering to her description had died, and been buried with a dozen others. it was then impossible to identify the remains of the child. mr. checkynshaw returned to paris in september. his wife had written to him and to mrs. wittleworth as soon as she was able, and her husband had received her letter before his departure from boston. poor little marguerite! she was his own child, and he was sorely grieved at her death. he was not quite satisfied with his wife's investigations, and he determined to inquire further. with mrs. checkynshaw he went to the hospital. "the child died the day after it was brought here," replied the director. "here is the name;" and he pointed to the record. the name indicated certainly was not "checkynshaw," though it was as near it as a frenchman could be expected to write it. the letters spelled "chuckingham." "allow me to look at the book," said mr. checkynshaw. "certainly, sir; but i remember the case well. she was a little english girl," added the director. "this child was american," interposed the anxious father. "we cannot tell the difference. she spoke only english." "what is this?" asked mr. checkynshaw, pointing to another name. "marguerite poulebah." "that patient was discharged, cured." "do you translate english proper names?" "never!" "what became of this patient?" asked mr. checkynshaw, deeply interested. "i don't know." the banker was satisfied that "marguerite poulebah" was his daughter; that the persons who had brought her to the hospital understood a little english, and had translated his surname literally from "chicken" and "pshaw." he investigated the matter for a week. the concierge of the lodgings where he had resided assured him he had not given the name as "poulebah." at the end of the week he informed his wife that he had obtained a clew to the child. she had been taken from the hospital by the sisters of charity, and sent to strasburg, that she might not have a relapse. mr. checkynshaw went to strasburg alone. on his return he assured his wife that he had found marguerite; that she was happy with the sisters, and cried when he spoke of taking her away. the devoted ladies were very much attached to her, he said; and he had concluded that it would be best to leave her there, at least until they were ready to embark for home. mrs. checkynshaw did not object. she had no love for the child, and though she had treated her well from a sense of duty, was rather glad to get rid of her. the family remained in europe till the next spring. mr. checkynshaw went to see his daughter again. the sisters were educating her, and he declared that marguerite was so very happy with them, and begged so hard not to be taken from them, that he had consented to let her remain at their school. mrs. checkynshaw did not care; she thought it was strange; but if the child's father deemed it best for her to remain with the sisters, it was not for her to say anything. she did not say anything--marguerite was not her own child. when they returned to boston, the friends of the osbornes wished to know what had become of the child. mr. checkynshaw had not informed any one of the death of marguerite when the intelligence came to him in his wife's letter, though mrs. wittleworth had received it direct from the same source. he had grieved deeply at the loss of the child. yet his sorrow was not alone for poor marguerite; the block of stores, every year increasing in value, must not pass out of his hands. "the poor child had the cholera in paris, and was sent to the hospital," was his reply. "when she recovered, mrs. checkynshaw was down with the disease, and the sisters of charity took her in charge. they treated her as a mother treats her own child, and marguerite loves them better than she does my wife. i don't like to say anything about it, and will not, except to most intimate friends; but marguerite was not mrs. checkynshaw's own daughter. they were not very fond of each other, and--well, i think you ought to be able to understand the matter without my saying anything more. the poor child is very happy where she is, and i had not the heart to separate her from such dear friends." everybody inferred that mrs. checkynshaw did not treat the child well, and no more questions were asked. the banking-house of checkynshaw, hart, & co. increased in wealth and importance, and had extensive foreign connections in england. every year or two the head of the house crossed the ocean, partly, as he declared, to transact his business in london, and partly to visit his child in france. chapter x. the wittleworth family. while everything appeared to be well with the banker, into whose exchequer the revenues of the block of stores flowed with unintermitting regularity, the affairs of the other branch of the osborne family were in a far less hopeful condition. john wittleworth drank to excess, and did not attend to his business. it was said that he gambled largely; but it was not necessary to add this vice to the other in order to rob him of his property, and filch from him his good name. he failed in business, and was unable to reëstablish himself. he obtained a situation as a clerk, but his intemperate habits unfitted him for his duties. if he could not take care of his own affairs, much less could he manage the affairs of another. he had become a confirmed sot, had sacrificed everything, and given himself up to the demon of the cup. he became a ragged, filthy drunkard; and as such, friends who had formerly honored him refused to recognize him, or to permit him to enter their counting-rooms. just before the opening of our story, he had been arrested as a common drunkard; and it was even a relief to his poor wife to know that he was safely lodged in the house of correction. when mrs. wittleworth found she could no longer depend upon her natural protector, she went to work with her own hands, like an heroic woman, as she was. as soon as her son was old enough to be of any assistance to her, a place was found for him in a lawyer's office, where he received a couple of dollars a week. her own health giving way under the drudgery of toil, to which she had never been accustomed, she was obliged to depend more and more upon fitz, who, in the main, was not a bad boy, though his notions were not suited to the station in which he was compelled to walk. at last she was obliged to appeal to her brother-in-law, who gave fitz his situation. fitz was rather "airy." he had a better opinion of himself than anybody else had--a vicious habit, which the world does not readily forgive. he wanted to dress himself up, and "swell" round among bigger men than himself. his mother was disappointed in him, and tried to teach him better things; but he believed that his mother was only a woman, and that he was wiser, and more skilful in worldly affairs, than she was. he paid her three dollars a week out of his salary of five dollars, and in doing this he believed that he discharged his whole duty to her. perhaps we ought again to apologize to mr. checkynshaw for leaving him so long in such a disagreeable place as the poor home of his first wife's sister; but he was seated before the cooking-stove, and the contemplation of poverty would do him no harm; so we shall not beg his pardon. the banker looked around the room, at the meagre and mean furniture, and then at the woman herself; her who had once been the belle of the circle in which she moved, now clothed in the cheapest calico, her face pale and hollow from hard work and ceaseless anxiety. perhaps he found it difficult to believe that she was the sister of his first wife. "where is fitz?" asked he, in gruff accents. "he has gone up in summer street. he will be back in a few minutes," replied mrs. wittleworth, as she seated herself opposite the banker, still fearing that some new calamity was about to overtake her. "i want to see him," added mr. checkynshaw, in the most uncompromising tones. "fitz says you discharged him," continued the poor woman, heaving a deep sigh. "i didn't; he discharged himself. i could not endure the puppy's impudence. but that is neither here nor there. i don't want to see him about that." "i hope you will take him back." "take him back if he will behave himself." "will you?" asked she, eagerly. "i will; that is, if it turns out that he was not concerned in robbing my safe." "in what?" exclaimed mrs. wittleworth. "my safe has been robbed of some of my most valuable papers." "robbed!" "yes, robbed." "did fitz do it?" gasped the wretched mother; and this was even a greater calamity than any she had dreaded. "i don't know whether he did or not; that's what i want to find out; that's what i want to see him for." mr. checkynshaw proceeded to relate the circumstances under which the safe had been robbed. before he had finished, fitz came in, and his mother was too impatient to wait for her distinguished visitor to set any of his verbal traps and snares. she bluntly informed her hopeful son that he was suspected of being concerned in the robbery. "i don't know anything about it. i had nothing to do with it," protested fitz. "there's nothing too mean for checkynshaw to say." "don't be saucy, fitz. try to be civil," pleaded his mother. "be civil! what, when he comes here to accuse me of robbing his safe? i can't stand that, and i won't, if i know myself," replied fitz, shaking his head vehemently at the banker. "i haven't accused you of anything, fitz," added mr. checkynshaw, very mildly for him. "i came to inquire about it." "do you think if i did it that i would tell you of it?" "i wish to ask you some questions." "well, you needn't!" "very well, young man," said the banker, rising from his chair, "if you don't choose to answer me, you can answer somebody else. i'll have you arrested." "arrested! i'd like to see you do it! what for? i know something about law!" he had been an errand boy in a lawyer's office! "don't be so rude, fitz," begged his mother. "arrest me!" repeated the violent youth, whose dignity had been touched by the threat. "do it! why didn't you do it before you came here? you can't scare me! i wasn't brought up in the city to be frightened by a brick house. why don't you go for a constable, and take me up now? i'd like to have you do it." "i will do it if you don't behave yourself," said the banker, beginning to be a little ruffled by the violent and unreasonable conduct of mr. wittleworth. "i wish you would! i really wish you would! i should like to know what my friend choate would say about it." "how silly you talk!" exclaimed his mother, quite as much disgusted as her stately visitor. "you may let him badger you, if you like, mother; but he shall not come any odds on me--not if i know it, and i think i do!" "it is useless for me to attempt to say anything to such a young porcupine," added mr. checkynshaw, taking his hat from the table. mrs. wittleworth burst into tears. she had hoped to effect a reconciliation between her son and his employer, upon which her very immunity from blank starvation seemed to depend. the case was a desperate one, and the bad behavior of fitz seemed to destroy her last hope. "i will give up now, fitz, and go to the almshouse," sobbed she. fitz was inclined to give up also when this stunning acknowledgment was made in the presence of his great enemy, the arch dragon of respectability. "i am willing to work, but not to be trodden upon," added he, sullenly; but his spirit for the moment seemed to be subdued. "mr. checkynshaw wishes to ask you some questions, and it is your duty to answer them," said mrs. wittleworth, a little encouraged by the more hopeful aspect of her belligerent son. "ask away," replied fitz, settling himself into a chair, and fixing his gaze upon the stove. "do you know pilky wayne?" asked the banker, who had a certain undefined fear of fitz since the robbery, which, however, the immensity of his dignity prevented him from exposing. "know who?" demanded fitz, looking up. "pilky wayne." "never heard of him before." "yes, you have; you made an arrangement with him to rob my safe," continued the banker, who could not help browbeating his inferior. "did i? well, if i did, i did," answered fitz, shaking his head. "what do you think my friend choate would say to that?" "he would say you were a silly fellow," interposed mrs. wittleworth. "don't be impudent, fitz." "well, i won't be impudent!" said fitz, with a kind of suppressed chuckle. "there were, or you thought there were, certain papers in my safe which might be useful to you," added mr. checkynshaw. "i don't believe there were any letters from my cousin marguerite among them," replied fitz, with a sneering laugh. "marguerite must be able to write very pretty letters by this time." "be still, fitz," pleaded mrs. wittleworth. "fitz, i don't want to quarrel with you," continued mr. checkynshaw, in the most pliable tones fitz had ever heard the banker use to him. "i thought you did. accusing a gentleman of robbing your safe is not exactly the way to make friends with him," said fitz, so much astonished at the great man's change of tone that he hardly knew what to say. "i accuse you of nothing. fitz, if you want your place in my office again, you can return to-morrow morning." mr. wittleworth looked at his disconsolate mother. a gleam of triumph rested on his face. the banker, the head and front of the great house of checkynshaw, hart, & co., had fully and directly recognized the value of his services; had fairly "backed out," and actually entreated him to return, and fill the vacant place, which no other person was competent to fill! that was glory enough for one day. but he concluded that it would be better for the banker to come down a peg farther, and apologize for his abusive treatment of his confidential clerk. "certainly he will be glad to take the place again, sir," said mrs. wittleworth, who was anxious to help along the negotiation. "perhaps i will; and then again, perhaps i will not," replied mr. wittleworth, who was beginning to be airy again, and threw himself back on his chair, sucked his teeth, and looked as magnificent as an eastern prince. "are you willing to double my salary, mr. checkynshaw?" "after what i have heard here to-night, i am," answered the banker, promptly. "i ought to have done it before; and i should, had i known your mother's circumstances." that was very unlike mr. checkynshaw. mr. wittleworth did not like it. his salary was to be doubled as an act of charity, rather than because he deserved such a favor. it was not like the banker to want him at all after what had happened. there was something deep under it; but fitz was deep himself. "perhaps you might help me in finding my papers. of course i don't care a straw for the three hundred and fifty dollars or so which was stolen with them," suggested mr. checkynshaw. "perhaps i might; perhaps i have some skill in business of that kind, though i suppose it doesn't exactly become me to say so," added fitz, stroking his chin. "but if you mean to intimate that i know anything about them, you are utterly and entirely mistaken. i'm an honest man--the noblest work of god." "i will give you ten dollars a week for the future, if you will return," said mr. checkynshaw, impatiently. "of course he will," almost gasped the eager mother. fitz was deep. the banker was anxious. it meant something. fitz thought he knew what it meant. "on the whole, i think i will _not_ return," replied he, deliberately. "are you crazy, fitz?" groaned mrs. wittleworth, in despair. "never a more sane man walked the earth. mr. checkynshaw knows what he is about; i know what i am about." "we shall both starve, fitz!" cried his mother. "on the contrary, mother, we shall soon be in possession of that block of stores, with an income of five or six thousand a year," added fitz, complacently. "the boy's an idiot!" exclaimed the banker, as he took his hat, and rushed out of the house. chapter xi. the mouse business. while maggie maggimore took upon herself the blessed task of nursing the barber, leo charged himself with the duty of providing for the wants of the family. each had assumed all that one person could be expected to achieve. it was no small thing for a girl of fifteen to take the entire care of a helpless invalid; and it was no small thing for a boy of fifteen to take upon himself the task of providing for the expenses of the house, and the medical attendance of the sick man. it would have been much easier for leo to fail in his assumed task than for maggie to do so. even a young man of so much importance as fitzherbert wittleworth, upon whom the salvation of the great house of checkynshaw, hart, & co. seemed to depend, toiled for the meagre pittance of five dollars a week. leo had some acquaintance with the late clerk in the private office of the banker, and he had listened with wonder to the astounding achievements of fitz in the postal and financial departments of the house. of course mr. wittleworth would be a partner in the concern as soon as he was twenty-one, if not before; for, besides his own marvellous abilities, he had the additional advantage of being a relative of the distinguished head of the concern. leo was abashed at his own insignificance when he stood in the presence of the banker's clerk. if such an astonishing combination of talent as mr. wittleworth possessed could be purchased for five dollars a week, what could he, who was only a mere tinker, expect to obtain? half that sum would have been an extravagant valuation of his own services, under ordinary circumstances. but beneath the burden which now rested upon him, he felt an inspiration which had never before fired his soul; he felt called upon to perform a miracle. he was born with a mechanical genius, and he felt it working within him. there was no end of wooden trip-hammers, saw-mills, and other working machines he had invented and constructed. under the pressure of the present necessity he felt able to accomplish better things. something must be done which would produce fifteen, or at least ten, dollars a week. it was no use to think it couldn't be done; it must be done. it looked like a species of lunacy on his part to flatter himself that it was possible to make even more than a journeyman mechanic's wages. leo had in his busy brain half a dozen crude plans of simple machines. often, when he saw people at work, he tried to think how the labor might be done by machinery. as he sat in the kitchen, where maggie was sewing or preparing the dinner, he was devising a way to perform the task with wood and iron. only a few days before the illness of the barber, he had seen her slicing potatoes to fry, and the operation had suggested a potato slicer, which would answer equally well for cucumbers, onions, and apples. sitting on the bench, he was thinking of this apparatus, when fifteen dollars a week became a necessity. but the machine required more iron than wood work, and he had not the means to do the former, and no capital to invest in other people's labor. then he turned his attention to a new kind of boot-jack he had in his mind--an improvement on one he had seen, which could be folded up and put in a traveller's carpet-bag. as this implement was all wood except the hinges and screws, it looked more hopeful. he could make half a dozen of them in a day, and they would sell for half a dollar apiece. he was thinking of an improvement on the improvement, when the stampede of the mice deranged his ideas; but they gave him a new one. white mice were beautiful little creatures. their fur was so very white, their eyes so very pink, and their paws so very cunning, that everybody liked to see them. even the magnificent mr. checkynshaw had deigned to regard them with some attention, and had condescended to say that his daughter elinora would be delighted to see them. then the houses, and the gymnastic apparatus which leo attached to them, rendered them tenfold more interesting. at a store in court street the enterprising young man had seen them sold for half a dollar a pair; indeed, he had paid this sum for the ancestral couple from which had descended, in the brief space of a year and a half the numerous tribes and families that peopled the miniature palaces on the basement walls. at this rate his present stock was worth seventy-five dollars--the coveted salary of five whole weeks! in another month, at least fifty more little downy pink-eyes would emerge from their nests, adding twenty-five dollars more to his capital stock in trade! leo had already decided to go into the mouse business. he was counting his chickens before they were hatched, and building magnificent castles in the air; but even the most brilliant success, as well as the most decided failure, is generally preceded by a vast amount of ground and lofty tumbling in the imagination. if the man in court street could sell a pair of white mice for fifty cents, and a beggarly tin box with a whirligig for a dollar, making the establishment and its occupants cost a dollar and a half, why would not one of his splendid palaces, with two or three pairs of mice in it, bring three, or even five dollars? that was the point, and there was the argument all lying in a nutshell. leo had faith. what would a rich man care for five dollars when he wanted to please his children? he had watched his mice day after day, and week after week, by the hour at a time, and had never failed to be amused at their gambols. everybody that came to the house was delighted with them. if the man in court street could sell them, he could. there was money in the speculation, leo reasoned, and it should not fail for the want of a fair trial. he could make houses of various sizes, styles, and prices, and thus suit all tastes. he could stock each one with as many mice as the customer desired. he could make a pretty elaborate establishment in two days--five-dollar size; and of the smaller and plainer kind--two-dollar pattern--he could make two in a day. the palace on the bench was nearly completed, and he went to work at once and finished it. it had a glass front, so that the dainty little occupants of the institution could not get out, and the foe of white mice, the terrible cat, could not get in. this establishment had been intended for mr. stropmore; but as that gentleman had not been informed of his purpose to present it, leo decided that it should be used to initiate the experiment on whose success so much depended. it was ten o'clock at night when the grand palace on the bench was finished. leo put some cotton wool into the sleeping apartments, and then transferred three pairs of mice from the most densely populated house to the new one. he watched them for a while, as they explored their elegant hotel, going up stairs and down, snuffing in every corner, standing upon their hind legs, and taking the most minute observations of the surroundings. leo was entirely satisfied with the work of his hands, and with the conduct of the mice who had been promoted to a residence in its elegant and spacious quarters. if there was not five dollars in that establishment, then the rich men of boston were stingy and ungrateful. if they could not appreciate that superb palace, and those supple little beauties who held court within its ample walls, why, they were not worthy to be citizens of the athens of america! leo went up stairs. andré still slept, and maggie sat by the bedside, patiently watching him in his slumbers. he crept softly into the front room, and looked at the pale face of his father. his heart was lighter than it had been before since the news of the calamity was told to him. he was full of hope, and almost believed that he had solved the problem of supplying all the wants of the family. "you must sleep yourself, maggie," said he, in a whisper. "hush!" said she, fearful that the sleeper might be disturbed, as she led the way into the rear room. "i will sit up half the night, maggie." "no, leo; there is no need of that. i wake very easily, and i can sleep enough in the rocking-chair. you seem to be quite cheerful now, leo," added she, noticing the change which had come over him. "i feel so, maggie. you say we shall want fifteen dollars a week." "no, you said so, leo. i might take in sewing; but i don't think both of us can make anything like that sum. i am very much worried. i don't know what will become of us." "don't be worried any more. i'm going to make that money myself. you needn't do anything but take care of father; and i'll help you do the housework," added leo, cheerfully. "what are you going to do?" "i'm going into the mouse business." "into what?" "the mouse business," replied leo, gravely. "what do you mean by that?" asked maggie, puzzled as much by his gravity as by the unintelligible phrase he had used. leo explained what he meant, and argued the case with much skill and enthusiasm. maggie would have laughed if she had not been solemnly impressed by the condition of her father, and by the burden of responsibility that rested upon her as his nurse. she went into the basement, and looked at the house which leo had just finished. it was certainly very pretty, and the mice in it were very cunning. "you don't think any one will give you five dollars for that house--do you?" said she, as she joined him in the back room again. "i mean to ask six for it, and if folks won't give it, they are mean. that is all i've got to say about it," replied leo. "but they won't." "why, the mice alone are worth a dollar and a half; and there is two days' work in the house, besides the stock and the glass. i certainly expect to get six dollars for the concern, though i shall not complain if i don't get but five. i can make from three to a dozen of them in a week, and if i don't make at least fifteen dollars a week out of the mouse business, i shall be disappointed--that's all." "i am afraid you will be disappointed, leo," replied maggie, with a sigh, as she thought what a sad thing it would be when the brilliant air-castle tumbled to the ground. "perhaps i shall; if i do, i can't help it. but if this fails, i have got another string to my bow." "what's that?" "i shall go into the boot-jack business next; and i hope to get up my machine for slicing potatoes, and such things, soon." "o, dear, leo! you are full of strange ideas. i only hope that some of them will work well," added maggie. "i'm going to be reasonable, sis. i'm not going to give up if a thing fails once, twice, or nineteen times. i'm going to keep pulling. i've got half a dozen things in my head; if five of them fail, i shall make a big thing out of the sixth." "i hope you will; you are so patient and persevering that you ought to succeed in something." "o, i shall; you may depend upon that! make or break, i'm bound to succeed in something." "what do you mean by 'make or break,' leo? it sounds just as though you meant to make money if you sacrificed everything." "i don't mean that." "i would rather go to the almshouse than be dishonest. i can't think of anything more horrid than being wicked." "nor i either. i don't mean to be dishonest, maggie. i would rather be a good man than a rich one, any day; but i think a man can be both. a good man, with lots of money, is better than a good man without it; for he can do good with it. when i say, 'make or break,' i don't mean anything bad by it. i'll tell you what i mean, maggie. it seems to me, when i get hold of a good thing, i ought to keep pulling till i carry my point, or pull away till something breaks. i don't mean to risk everything on a turn of the wheel of fortune; nothing of that sort. i mean to persevere and stick to anything so long as there's any chance of success--till the strings break, and the whole thing tumbles down. that's my idea." the idea was satisfactory to maggie, and she returned to her patient, while leo went up to bed; but not to sleep for hours, for the "mouse business" excited his brain, and kept him awake. chapter xii. leo's wonderful performers. maggie, at the sick bed of andré, slept even more than leo. she had a lounge in the room, placed near her charge, on which she rested comfortably, though she rose several times in the night to assure herself that all was well with her father. in the morning andré seemed to be in the entire possession of his faculties. he had slumbered quietly all night, hardly opening his eyes after he took the doctor's prescription. he awoke before his attentive nurse. he had but a faint remembrance of the events of the preceding evening; for, after he came out of the fit, he was in a kind of stupor. he had noticed maggie and leo at the house of the banker; but everything seemed like a dream. "maggie," said he, as he looked around the familiar apartment, and saw her lying on the lounge. she sprang to her feet, and went to him, glad to hear the sound of his voice, but fearful that the call might be the prelude of another attack. he smiled as she approached him, and made an effort to extend his right hand to her; but he could not move it. "father!" exclaimed the fond girl, as she bent over him and kissed his pale face, now slightly flushed with fever. "i have been very ill," he added. "you have, indeed; but you are better now; and i am so glad, _mon père_!" "ah, _ma fille_, you are a good girl! you have been by my side all night. it was selfish for me to wake you." "no, no! it was not. i'm glad you did. i am so happy to find you better!" "what ails me? i can't move my right arm, nor my right leg," asked andré, struggling to raise his limbs. "there is no feeling in my right side." "the doctor will come by and by, and tell you all about it." "my head feels very strange," added the sufferer. "i am sorry, _mon père_. what can i do?" said maggie, tenderly. "give me some cold water." she gave him the drink, supporting his head with her arm. it was plain, even to maggie, that andré was in a very bad way. "go up stairs, and go to bed now, maggie. you have been up all night," said he, with a loving glance at her. "no, _mon père_, i have no need to go to bed. i have slept on the lounge nearly all night. i feel quite bright, only i'm so sad to think you are sick." "i shall be well soon. i must be well soon," he added, looking anxiously at her. "i hope you will be well soon; but it may be several weeks before you are able to go out," replied maggie, wishing to have him reconciled to his lot as soon as possible. "several weeks, maggie! o, no! i must go to the shop sooner than that." "you must be very patient, _mon père_." "i will be patient, maggie; but i must go to the shop soon." "don't think of the shop yet." "my poor children! what will become of you? i have no money. i must work, or you will starve, and be turned out of the house because the rent is not paid. indeed i must go to the shop, maggie." "but you cannot. you are not able to lift your right arm at all, and you are so weak you could not stand up. do be patient, and not think at all of the shop." "i must do as you bid me now, maggie." "then don't think of the shop, or anything but our nice little home, where we have always been so happy." "how shall we pay the rent if i lie here? where will you get food to eat and clothes to wear?" demanded andré, with something like a shudder of his paralyzed frame. "don't think of those things." "i must. i was wicked not to save up some money." "no, you were not wicked; you were always as good as you could be. the good god will take care of us." "they will send us all to the almshouse." "no, no; leo is going to make heaps of money!" replied maggie, though she had not much confidence in her brother's brilliant scheme, or even in the inventions that reposed in his active brain. "can't you go to sleep again, _mon père_?" "i will try," replied he, meekly. "i will if you go to bed, and sleep. what should i do if you were sick?" "i shall not be sick. i have slept enough. i will go and make you some beef tea, and get breakfast for leo. i shall hear you if you call." leo had made the fire in the cooking-stove, and in a short time the odor of fried sausages pervaded the house; the beef tea was in course of preparation, and the coffee was boiling on the stove. maggie was as busy as a bee; but every five minutes she ran into the front room, and asked andré if he wanted anything. she went to the front door, where the baker had deposited half a dozen two-cent rolls, each of which was nearly as big as one sold for five cents now. for a girl of fifteen, maggie was an excellent cook; indeed, she would have been regarded as a prodigy in this respect in our day and generation. she had acquired all her skill from andré, whose accomplishments were almost unlimited. when he first came to boston, he had boarded out; but, when maggie was eight years old, he had taken this house. at first he had done the housework himself, with what little help she could give him, till now she had entirely relieved him from any care of this kind. at this time he had taken leo from the almshouse, to be her companion in his absence. breakfast was soon ready; and leo was called up from the workshop, where he had already got out a portion of the stock for four small mouse-houses, each intended to accommodate a single pair of mice. he was still cheerful and hopeful, and went in to see andré before he sat down at the table. he told his father he was sure he could make ten dollars a week by his splendid enterprise. he intended to take the palace he had finished up to state street, for sale, at noon that day. the problem would soon be solved, and he was already nearly as well satisfied as though he had the price of his curious merchandise in his pocket. after breakfast he returned to the shop. he was sad when he thought of staying away from school, and of giving up the medal he had set his heart upon; but, then, it was a very great pleasure to do something for his devoted father, who had been so good to him. it was a great sacrifice that he was called upon to make; but there was no help for it, and he tried to yield cheerfully to the necessity of the occasion. gladly and hopefully he sawed and planed, and squared, and grooved, and mortised his work, and nailed the parts together. at ten o'clock the doctor came. he was as gentle and kind as he had been the evening before. andré was partially paralyzed on one side of his frame; but dr. fisher was quite hopeful of his patient, though it was not likely that he could go to work for some months. the physician was much pleased with maggie, and when he was taking his leave he asked for leo. "he is in his shop at work," said maggie. "every one that comes here goes down to see his white mice; perhaps you would like to do so." "i would," replied the doctor, with one of those benevolent smiles which all who knew him will remember to the end of their days. maggie conducted him to the basement, and then returned to andre's chamber. the doctor examined the cages and palaces with wondering interest, though the mice were all asleep in their lairs. leo put a little canary seed in the grand parade of each house, and this was quite enough to rouse them from their slumbers, and induce them to exhibit themselves to the astonished visitor. "these are my performing mice," said leo, pointing to a house in which seven full-grown ones were nibbling the seed. "what do they perform?" laughed the doctor. "i'll show you, sir." leo swept out the canary seed from the grand parade, so that the little actors should have nothing to distract their attention. taking six little sticks--that looked something like guns--he rapped with his finger-nail on the floor of the house. the seven mice stood up on their hind legs, in a straight line, like a file of soldiers. he then gave each of the first six his musket, and to the seventh a sword. "shoulder--arms!" said he, with a movement of his forefinger, which probably had more effect than the words. the mice, with becoming gravity, obeyed the order, and successively went through four movements in the manual of arms. then one of the little soldiers was deprived of his gun, and leo explained that he was a deserter, and was to be shot for his crime. at a movement of the boy's forefinger, the culprit took his station at one side of the grand parade, while his companions formed a line on the other side, with their muskets pointed at the deserter. "fire!" said leo, at the same time dropping a torpedo on the floor of the house, which exploded. the infamous wretch of a white mouse, which had basely deserted his flag, dropped upon his back, and lay as still as though he had actually suffered the extreme penalty of martial law. it must be added that the captain of the firing party was so frightened by the noise of the torpedo that he scampered away into his nest, much to the mortification of leo; but he was recalled, and compelled to face the music at the head of his squad. leo rapped again on the floor, and the defunct mouse was suddenly resurrected. the tragedy completed, the squad was dismissed, and immediately became white mice again, snuffing about the parade, doubtless wondering what had become of the canary seed, which was choice food, served out only on extra occasions. "that is really wonderful," said dr. fisher. "did you train them yourself?" "partly; but my father did most of it," replied leo, who proceeded to explain the method by which the little creatures had been educated. "leo," said the doctor, as he was about to depart, "your sister seems to be a very sensitive young lady. i wanted to ask her some questions; but i did not feel quite equal to it. i will ask them of you; but i wish you to understand that i do so as your friend." the good physician then inquired into the circumstances of the poor barber. leo told him the exact truth, but assured him the family were in no need of assistance, and did not feel like accepting charity. modestly, and with much enthusiasm, he then stated in what manner he intended to support the family. "certainly there are plenty of people who would be glad to have some of your beautiful little pets, especially in these elegant houses you make," added the physician. "i would take one myself if i had time to attend to them." the doctor was a bachelor. "i have no doubt i can sell them, sir." "i hope you will not take it amiss if i mention the fact among my friends and patients that you have them for sale," added dr. fisher. "no, sir; i'm sure i should not! i should be very much obliged to you." "then i will recommend your wares to those who are able to buy them; and i trust you will drive a large trade in the mouse business." the doctor went away; and leo, encouraged by the promise of the powerful influence of his visitor, resumed his work. at twelve o'clock, when maggie called him to dinner, he had made considerable progress in the four houses in process of construction. when he had finished his noonday meal, he went out and found tom casey, an irish boy whom he had befriended in various ways. tom agreed to go with him to state street; and the new "hotel des mice"--as it was labelled in large letters on the front gable--was loaded upon a little wagon of leo's build, and they started for the busy street, attended by a crowd of curious youngsters, of both sexes and of all conditions. [illustration: leo starts for state street.--page .] the mice were astonished at the sudden revolution which was taking place in their affairs; and leo was as anxious as though the fate of the nation depended upon his success. chapter xiii. wittleworth _vs._ checkynshaw. mr. checkynshaw did a rushing business on the day his papers were stolen from the safe; therefore he rushed out of the humble abode of mrs. wittleworth. it is more than probable that he was entirely sincere when he called fitz an idiot; but whether he was or not, that young gentleman's mother was satisfied that truer words had never been spoken. the banker had actually offered to give him ten dollars a week, and fitz had declined to return. it was a degree of lunacy which she could neither understand nor appreciate. she was both grieved and angry. she wept, and reproached the reckless youth. "i must give up in despair, fitz," said she, bitterly. "if i could support you, i would." "i don't want you to support me, mother," replied fitz, stung by the reproach. "if you will leave this matter to me, i will manage it right." "leave it to you, fitz! that would bring starvation to our door." "no, mother; you look on the dark side. here's five dollars for my week's salary," he added, handing her the money. "i give you the whole of it this week." "this may keep off the wolf for a week or two," sighed mrs. wittleworth. "i shall get into another place soon, mother; don't worry about it." "but why didn't you take the place when he offered it to you at double wages, fitz? it seems to me you are crazy." "no, i am not crazy. i know what i am about, and checkynshaw knows what he is about. what do you suppose induced him to double my salary so readily?" "because he saw how poor we were." "what does he care for that? there is no more soul in him than there is in a brickbat, mother. it wouldn't trouble him if you starved to death--though you are his first wife's sister. that wasn't the reason." "what was the reason, then, fitz?" asked she, curiously. "checkynshaw is afraid of me," replied fitz, stopping in his walk up and down the room, and looking into his mother's face to note the effect of this startling announcement. "afraid of you, fitz! you are losing your senses!" exclaimed she, with an expression of strong disgust. "it's just as i say, mother. he's afraid of me." "why should he be afraid of you? you are not so very terrible as to alarm a man in his position." "mother, that block of stores ought to be yours. you should have had the income of it ever since checkynshaw came from france with his wife. i tell you that child died of the cholera, when mrs. checkynshaw had it. that is just as plain to me as the nose on a man's face." "nonsense, fitz! do you suppose mr. checkynshaw would keep me out of it if it belonged to me?" "i know he would. i know the man. i haven't been in his office two years for nothing. i keep my eyes open--_i_ do," answered fitz, holding up his head till his neck was stretched to its full length. "checkynshaw may be an honest man, as things go; but you can't make me believe he would give up that block of stores while he could hold on to it by hook or by crook. he wants me under his thumb, where he can know what i'm about. he has lost his papers, and he feels nervous about them. in my opinion, there's something or other among those documents which would let the light in upon that block of stores. that's why he is so anxious to find out where they are. that's why he don't care for the money that was stolen. he knows what he is about, and i know what i'm about." "what is the use for us to think anything about the block of stores? you don't know that little marguerite died," added mrs. wittleworth, interested, in spite of herself, in the extravagant pretensions of her son. "i don't know it, i admit; but i think we ought to find out. checkynshaw says the child is still living with the sisters of charity, somewhere in france. we have nothing but his word for it." "that's enough. he says the child is living, and he don't like to have her ill-treated by her mother-in-law. she is happy at the boarding school, and when her education is finished, doubtless she will come home." "that's all bosh! did any one ever see a letter from her? did checkynshaw ever write a letter to her? does he ever send her any money?" "but he goes to see her every year or two, when he visits europe." "perhaps he does, and then perhaps he don't. did any one else ever see the child? has any one any knowledge of her existence except through checkynshaw? i think not. don't tell me, mother, that a man would leave his daughter in a foreign country for ten years, and only go to see her every year or two. in my opinion,--and i think my opinion is worth something,--the child died in the hospital. checkynshaw keeps up this fiction because it puts five or six thousand dollars a year into his pocket. no one has ever claimed the block of stores, and of course he will hold on to it till some one does." mrs. wittleworth could not help thinking, while starvation or the almshouse stared her full in the face, what a blessing that block of stores would be to her. if her sister's child was dead, it rightfully belonged to her. it was certainly proper for mr. checkynshaw to prove that marguerite was still living, or at least to satisfy her privately on the point. "what can we do, fitz?" she asked. "what can we do, mother? that's the question. when i was in summer street, this evening, i thought i would call upon my friend choate. choate is a gentleman and a scholar--he is." "pshaw, fitz!" ejaculated the poor woman. "why _will_ you talk about your friend choate? he is not your friend. he would not touch you with a ten-foot pole. he looks down upon you from an infinite height." "not he. choate always treats everybody like a gentleman. he always treated me like a gentleman. i believe in choate--i do." "it is ridiculous for you to talk about his being your friend." "he is my friend in very deed. i called upon him at his residence, in winthrop place, this evening. he treated me like a gentleman. he was glad to see me. he shook hands with me, and welcomed me to his house, as though i had been the governor of the state. everett was there, and winthrop came in before i left. i heard them speak of webster, and i suppose he was expected. i was introduced to everett and winthrop." "you!" exclaimed his mother. "i, mother!" "poor child, they were making fun of you!" sighed mrs. wittleworth. "not they. everett bowed to me as gracefully as though i had been the president. winthrop was a little stiff; but what did i care for him, as long as choate and everett were on good terms with me?" "your head is turned, fitz." "no matter if it is, so long as it is turned in the right direction. choate told everett and winthrop that i had formerly occupied a place in his office, and that he had a high regard for me. he smiled pleasantly, and so did everett. winthrop didn't take much notice of me. choate asked me if i wanted to see him for anything particular. i told him i did; i wanted a little legal advice in the matter of wittleworth _vs._ checkynshaw. he smiled very kindly upon me; he smiled as only choate can smile." "what did he say to you?" demanded mrs. wittleworth, impatiently. "he apologized for his inability to attend to the case at that time, as he was engaged upon a matter of politics with everett and winthrop; but he hoped he should find time to see me in the course of a week. of course i didn't care about breaking up his conference with everett and winthrop; so i apologized for the interruption, and promised him i would call upon him at his office the next day." "i suppose he was very sorry he could not attend to the case," added mrs. wittleworth. "he appeared to be. he expressed his regrets; and, as he was attending to the affairs of the nation, i could not be hard on him, you know." "certainly not," said his mother, amused in spite of the weakness of her son. "choate is a good fellow--choate is," added fitz, rubbing his chin, and puffing out his lips. "when he gets hold of this case, he will make things fly, mother." "what are you going to do, fitz?" asked mrs. wittleworth, seriously. "i'm not going to mince the matter any longer. i am going to bring a suit against checkynshaw for the block of stores, and the income received from them for the last ten years," replied fitz, magnificently. "you are!" "i am; that is, when i say i am, of course i am going to do it in your name, for i am the next heir to you. that will bring things to a head, and we shall soon find out whether checkynshaw is ready to stand trial or not." "we have no money to go to law with," pleaded the poor woman. "we don't want any, mother. i have looked into this business, and what i don't know about it isn't worth knowing. i know something about law, for i used to keep my eyes and ears open when i was in the law business." mr. wittleworth had been an errand boy in mr. choate's office! "i don't think you can go to law without money, fitz. i have always heard it was very expensive," added mrs. wittleworth. "all we want, mother, is a copy of my grandfather's will. we attach the block of stores, if necessary. under the will it belongs to you, unless checkynshaw can produce your sister's child." "suppose he should produce her?" "that's the very thing he can't do. if he does, of course our case falls to the ground; but he can't." "but if he does produce the child, where is the money to pay the expenses?" "the expenses won't be much. i shall say to choate, 'choate,' says i, 'here's a piece of property which belongs to my mother. you can go up to the registry of probate, and read the will yourself. give my mother legal possession of it, and i will pay you five or ten thousand dollars'--i haven't just decided exactly what to offer him. he takes the case, brings the suit, and gets the property for you." "suppose he doesn't get it?" "then he will get nothing. when i was in the law business, cases were sometimes taken in this way." mrs. wittleworth was encouraged by this hopeful statement, and disposed to let fitz have his own way. abject poverty was so terrible that she could not afford to lose such a chance. mr. checkynshaw's conduct in leaving his child in france, among strangers, for ten years, was singular enough to beget suspicion. the conversation was continued till the fire went out, and the chill air of the room drove the intended litigants to their chambers. fitz did not come down till breakfast time the next morning. he lay in his warm bed, building castles in the air, and thinking what a great man he should be when the block of stores and its revenues were reclaimed from the grasp of mr. checkynshaw. he thought it quite possible that he could then go into a barber's shop and be shaved without any one having the impudence to laugh at him. mrs. wittleworth had thought a great deal about the property, but she could not quite make up her mind to take such decided steps as those indicated by her son. if the attempt was made, and proved to be a failure, mr. checkynshaw would never forgive her, and might injure her in revenge. when she came down stairs, she had decided to call upon the banker, and state the case to him. if he chose to satisfy her that marguerite was still living, it would save trouble and future disappointment. "you can see him if you like, mother. i have no doubt he will smooth you over. checkynshaw is a plausible man--checkynshaw is. he carries too many guns for a woman. i would call myself if it were not for letting myself down to his level," said mr. wittleworth, stroking his chin, when his mother was ready to go. "don't be so silly, fitz!" "checkynshaw won't stand trial, in my opinion. he is shrewd--he is." "i only intend to ask him what he means to do," added mrs. wittleworth. "he means to hold on to the property--that's what he means to do, mother. he may try to buy you off--don't do it, on any account. leave this matter all to me. me and choate will fix it right. now, be careful what you do." "i will not do anything," said his mother, as she put on her bonnet. "i will see choate to-day. me and choate will touch off a volcano under checkynshaw's feet in the course of a week or two," he added, as his mother left the house. chapter xiv. mr. checkynshaw is liberal. mrs. wittleworth went directly to the door of the private office. she had her doubts in regard to the interview which was to take place. mr. checkynshaw had never treated her very handsomely. she had called upon him only once since the downfall of her husband. the banker had listened very coldly to her story of hardship and suffering. he had taken fitz into his employ at that time; but her reception was so cold, and the great man's manner so forbidding, that she had resolved that nothing but imminent starvation should induce her to repeat the visit. mr. checkynshaw was a hard, selfish, money-getting man. he was not one whom a poor relative would willingly approach with a tale of suffering. though this was not mrs. wittleworth's present errand, she dreaded the result almost as much as though she had been an applicant for charity. the banker was overbearing and haughty in his way. he bullied his social inferiors, and looked upon them from a height which was appalling to them. she opened the door and entered. the banker was alone, sitting in the stuffed arm-chair at his desk. "ellen?" said he, glancing at her with an inquiring look, probably satisfied that she had come to plead for the return of her son to the place from which he had been discharged. it did not occur to him that human impudence could extend so far as to permit such people to bring a suit against him for their rights, however well defined or clearly established. if he owed them anything, or they had any claims against him, it was their duty to be solemnly impressed by the loftiness of his social position, and humbly to beg for what belonged to them. "i thought i would come up and see you this morning, mr. checkynshaw," stammered the poor woman; and poverty had so subdued her, and so broken her spirit, that she hardly knew how to introduce the subject upon her mind. "if you come to ask me to take fitz back, it will do no good. you permit the puppy to insult me," replied the banker, in the most forbidding tones. "i don't permit him to insult you. i did what i could to make him speak properly to you," replied mrs. wittleworth, meekly. "it's all the same; it was bad bringing up. i can't have him in my office again," added mr. checkynshaw, though at that moment, for some reason best known to himself, he would have been very glad to forgive the young man's insolence, and take him back at double salary. "that boy has outraged my good-nature. when i saw how hard the times were with you, i was willing to give him double wages; but the ingrate only insulted me for it." "he is very wilful; i wish he was not so headstrong." "i can't take him back now; at least not till he has apologized for his impudence, and promised better things for the future," continued the banker, shaking his head, as though his mind was firmly made up for the issue. "i did not come to ask you to take him back," added mrs. wittleworth. "o, you didn't!" "no, sir; he is not yet willing to come." "what did you come for--to beg?" "i don't come to you to beg," replied she with a little display of spirit. "what do you want, then?" "you mustn't be angry with me, mr. checkynshaw." "i'm not angry with you. if you have anything to say, say it. i hate long stories," said the banker, impatiently. "fitz has taken it into his head that the block of stores which my father gave to mary belongs to us," continued mrs. wittleworth, looking down to the floor, as if fearful that the great man's glance would blast her if she beheld it. "has he, indeed?" if mrs. wittleworth had looked at the banker instead of the floor, she might have seen that his face flushed slightly; that his lip quivered, and his chest heaved; but, as she did not look at him, the banker had time to suppress these tell-tale emotions. "he thinks so; and he seems to be determined that something shall be done about it," added the poor woman, still gazing intently at the floor. "and you encourage such ridiculous notions--do you, ellen?" said mr. checkynshaw, severely. "i don't know that i encourage them. i can't help his thoughts." "probably you don't wish to help them. well, you can do as you please about it. if you choose to get him and yourself into difficulty, i suppose nothing i can say will have any influence with you." "i don't want to get into trouble, or to spend any money in going to law." "i should judge, from the appearance of your house, that you hadn't much to spend in that way," sneered the banker. "i have not, indeed. i said all i could to dissuade fitz from doing anything about the matter; but he is bent upon it. he has been to see mr. choate about it." "to see mr. choate!" exclaimed the banker, springing out of his chair; and now his face was deadly pale. but in an instant mr. checkynshaw was conscious that he was revealing the weakness of his position, and he sat down in his chair again, with a placid smile upon his face. "am i to understand that fitz and you intend to fight me in the law upon this matter?" demanded he, with a sardonic grin on his face, indicating both fear and malice. "fitz says there will be no fighting about it. we are to bring a suit to recover the property, according to the terms of my father's will, with the income for ten years." "fitz says so--does he?" "he thinks marguerite died when your present wife had the cholera. he says all you have to do is to produce the child. if you do, that will be the end of it; if not, the property certainly belongs to us." "what makes fitz think that marguerite is not living?" asked mr. checkynshaw, more mildly than he had yet spoken. "well, he has his reasons," replied she, not quite certain that she might not say something which would compromise her son. "what are his reasons?" "i don't know that it is necessary to mention them. i think myself it is very strange that you haven't brought her home. she must be fifteen years old by this time." "that is her age." "i don't want any trouble about this business, mr. checkynshaw; so i thought i would come up and see you. perhaps you can show me some letters from marguerite, or something else that will convince fitz that she is alive." "i have no letters here." "have you any at your house?" asked mrs. wittleworth. "not that i am aware of. i never preserve any but business letters. if i understand you, ellen, fitz's modest claim is for the block of stores and the income of them for the last ten years." "that's what he said." "are you aware of the amount of this claim?" asked the banker, nervously. "i don't know, exactly." "i suppose not," said mr. checkynshaw, pausing to reflect. "i don't wish to bring marguerite home till her education is completed, and this thing may cause me some annoyance." "i'm sure i don't want to annoy you," pleaded mrs. wittleworth. "perhaps you do not; but fitz does. if you refuse to be a party to this suit, of course he can do nothing. he has no rights yet in the premises himself, and he is under age." "i think myself the matter ought to be settled up somehow or other," replied mrs. wittleworth, timidly. "i am so poor i can hardly keep soul and body together, and fitz has lost his place." "i will give him his place, at ten dollars a week. i will see that you have a good house, properly furnished, and a sufficient income to live on. if i had known that you were so badly off, i should have done something for you before. why didn't you come to me?" "i don't like to ask favors; besides, we have been able to get along till times came on so hard this winter that i couldn't get any work." "i don't wish to be bothered with this thing, and be compelled to go to france in the middle of the winter after marguerite. fitz saw that he could annoy me, and he has taken this means to vent his spite upon me. but the suit depends upon you. he can do nothing without you. mr. choate will have nothing to do with it. he doesn't take cases of this kind; but fitz can find some unprincipled lawyer who will undertake the case, and compel me to derange my plans." "could you show me some letters from marguerite, or some bill you have paid for her board or tuition?" "perhaps i may be able to find something of the kind at my house. i'll see. but i think we had better settle up this business between ourselves, without fitz." mr. checkynshaw looked troubled, and mrs. wittleworth could see it now. "how can we settle it, if you have nothing to show me to prove that marguerite is living?" asked the poor woman. "marguerite is living, or was eighteen months ago, when i was in france." "haven't you heard from her for eighteen months?" "of course i have; but that is neither here nor there. i don't wish to be annoyed in this way, or to have your son boasting that he has a claim on me. i don't choose to submit to that sort of thing any longer. neither is it my intention to bring marguerite home till she is eighteen years old. she is very much attached to the institution in which she spent her childhood." "i should think you would wish to see her oftener than once in two years," added mrs. wittleworth, the remark prompted by her woman's heart. "so i would. but you know just how it is. i can't bring her home without having trouble in my family; and she is perfectly happy where she is. i ought to have done more for you, ellen, than i have; but i didn't know the world went so hard with you. i blame myself for not thinking more about it; but i am plunged in business, so that i hardly have time to think of my own family. i don't see how i can do it in any other way than by settling a fixed sum upon you at once. then i can do all that i have to do at one time, and you will not have to depend upon my bad memory." "i'm sure i've no claims on you of that kind," replied mrs. wittleworth, amazed at this outburst of generosity. "i know you have no legal claims upon me; but you are the sister of my first wife. i have not forgotten her yet, and i never shall," continued mr. checkynshaw, with a gush of sentiment such as the poor woman had never before seen proceed from him. "property from your father's estate came into my family, and it would not be right for me to permit you to want for the comforts of life, to say nothing of the necessities. i'm going to do something for you here and now--something so that you shall not be dependent upon fitz, whether i forget you for the time or not. do you think you could live on the income of ten thousand dollars a year? that would be six hundred dollars, or about twelve dollars a week." "that is more than i have had for years," gasped mrs. wittleworth. "very well; i will give you a check for that sum; or i will invest it for you in the best paying stocks i can find." "you are too good! i did not expect this!" exclaimed the poor woman, wiping the tears from her eyes. "i shall do no more than my duty--what i ought to have done before," replied the banker, magnanimously. "and, by the way, it would be as well for you to sign a paper, so as to set this business at rest, and prevent fitz from annoying me," said the banker, as he took down his check-book, and shuffled the papers about the desk with assumed indifference. "what paper am i to sign?" asked mrs. wittleworth, beginning to open her eyes. "i mean a quitclaim deed on the block of stores; but of course that has nothing to do with the ten thousand dollars i am to pay you." mrs. wittleworth knew what a quitclaim deed was. it was a deed by which she relinquished all her right, title, and interest in the block of stores. "i think i will not sign it to-day, mr. checkynshaw," said she, rather fearfully. the banker urged her in vain. fitz had warned her against such a step, and she had more confidence in fitz's judgment at that moment than ever before. "very well; i will have the deed drawn, and fill out the check ready for you the next time you call," added the banker, more disappointed than his manner indicated. mrs. wittleworth went home. chapter xv. a success in the mouse business. "now, tom, if you will draw the wagon, i will steady the house, and see that the mice don't get out and run away," said leo, when he had drawn the chariot of the beauties a short distance. "small loss if they do," replied tom casey, who had already made up his mind that they were going on a fool's errand. "not a bit of it, tom. these mice are worth fifty cents a pair," added leo, as he placed himself by the house, and his companion took the pole of the wagon. "fifty cints--is it? sure who'd give fifty cints for those bits o' crayturs? i wouldn't give fifty cints for a tousand of 'em, let alone a pair of 'em." "when i come back with five or six dollars in my pocket, which i shall get for this establishment, you will change your tune, tom." "well, the house is foist rate, and you may get five dollars for that. sure i think it's worth it; but i wouldn't give two cints for all the mice that's in it." "perhaps you wouldn't, tom. you haven't any taste for white mice." "taste--is it? sure, would anyone ate 'em?" tom casey was a recent importation from the green isle, and the emerald dust had not been rubbed off him by the civilizing and humanizing influence of the public schools; but he brought with him from ireland a big heart, which was worth more than polish and refinement, though both go very well together. in spite of the grave responsibility which rested upon him, leo laughed heartily at the blunder, and took the trouble to explain the meaning of taste in its artistic sense. the procession--for the crowd of boys and girls was augmented continually when the mouse-car reached high street--advanced towards its destination, and leo had all he could do to keep the youngsters from crowding upon and upsetting the wagon, in their eagerness to see the mice and their magnificent dwelling-house. "just twig 'em, jimmy!" shouted one who had tipped over half a dozen of his companions in his enthusiasm. "their tails is as long as seven's rope." "hotel dees mice," said another, spelling out the sign over the grand parade. "what does that mean, billy?" "they're going to take 'em to a hotel to make soup of. i guess there's some chinamen at the tremont. they say them coveys eats rats. twig the red eyes they has!" leo kept the youngsters at bay as well as he could, and hurried tom along, till they reached state street, where he took a stand in front of the exchange. a crowd of curious merchants, clerks, and curb-stone brokers immediately gathered around the palace to examine the structure and its inhabitants. it was a novel establishment, and excited no little attention. "what have you there, my boy?" asked a well-dressed gentleman, working his way into the interior of the ring. "white mice, sir," replied leo. "they are cunning little creatures," added the gentleman, bending down and looking into the grand parade, where the mice were now feeding on canary seed. they had become somewhat accustomed to the crowd, and, as if conscious that they were for sale, put the best foot forward. "what's the price of them?" asked the gentleman. "six dollars for the mice and house," replied leo; but the words almost choked him. "six dollars!" exclaimed the questioner, edging off. "that's a very modest price, young man." "the mice bring fifty cents a pair, and there's a great deal of work in the house, besides the stock." "but you don't expect any one to give you six dollars for a trap like that, with half a dozen rats in it--do you?" "i think it is worth that, sir. do you wish to buy it?" "i thought it would amuse my children; but i can't think of giving anything like six dollars for it," added the gentleman, shaking his head. "what would you be willing to give for it?" "i'll give you a dollar for it." "no, sir, i couldn't think of selling it at any such price as that. i would give it away before i would sell it for that," replied leo, indignant at having his work so grossly undervalued. "i will give you two dollars for it. i have a little lame boy at home, who can't go out, and i am willing to give two for it." "i will not sell it for less than five dollars, sir." "why, that's a rascally price!" exclaimed the proposed purchaser. "five dollars for a mere rat-trap!" "that's my lowest price, sir. if you don't want it, the law don't compel you to take it," added leo, vexed to have the person run down his handiwork. the gentleman backed out of the crowd, and disappeared. leo thought he could not care much for his little lame boy, if he was not willing to pay five dollars for such an elegant establishment as the "_hôtel des mice_," which could not help being a very great pleasure to the invalid. half a dozen others looked into the palace, asked questions about the habits of the mice, and inquired the price of the house and its inmates. leo answered them all very politely; but they laughed and sneered when he mentioned the six dollars. the "mouse business" did not seem so prosperous as leo had anticipated. he had been confident that a dozen persons would want the elegant establishment, and he was not quite sure there would not be a quarrel among them for the possession of it at the price he named. he could not see why these rich merchants and bankers should haggle at six dollars if they had any children at home. his heart began to feel heavy in his bosom, for he had expected to sell his present stock of merchandise as soon as he named the price, and to find half a dozen more who would want them badly enough to give him advance orders. there appeared to be a discount on the mouse business. the gentlemen in state street were singularly cold and wanting in enthusiasm on the subject of white mice. it began to look like a failure, and tom casey seemed to be a true prophet. what an inglorious termination to his career as a mouse merchant it would be to drag the palace back to no. phillimore court, and tell maggie that no one would buy it, even at the moderate price of five dollars! but leo soon realized that he was becoming chicken-hearted; that he was almost in despair even before he had been half an hour in the field. this was not his usual style, and he was ashamed of it, as he considered his weakness. "make or break!" exclaimed he, slapping his hand upon his chest, and throwing his shoulders back, as if to stiffen his frame. "i'll stick to it till something breaks. this is a new business, and i must _make_ the trade." the effect of this slapping of the chest and this stiffening of the frame was immediately apparent in his demeanor, for they were the visible manifestations of a firm will. he was more cheerful, answered inquiries more briskly, and was less affected by adverse criticism of his handicraft. men asked the price, sneered, and turned away. there were plenty to admire his workmanship, but as yet none to buy. while leo was thus struggling against the tide of fortune, the crowd opened, and mr. checkynshaw appeared within the ring. he was a great man, and he showed it in his manner--perhaps more in his manner than in any other way. mrs. wittleworth had taken leave of the banker an hour before, and since that time he had been alone in his private office, only occasionally interrupted by a business call. mr. checkynshaw was troubled. fitz was a thorn in his flesh and a stumbling-block in his path. doubtless it was very annoying for the father of marguerite to break up the educational and social relations she had sustained from early childhood. doubtless it was very wicked of fitz to put him to all this trouble for nothing. perhaps it was rash in him to discharge his clerk; but fitz was so airy and impudent, that a decent self-respect would not permit him to tolerate his insolence. mr. checkynshaw wrote a letter, upon which he labored for a long time; for the letter appeared to be full of difficulties. he finished it at last; but, instead of enclosing it in an envelope, he folded it up and put it into his pocket. then he took his hat, drew on his overcoat, and went out. he visited a stationery store in the lower part of the street, purchased some french paper and envelopes, and walked up the street till he saw the crowd in front of the exchange, which had gathered around the "_hôtel des mice_." "what have you here, boy?" he asked, when he recognized leo. "white mice, sir. my father can't work now, and i am going to try and make something by selling them," replied leo, cheerfully. "what is the price?" demanded the banker, rather curtly. "six dollars, sir." "i'll take it, boy," replied mr. checkynshaw, with a promptness which astonished the young mechanic. the banker took the money from his pocket-book and handed it to leo. "good on your head!" whispered tom casey, his eyes opening as wide as teacups when he saw the bank bills; and his dark prophecy was suddenly demolished. "you know where i live?" interrogated mr. checkynshaw. "yes, sir." "take it up to the house, then," added the banker. "i will, sir;" and leo thought the great man, as his first customer, was worthy of his reputation. just then the gentleman who had the lame boy pushed his way into the middle of the ring. "what's the lowest price you will take for the concern?" said he. "it is sold, sir," replied leo, triumphantly. "sold!" exclaimed the tardy customer, who appeared to think that no one could be foolish enough to buy such an establishment unless he had a lame son. "yes, sir; i just sold it." "what did you get?" "six dollars." "i bought it," interposed mr. checkynshaw, bowing to the other gentleman, as though he knew him. "i'm sorry i didn't take it, for it would have pleased my boy." "you are too late." "but i will get up another for you," said leo, exhilarated by this sudden improvement of the mouse business. "when can you do it?" asked the gentleman, who was quite disappointed to find he could not purchase the establishment at his own price, as he had expected to do at a later hour in the day, after the young man had had an opportunity to consider the vanity of worldly hopes. "that depends upon what kind of one you want. if you wish for one like this, i can't get it done before monday. i can give you a two-dollar house, with one pair of mice, to-morrow," replied leo, in the most business-like tones. "i want the best one you can get up. i want one as good or better than this." "i will build one as good as this. i will have it at your house on monday; but the price will be six dollars." "very well. i thought i should be able to buy this one for two or three dollars before night, for i didn't think any one else would want it." probably the example of mr. checkynshaw had some influence on the customer. if white mice and their habitations were really articles of merchandise, he was willing to pay the market price. leo wrote down his name and residence, and assured the gentleman that he should have the mice on monday; or, if he got the house done, on saturday. "don't you want an establishment of this kind, baxter?" asked mr. checkynshaw of a busy person who had worked his way through the crowd. "you have two or three boys." mr. baxter examined the palace and its denizens, and answered that he did want one, though not till the banker informed him that he had purchased one. it is wonderful how things sell after a great man has purchased. the new customer did not want any two-dollar palaces; he desired one as good as any other person had, and he gave his order accordingly. if mr. checkynshaw was fool enough to pay six dollars for such an establishment, mr. baxter could not suffer in reputation by doing the same. leo was as happy as a lord. it was make, and not break. "leo," said the banker, "how is your father?" "better, sir, i thank you." "i think i will go down and see him. he has shaved me for years. by the way, is your sister--what's her name?" "maggie, sir." "is maggie at home?" "yes, sir." "i wish to see her very much," said mr. checkynshaw, walking away. what could he want to see maggie for? was leo's thought, as he started his team--tom casey--up state street. chapter xvi. the letter from marguerite. mr. checkynshaw walked down to no. phillimore court. it was very plain that he had business there, for it was not his style to visit a poor man who was sick. he was admitted by maggie, who feared that his coming related to the robbery of his safe, and that leo might be in some manner implicated in that affair. "how is your father, miss?" asked the stately gentleman from state street, as he entered the house. "he is more comfortable to-day, sir; but i don't know that he is really any better," answered maggie. "i am very sorry he is sick. i miss him very much. he has waited upon me at the shop for several years, and i never let any other barber shave me, if i can have him by waiting an hour," added mr. checkynshaw, with a degree of condescension which he rarely exhibited. "you are his daughter, i believe." "not his own daughter; but it is just the same." "i think i have seen you at the shop several times." "yes, i always carry up _mon père's_ dinner at half past twelve. he can't come home at noon." "_mon père!_ you speak french--do you?" "yes, sir. i speak french and english equally well. won't you go in and see _mon père_!" mr. checkynshaw would be very glad to see andré, and maggie conducted him to the front room. "i am sorry you are sick, andré," said the great man. "thank you, sir. it is very kind of you to call upon me," replied andré, amazed at the gracious mien of one who had rarely spoken to him save in the tones of authority, addressing him as a menial and an inferior. "i always feel an interest in those i see every day; but the fact that you were taken sick at my house probably brought the matter more directly to my attention. are you comfortably provided for, andré?" asked the rich man, glancing around the room. "yes, sir; thank you, sir. i have everything i need," replied andré, faintly; for he was not quite so sure of what he said as he wished to be, though his pride and independence revolted at any suggestion of charity. "i saw leo up in state street. your boy's name is leo--isn't it?" asked the banker, just as though it derogated from his dignity to know the name of a poor boy like the barber's son. "yes, sir; his name is leo," replied maggie, taking up the conversation, so that the invalid might not be compelled to talk too much. "he is driving quite a trade in white mice," laughed the great man. "has he met with any success, sir?" asked maggie, who felt that everything depended upon leo's exertions; and she hardly expected him to accomplish anything in the mouse business. "yes, he has been remarkably successful, i should say." "i am so glad!" "i bought the house he had with him for six dollars, and he has orders for two more just like it, at the same price. that will give him quite a lift, i hope." "indeed it will!" exclaimed maggie, delighted with the good news. "eighteen dollars for white mice, _mon père_," she added, turning to andré. "that is very good indeed!" said the barber. "leo is a brave boy." "knowing that you had a family, andré, and that your wages were not very large, i thought i would inquire into the matter a little. i should be very glad to help you." "thank you, mr. checkynshaw," replied andré, in his feminine tones, weakened by his sickness. "i think we do not need any help--do we, maggie?" "no, _mon père_, especially as leo is doing so well. i think we shall get along well enough." "i am afraid you are too proud to be very poor," said the banker, glancing at maggie. "we have always got along very well, and i think we shall in the future. leo says he shall do great things; and i hope he will." "then leo is to support the family," added mr. checkynshaw, fixing his gaze upon the fair girl, who seemed to him altogether too delicate and refined to be a poor man's daughter. "perhaps i maybe able to do something by and by, when _mon père_ gets better." "what can you do?" "i can sew, and do any work that i can take home with me." "ah, _ma fille_, you can take in no work. i shall soon be able to go to the shop again," interposed andré. "i have a great deal of spare time, _mon père_. i am able, and o, i am so willing to work for you!" "perhaps i may be of service to you," suggested mr. checkynshaw. "thank you, sir." "you speak french, miss, i think you said," added the banker, with an assumed indifference. "yes, sir." "can you write it correctly?" "yes, sir, i think i can." "maggie is a very good scholar, and she writes french quite as well as she does english." "perhaps you will be willing to give me a specimen of your skill in translating." "certainly, sir, if you desire it." mr. checkynshaw took from his pocket the letter he had written in his private office, and the french note paper he had purchased at the stationery store, and handed them to her. "if you will sit down in the other room, and give me a translation into french of this letter, i can at once determine whether you would be of any service to us. if you are, we will pay you very liberally; but most of our work of this kind is translating french into english." "i will try, sir," replied maggie. "i will stay here with your father while you do it." maggie went into the rear room; and in less than half an hour she produced a translation of the letter handed to her. "that is excellently well done, miss," said mr. checkynshaw, when he had glanced at the translation. "you write a beautiful hand. it is even better than my daughter's." "you are very kind, sir." "i will keep this as a specimen of your work. here are two dollars for the job," added mr. checkynshaw, as he gave her the money. "indeed, sir, you are too kind. i don't ask any money for that." "take it, maggie; i always pay people that work for me, especially when they do their work as well as you have done this. take it, miss, or i shall be offended." it was not safe to offend such a munificent patron, and maggie took the money, blushing as she did so. mr. checkynshaw folded up the translation, and put it into his pocket; and, promising to send her some more letters in a few days, he took his leave. the banker went back to his private office. after ransacking his papers for a long time, he found an old letter directed to him, in the care of the firm, postmarked at paris, with a french postage stamp upon it. into the envelope of this letter he thrust the translation which maggie had made. the banker seated himself in his arm-chair, put his feet on the desk, and lighted a cigar. mr. checkynshaw held to the pernicious belief that smoking soothed the nerves of an excited man. he smoked and thought for a while, till his meditations were disturbed by the entrance of mrs. wittleworth and fitz. "i hope you will excuse me for coming again so soon, mr. checkynshaw," said mrs. wittleworth, timidly. "i hope you'll excuse _me_ too," added fitz, thrusting his thumbs into the arm-holes of his vest, and pursing up his under lip, as he had a habit of doing when he particularly realized his own importance. he stood with his hat on his head--a narrow-brimmed "stove-pipe," which young men were more in the habit of wearing at that period than at the present time. he was the impersonation of impudence and self-conceit, and the banker looked angry enough to annihilate him. "i thought i would come and see if you had anything to show me from marguerite," continued mrs. wittleworth, after the banker had bestowed a look of supreme contempt upon fitz. "i have something to show you," replied mr. checkynshaw, taking the old envelope which contained maggie's translation from his pocket, and handing it to her. fitz was rather taken aback by this ready reply, and by the sight of the musty envelope. his nether lip actually returned to its normal position under the shock. "this is from marguerite--is it?" asked mrs. "wittleworth. "it is from marguerite," replied mr. checkynshaw. "what is it, mother? open it. don't be humbugged," said fitz. the poor woman opened the letter, and looked blankly at its contents. "it is in french," she added. "marguerite always writes her letters in french," added the banker. "because she knows you can't read a word of french," sneered fitz. "no impudence, young man!" "don't, fitz!" pleaded mrs. wittleworth. "mr. checkynshaw, this business must be settled between me and you. you will not be permitted to take advantage of a woman's weakness to impose upon her," added fitz, magnificently. "if you use any impudence in this office, young man, i shall kick you out to-day as i did yesterday." "mr. checkynshaw, i have my own views and opinions on this subject, and i claim the privilege of expressing them as a gentleman should. i have been to see choate on this business; and me and choate will see that justice is done to the unfortunate." "be still, fitz!" said his mother. "i will not be still, mother," protested mr. wittleworth. "i will not stand still and have you imposed upon." the banker sprang out of his chair, and his late clerk retreated a pace or two. "mr. checkynshaw, i have only one word to say," he added, placing himself near enough to the door to effect a hasty retreat in case of necessity. "my mother is disposed to accept your offer of ten thousand dollars for a quitclaim deed of the block of stores. i don't intend that she shall do anything of the kind. i've been to my lawyer, sir--a gentleman recommended by choate; for choate is so busy that he can't attend to the case personally; and my lawyer says that none but a _non compos_ would give a quitclaim deed to the property. if my mother sees fit to sign any such paper, my lawyer will take steps to restrain her, sir. those are my views. i've nothing more to say, mr. checkynshaw." mr. wittleworth tipped his hat over on one side, thrust his thumbs into his arm-holes, and pursed up his lips again, as though he had already set the river on fire. his mother was angry and disgusted with him, as she often had occasion to be. "is the quitclaim deed ready, mr. checkynshaw?" asked the poor woman. "no; but it shall be ready, and the check with it to-morrow." "mother," exclaimed fitz, in warning tones,--and he evidently did not place much dependence upon the restraining power of his lawyer,--"you promised not to sign any paper to-day." "and you promised to behave yourself, fitz, if i permitted you to come with me. i can't depend upon you, and i am going to accept mr. checkynshaw's offer," retorted his mother, sharply. "you are?" gasped fitz. "i am; and if the paper was ready, i would sign it this moment. will you let me take this letter home with me, mr. checkynshaw?" "certainly, ellen," replied the banker, graciously. "i used to read french a little when i was a girl, and i may be able to study out some of it." "as you like; but when you come again, don't bring that boy with you." mrs. wittleworth and her son retired. on their way home, an angry discussion ensued. fitz raved at the weakness of women in general, and of his mother in particular; but she firmly declared, even if she was satisfied that marguerite was not living, she would sign the deed. in the house, both of them examined the letter. fitz did not know a word of french, and his mother could only make out "_mon cher père_," and an occasional word in the letter. "i will tell you what we can do, mother. andré maggimore, round in phillimore court, is a frenchman, and can talk french like a dutchman." "but he is very sick, you said." "so he is. well, his daughter maggie can read it. i will take it to her this evening." after supper, fitz, with the letter in his pocket, started for the barber's house. chapter xvii. the letter from france. leo conducted his team to pemberton square, and knocked at the back door of the rich man's house. one of the kitchen girls answered the summons, and great was her surprise when she saw the palace of the mice. it was taken into the kitchen, and mrs. checkynshaw was called. she came down, accompanied by miss elinora. leo explained that the banker had purchased the establishment, and that he had been directed to deliver it. elinora, though she had sat up late the night before at the party, and had been very ill-natured all day, was surprised into a smile of pleasure when she saw the cunning little creatures in their curious house. leo gave them some canary seed, of which he carried a supply in his pocket, in order to induce the pets to exhibit themselves when desired. they had behaved very well thus far, and had produced a favorable impression upon all who had seen them. elinora was pleased with the mice because they promised to afford her a new sensation. "i think i'll have them in my chamber, mother, where i can see them," said she, after she had looked at them a while. "i wouldn't have them in my chamber, miss," replied leo. "why, not?" "they sleep in the daytime, and train in the night. they would rattle about the house so that you could not sleep." "i will have them in my dressing-room, then," added she. "that's not exactly the place for them," continued leo, who had not a very clear idea of what the dressing-room was. "where would you keep them, then?" asked elinora, petulantly. "in the kitchen, or the back room." "what, keep such a pretty cage as that in the kitchen?" exclaimed the rich man's daughter. "you can see it just as well in the kitchen as in the parlor, and it is just as handsome in one place as another, miss. white mice are pretty little creatures, miss; but, like rabbits, squirrels, and other animals, they have an odor of their own which isn't pleasant, especially when they are shut up in a warm room," leo explained, with a smile to soften the disparaging remark, for he didn't like to say anything against the pets. "i don't want them, then," said elinora, turning up her delicate nose. "they won't trouble you if you have them well cared for, and keep them in a proper place. a horse is a very fine animal; but you would not find him agreeable in the parlor," added leo. "there's a nice place for them;" and he pointed to the washroom, through which he had entered the kitchen. "you can come down and see them when you wish, and they won't trouble any one out there." mrs. checkynshaw decided to have the house put up in the wash-room, as leo suggested, and the young mechanic volunteered to do the work. he had brought with him a couple of wooden brackets and some screws, and, with the assistance of tom casey, he put them up, and placed the palace upon them. mrs. checkynshaw and her daughter watched the operation with interest, and asked a great many questions about the mice and their habits. leo talked and worked, and by the time he had finished the job, he had explained all he knew of the little animals. he told the kitchen girl, who was to take care of them, how to feed them, and how to clean out the cage, admonishing her to do the latter every day. the lady of the house was so well pleased with the zeal and pains displayed by the young mechanic, that she gave him half a dollar for the extra labor he had performed; and leo and tom left the house. "it's a good job you've done the day," said tom, as they walked down the square. "i've done first rate, tom. i've sold my work for a fair price, and got two more jobs. i'm lucky, and i'm very grateful, too, for my good fortune. tom, i'll give you the half dollar the lady handed to me for your share of the work." "go way wid you! i won't take it!" protested the irish boy. "yes, you must, tom. you have helped me. i don't know how i should have got along without you." "niver you mind that. your ould man is sick, and it's great need you'll have of all the money you can lay your hands on." "but i have made six dollars besides this, and i'm not going to pocket all the plunder. take this, and buy some book you need." tom was finally prevailed upon to accept the half dollar, though he did so under protest. leo was happy--never so happy before in his life. success had crowned his darling scheme, and he entered the house with a radiant smile upon his face. but, in the midst of his exultant joy, he did not forget that his father, for whose sake he had been stimulated to make this mighty effort, was very sick. as softly as a cat he opened the front door, and carried his wagon down cellar. he was disposed to go to work at once at his bench, and make the two palaces which had been ordered; but he could not resist the temptation to go up and tell maggie what a splendid success he had realized. "how is father?" he asked, in a whisper, as he entered the rear room, where maggie was at work. "he is about the same. he sleeps a great deal, and i hope he will soon be better," she replied. "so you have sold your mouse-house, leo," she added, with a sympathizing smile. "who told you i had?" asked leo, rather provoked that any one had robbed him of the pleasure of telling the triumphant news himself. "mr. checkynshaw has been here," said she, laughing. "did he tell you how much he gave for the mouse-house?" "six dollars; and he said you had orders for two more at the same price. how lucky you are, leo!" "so i am; but i was almost discouraged before i found a single purchaser. if it hadn't been make or break with me, i should have given up, and come home. i feel good now, maggie, i can tell you! if the market for white mice holds good, i shall make my fortune." "i hope it will hold good, at least till father gets well. he was so delighted when he heard of your success!" "i shall finish the two houses ordered this week, if i can, and that will make eighteen dollars--not in a week, but in three days." "twenty, leo," added maggie, with a smile. "twenty? three times six are eighteen," laughed leo. "i made two dollars to-day by translating a letter for mr. checkynshaw; and he has more such work for me to do." "how lucky we are!" exclaimed leo; and he had not lived long enough, or seen enough of the world, to realize that the lucky ones are almost always those who are industrious and energetic--a lesson he was to learn in due time. leo went in to see andré; and the barber declared, that with two such children as he had, he could afford to be sick, and that a terribly heavy load had been removed from his mind. "the good god is kind to me," said he, reverently raising his eyes. "my children are taking care of me while i am helpless, as i took care of them when they were helpless." andré was patient and submissive--not as a philosopher, but as a christian. the great calamity of want had apparently been turned from his door, and he was happy--happy in his heart, even while his frame was suffering. blessed are they in whom christian faith and hope have found a resting-place! in his care for these two children, andré had long before been led to place his trust in things higher than earth, and in striving to guide them in the right path, he had found it himself. leo remained but a few moments in the sick room, and then hastened down to the workshop to commence the jobs for which he had contracted. laying aside the four houses in which he had made some progress, he proceeded to "get out" the lumber for the others. on a paper, stuck up under the window, was the plan of the establishment he had sold to the banker, with all the dimensions written upon it. under the bench he had several hundred feet of half-inch pine boards, which he had purchased with money earned by shovelling off sidewalks. as the plan was already drawn, and he knew exactly how all the parts were to be put together, there was no delay in the work. he had sawed out all the lumber required for the two houses, and had nicely planed the boards, when maggie called him to supper. he had worked very hard, but he did not feel tired. he was never weary of mechanical employment like this, even when doing it with no distinct end in view; but now that he was to keep the wolf from the door, there was an inspiration in the work which lifted him above bodily fatigue. he went to his supper with a keen appetite; but he did not like to spare the time to eat it, and it seemed like a hardship to be compelled to leave the workshop. when he had finished his supper, and was hurrying down stairs, there was a knock at the front door. he hoped it was a customer come to order a mouse-house; but he was disappointed, when he went to the door, to find only fitz wittleworth there. "good evening, leo. is your sister at home?" asked fitz, in his usual patronizing tones. "she is," replied leo, rather coldly, for he could not see what fitz wanted with his sister. "i should like to see her," added fitz, loftily, as though his presence at the house of the barber was a condescension which leo ought to appreciate. "my father is sick, and maggie is busy taking care of him," replied leo, who felt that he was now the guardian of his sister, and he did not want any young men "hanging round," especially such young men as mr. wittleworth. "i wish to see her on business," persisted fitz, annoyed at leo's answers, and the evident want of appreciation of the honor of his visit which the young mechanic exhibited. "i'll speak to her. won't you come in?" fitz would come in, and he did. he was shown to the rear room, where maggie was clearing off the supper table. fitz was a young "man of the world," and as imitative as a monkey. he had once moved in what he called "good society," and was familiar with all the little courtesies of life. he expressed his regret at the illness of andré in the most courtly terms, and his sympathy with maggie. leo wanted to go to work, but he felt obliged to remain, and witness the interview. "you will excuse me for calling at such a time; but i will not detain you long, miss maggimore. i understand that you are a french scholar. am i rightly informed?" "yes, sir, i speak french," replied maggie, beginning to expect another job in translating. "and i suppose you read french." "yes, sir." "i have really forgotten all the french i ever knew," continued mr. wittleworth, apologetically; and one would have supposed, from his manner, that the french language was the only thing in the world he did not know, and that it was intensely humiliating to acknowledge that he did not know that. "i have a letter from france, written in french, which it is of the utmost importance that i should read. i have taken the liberty to call upon you to beg the favor of a translation of the letter." mr. wittleworth took from his pocket the letter which the banker had given to his mother. "i shall be very happy to assist you," added maggie, kindly. "thank you, miss maggimore. if you will give me the english of the letter, i will write down the important part of it," continued fitz, taking a pencil and paper from his pocket, seating himself at the table, and handing her the letter. "it is postmarked paris," said she, glancing at the envelope. "so i observed." "why, this is the very letter i translated into french for mr. checkynshaw to-day!" exclaimed maggie, innocently, as she took the paper from the envelope. "ah, indeed!" replied fitz, thoroughly illuminated by this flood of light. maggie's fair face was instantly covered with blushes. she was confident, a moment too late, that she had exposed some of mr. checkynshaw's business. "you translated this letter into french for mr. checkynshaw--did you?" asked fitz, taking the letter from her, and folding up his paper, as he rose from his chair. "i did," replied maggie; for now that the mischief, whatever it was, had been done, she could only tremble for the consequences. "if you did, i needn't trouble you to translate it back again," added fitz, as he took his hat and left the house very abruptly. chapter xviii. the quitclaim deed. "mother, you are determined to be imposed upon," said fitz, as he rushed into the house with the astounding intelligence he had obtained in phillimore court. "perhaps you can afford to refuse a gift of ten thousand dollars--i cannot," replied mrs. wittleworth. "i did not ask or beg anything of mr. checkynshaw. he volunteered to give it to me, rather for my sister's sake than my own, perhaps; but i feel that i ought to take it." "don't touch it, mother!" protested fitz. "it will be the ruin of you if you do. mother, you have no confidence in me. you are willing to trust almost any one rather than me." "i judge for myself. it is better to take mr. checkynshaw's gift than to starve." "o, nonsense, mother! why will you be so absurd?" groaned fitz. "why will you persist in talking about starving?" "why will i, fitz? because we have hardly five dollars in the world, and both of us are out of work." "but i shall get something to do in a few days. will you let me bring the suit against checkynshaw for the block of stores?" "no, i will not, fitz." "i told you checkynshaw was imposing upon you, and now i have proved it." "what have you proved?" "i have proved that this letter is a forgery, as i believed it was. it was translated into french this very day by the barber's daughter. it was not written by marguerite, and i knew it was not!" replied fitz, triumphantly; and he proceeded to describe in detail the result of his application to maggie to translate the letter. "it doesn't make much difference whether it is a forgery or not," added the poor woman, in whose mind ten thousand dollars overshadowed every other consideration. "doesn't it!" sneered fitz, out of patience with his mother. "not much. mr. checkynshaw says marguerite is living; and, whether he means to do right or wrong, he is a man of great wealth and influence, and we could make nothing by going to law with him. we haven't money enough to keep us out of the almshouse more than a fortnight longer." "but don't i say we need no money to carry on the suit? all we have to do is to attach the property. checkynshaw won't stand trial. he'll settle it; he'll give up the block of stores." "you don't know him," sighed mrs. wittleworth. "if i don't know him, i'd like to know who does. haven't i been in the office with him for years? choate couldn't attend to this business himself; but he recommended a lawyer, a friend of his, and i have been to see him. i am to call again to-morrow." "i am willing to hear all that can be said, fitz, on both sides," replied the poor woman, tired of the controversy, but still believing that "a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush." "i will go with you, and hear what your lawyer has to say." "go with me!" sneered fitz. "do you think i can't do the business alone?" "you don't know as much as you think you do, fitz." "perhaps i don't; but if i don't understand this case, then nobody does." mrs. wittleworth was disgusted, and fitz was disgusted; and both were silent, rather because there was no prospect of making any progress in the business than because either was satisfied. fitz had been to see the attorney recommended by the distinguished orator--a young fellow, whose practice was mostly confined to the police court, and who was so weak and silly as to be an object of ridicule to his professional brethren. this gentleman was willing to look into the case. he went to the registry of probate, and read the will. so far fitz was justified. the next morning the lawyer called on mr. checkynshaw. it was very unprofessional, but it was very prudent. he did not wish to annoy a gentleman in his position if there were no just grounds for a suit. the banker was much obliged to him for calling. the banker was plausible, and the banker finally gave him a retaining fee of fifty dollars to act for the defence, in case a suit was brought against him. he had discharged fitz for impudence, and he was merely seeking some way to annoy him. the lawyer was satisfied, and so was the banker. in the course of the forenoon, fitz, attended by his mother, called upon the attorney. he had looked into the case; he was satisfied there was no ground for an action, and he declined to undertake the suit. fitz was confounded by this reply. "i hope you are satisfied now, fitz," said mrs. wittleworth, when they were in the street. "i am sure i am not. that man has been tampered with! i'll speak to choate about that. does that man mean to tell me that we have no grounds for a suit?" replied fitz, indignantly. "i shall find another lawyer, who will undertake the case." "you needn't do anything more about it. i am going to mr. checkynshaw's now." "are you going to accept his offer?" almost gasped fitz. "i am." "this is madness, mother." "it would be madness not to accept it; and i will not let the sun go down again before i close the business, if mr. checkynshaw is still of the same mind." "will you give up a hundred thousand dollars for ten thousand?" groaned fitz. "we can live in beacon street, and ride in our carriage, if you will only take my advice." "i shall be more likely to ride in the black maria over to the almshouse, if i take your advice. my mind is made up, fitz," replied his mother, very decidedly. "i will go with you, mother," said fitz, desperately. "you needn't." "i must be a witness of the transaction, for, in my opinion, it will be a swindle on the part of checkynshaw; and if i can pick him up on it i mean to do so." "fitz, if you are impudent to mr. checkynshaw, he will put you out of his office." "i will not be impudent to him unless he is impudent to me." mrs. wittleworth led the way now, and fitz reluctantly followed her. he was in despair. he actually believed his mother was selling out her inheritance, a princely fortune, for a mere song; that she was sacrificing the brightest hopes a person ever had. indeed, he went a point beyond this, and believed she was selling out his hopes and expectations; that she was wronging him out of a brilliant future. but fitz might have comforted himself with the reflection that he had vigorously opposed the sacrifice, and that it had been made on account of no want of judgment and forethought on his part. fitz followed his mother into the banker's private office. mrs. wittleworth herself was not entirely satisfied with the situation. she was not at all sure that marguerite had not died of cholera ten years before. mr. checkynshaw's course rather indicated that he was playing a deep game. why did he want a quitclaim deed, if his rights were clear? why had he forged a letter from marguerite, when he must have real ones, if the daughter was still living? and it was not like him to give ten thousand dollars to a person who had no claim upon him. the poor woman's circumstances were desperate. want or the almshouse stared her in the face. it was possible, nay, it was probable, that mr. checkynshaw was deceiving her; that marguerite was dead, and that the block of stores rightfully belonged to her; but she had no chances of success in fighting a battle with wealth and influence. if she brought the suit, the ten thousand dollars would certainly be lost, and the chances of obtaining the block of stores were all against her. the money the banker would pay her would keep her from want for the rest of her lifetime. the income of it would support her little family comfortably. "i will sign the deed, mr. checkynshaw," said she, walking up to the desk where the banker sat. "why did you bring that boy with you?" asked the great man, with a look of contempt at his late clerk. "he insisted upon coming." "i think i have an interest in this business," replied fitz, loftily. "i will be civil, mr. checkynshaw, but i should like to ask you one or two questions." "you needn't." "but i will. why do you give my mother a letter purporting to come from your daughter marguerite, which was written by miss maggimore? that's the first question i want to ask," said fitz, with the air of a conqueror. the banker was a little startled; but he did not lose his self-possession--he seldom did in merely business transactions. "the letter i gave you was a true copy, ellen," said he. "it makes but little difference to me whether it was a true copy or not," she added. "the originals of marguerite's letters were in my safe, and were stolen with other papers. if your son knows pilky wayne, he may be able to recover them." "i scorn the insinuation, mr. checkynshaw," replied fitz, indignantly. "i speak a little french, ellen, but i do not read it very readily; and i had translations made of marguerite's letters," continued mr. checkynshaw, without noticing the irate young man. "one of these translations i had rendered back into the french rather to give employment to the barber's daughter than for any other reason." mrs. wittleworth felt no interest in the translation. probably the banker was imposing upon her credulity, but she did not care if he was. "are the papers ready, mr. checkynshaw?" she asked, timidly, fearful that he had altered his mind in regard to the money. "they are." "i am ready to sign the deed." the banker produced the document, and the check, and laid them upon the desk. "will you witness your mother's signature, fitz?" asked mr. checkynshaw. "no, sir. i will have no part in this transaction," replied he, sourly. "it will become my duty, at no distant day, to rip up the whole thing." "burnet!" called the banker, opening the window. the taciturn cashier appeared. "witness this signature," added mr. checkynshaw. mrs. wittleworth signed the quitclaim deed, and took the check. the cashier saw the act, and wrote his name in the proper place on the deed. "take the acknowledgment," said mr. checkynshaw to the cashier, who was a justice of the peace. "you acknowledge this to be your free act and deed, mrs. wittleworth?" added burnet. "i do," replied the poor woman, or rather the rich one now, in the most decided manner. "have it recorded," continued the banker; and the cashier left the room with the deed in his hand. "i am very much obliged to you, mr. checkynshaw," said mrs. wittleworth. "you have been very kind and very liberal to me." "liberal!" sneered fitz. "he has given you ten thousand dollars for a hundred thousand. it's the best trade he ever made." "ellen, i am glad you are satisfied with what you have done. i give you the ten thousand dollars for the reason i stated yesterday--not because you had any claim upon me." "i know you did, sir; and i am very grateful to you," replied mrs. wittleworth. "after what i have done, it is not right that i should be annoyed by your son," added the banker. "he shall not annoy you if i can help it." "that's enough, ellen. i forbid his coming here again on any pretence whatever." "you needn't trouble yourself," replied fitz. "i shall not come near you again if i can help it. i am rather particular about my associates." mrs. wittleworth left the office, followed by fitz. the fact that his mother had ten thousand dollars in her pocket did not seem to comfort him. he offered to draw the check for her, but his mother preferred to transact her own business. she presented the check at the bank upon which it was drawn, and deposited the money at another. she went home with a light heart, feeling that the wolf was slain, and that she was secured against grim want for the rest of her life. mr. checkynshaw smiled when mrs. wittleworth had gone. perhaps, as fitz suggested, he felt that he had made a good trade. apparently he had disposed of the only person who had the power to annoy him. no one did annoy him. constable clapp came back from new york; but he brought no tidings of pilky wayne. the banker offered a reward of five hundred dollars for his valuable papers; but week after week passed away, and nothing was heard of them. the banker concluded that the rogue had burned them, so that no clew should be had to him. chapter xix. five hundred dollars reward. leo worked till a late hour in the night, on the day that he received the orders for the two mouse-houses. at eleven o'clock maggie went down to the shop, and entreated him not to wear himself out. very likely he would have worked all night if her friendly warning had not sent him to bed. the next day he stuck to his bench till nine o'clock in the evening. on saturday afternoon the two houses were finished, and put up at the residences of those who had ordered them. his wildest dream had been more than realized, and there was more money in the house over sunday than there had ever been before. the prospect was still hopeful for the future. the good physician had kept his promise, and leo had orders enough to keep him at work for two weeks. he finished the four small houses, and disposed of them at two dollars apiece, and two like that sold to the banker at six dollars apiece, during the coming week; and this made twenty dollars. this extraordinary run of good fortune, however, did not continue long; for, during the third week, he sold but twelve dollars' worth of his merchandise, and the stock was accumulating on his hands. at the end of the fourth week he had six houses unsold; but the average proceeds of his sales had been over fifteen dollars a week. leo was enterprising, and with some of his funds he purchased half a dozen pairs of rabbits, and enlarged the sphere of his business. he built very tasty houses for each pair of these animals, with wire netting in front, so that they could be seen. they were provided with proper nests, with conveniences for keeping them clean. these establishments found a ready sale, at remunerative prices for the rabbits and the work. then he enlarged the business still further, adding guinea pigs and doves to his stock, till the basement of the house became a menagerie of pets. the dove-houses were made to be placed on sheds, or fastened to the sides of buildings, generally in front of back attic windows, where they could be readily reached. the good doctor, the banker, and his other customers had thoroughly advertised his business for him, and purchasers came every day to see his merchandise. he was continually inventing new patterns for houses, and could now keep a variety of them on hand, to enable those who patronized him to select for themselves. leo maggimore worked very hard; but his business was profitable, and he had every encouragement to persevere. his net proceeds were generally twenty dollars a week; and, after paying for lumber, hardware, glass, and wire netting, his average gains were fully up to the standard he had fixed. perhaps the young mechanic did not realize the fact, but it was none the less true, that he was largely indebted to powerful friends for the extensive sales he made. probably many persons bought his wares solely for the purpose of assisting him in his self-imposed task of maintaining the family. dr. fisher, while attending the barber, stated the case to at least a hundred of his patients and friends. the spring came, and leo's business was as good as ever. he was making his fifteen dollars a week right along, to which maggie sometimes added two or three more. all this time andré had been steadily improving. he was now able to go out every day, and had almost recovered the use of his limbs. he was not yet in condition to use a razor, which requires a very steady and delicate hand; but he was able to do a great deal of work about the house. he helped leo, and became general salesman for all his merchandise. the affairs of the family had been improving from the very day that andré was stricken down by his malady. the only misfortune over which they mourned was, that the young mechanic had been taken out of school. at the end of three months, when the barber felt quite able to go to work,--and cutts & stropmore were very anxious to have him do so,--the family were never in a more prosperous condition. there was actually about a hundred dollars in the exchequer, though dr. fisher's bill had not been paid; but they need not have troubled themselves about that, for the physician would no more have carried in a bill than he would have cheated one of his neighbors; and that was quite impossible for him to do. leo went up to see the master of the school as soon as his father was able to go to work; and it was decided that he should immediately resume his place. the teacher was confident that, with extra study, it was still possible for him to obtain the medal. leo went to work upon his studies with the same energy and determination he had brought to bear upon the mouse business. "make or break!" said he; "i will catch up with my class." of course he succeeded, though between the shop and the books he had nearly "broken;" for there was still a demand for mice, doves, rabbits, and guinea pigs, and he added several dollars a week to the income of his father. he worked too hard; and maggie, seeing that he was likely to "break," took upon herself the care of the menagerie and the sales, in addition to the housework, which was really quite enough for a girl of fifteen. maggie was a good housekeeper. mindful of the traditions of the elders, as the spring came on she commenced the semiannual operation of house-cleaning. she went through the performance in the front room first, and then devoted herself to the chamber over it, which was leo's room. according to her custom she took everything out of the closets, bureau, chest, and table drawers. in the course of this ceremonial she came to the chest in which leo kept his clothes. at the bottom she found the papers deposited there by "mr. hart," or possibly pilky wayne, for it was not certainly known who committed the robbery. there was quite a large bundle of them; and maggie, inheriting the propensity of mother eve, was, of course, anxious to know what they were. she laid them on the table with other articles, and then opened one of them. she saw the name of mr. checkynshaw. she was terrified when she remembered that the banker's safe had been robbed, and that mr. checkynshaw had come to the house with the detective to see about it. she was not quite sure of the fact, but it seemed to her that leo had been suspected of being concerned in the robbery. here were the valuable papers, hidden away very carefully at the bottom of leo's chest. they must have been there at least three months, and of course her brother knew they were there. the longer she considered the matter, the more terrified she became. it was awful to think that leo had been concerned in a robbery. she was not willing to believe it. if there were any good boys in the world, leo was one of them. he would cut his right hand off before he would do a wicked thing. it was impossible for her to charge the dear fellow with anything that looked like a crime. she turned the papers over again. they were strange documents to her, with great seals on them, and no end of legal phrases. perhaps, after all, they were not good for anything. they could not be the papers which mr. checkynshaw had lost. probably they were some old and useless documents, which the banker had thrown away when they were of no further consequence. it was quite likely that leo, who was always studying up methods of doing business, had saved them from the dirt barrels in the streets, so as to learn the forms of making out such papers. this explanation was not quite satisfactory, though it was plausible, to her. it was about nine o'clock in the morning when she found the papers. leo had gone to school, and her father would not return till night. she was so impatient to know whether the documents were of any value or not, that she was unwilling to wait till noon. at first she thought she would take them up to mr. checkynshaw himself, and ask him if they were good for anything; but she did not exactly like to do that. then it occurred to her that fitz wittleworth, who had been a clerk for the banker, could tell her just as well as his late employer, and he lived only a short distance from phillimore court. mrs. wittleworth, with a portion of the money received from the banker, had purchased a small house near her former residence. fitz had not yet found another place, and probably both he and his mother would have come to want before this time, if she had taken his advice. maggie went to the front door, and called tom casey, whom she had seen in the court from the window. tom was one of the gallantest young irishmen in the city. he was a fast friend of leo, and spent much time in the shop with him. tom made no mental reservation when he declared that maggie was the "purtiest gurl in the wurruld;" and he was only too happy to oblige her when she asked him to request fitz to step in and see her for a moment. in ten minutes mr. wittleworth made his appearance, as grand as ever, for three months' idleness had not taken any of the starch out of him. maggie showed him the papers with fear and trembling. fitz rubbed his chin, and pursed his lips, as he examined them, looked wise, and finally, after much sage deliberation, declared that the papers were of the utmost importance. "o, dear!" groaned poor maggie. "what is the matter, miss maggimore?" demanded mr. wittleworth. "what shall i do! how came those papers in my brother's chest?" "i haven't the least idea, miss maggimore. i can only say that the papers are very valuable, and that checkynshaw offered a reward for them. now i remember! your brother was with the man that robbed the safe." "that's what troubles me," gasped poor maggie. "don't be alarmed, miss maggimore. it is very fortunate that you called me to attend to this delicate business. if you had not done so, they might have thrown your brother into jail. checkynshaw has no more consideration for a young man than a mule," said fitz, patronizingly. "leave it all to me, miss maggimore. i will see that the papers are restored to the owner, and that no harm comes to leo." "you are very kind," replied maggie, hopefully. "i am always glad to do what i can for those who are in need of assistance. it is fortunate you called me in. it will be best for you not to mention to any one that i have taken them." maggie thought so too, and she was very glad to have her visitor take the papers away from the house. she felt as though a contagious disease had been removed as soon as the door closed behind fitz. was it possible that leo had been concerned in the robbery? if so, sooner or later he would ask what had become of the papers. the man that stole the papers had come to the house with leo, she then called to mind for the first time; but her thoughts were confused, and instead of this circumstance affording a satisfactory explanation to her of the presence of the package in leo's chest, it had just the opposite effect. fitz wittleworth went home with the papers; went up to his room with them; examined every document in the bundle. there was a copy of his grandfather's will among them, but nothing else relating to the block of stores, and nothing which related to marguerite--not even the letters which mr. checkynshaw had declared were stolen with the papers. mr. wittleworth went up to the banker's office. he was civil, and mr. checkynshaw asked him, very sternly, what he wanted. "you offered a reward of five hundred dollars for the recovery of the papers taken from your safe, mr. checkynshaw," fitz began, pompously. "i did." "i claim it." "the money is ready; where are the papers?" asked the banker, promptly. "i have them here," replied fitz, producing the package. "where did you get them?" "that is what i must decline to answer," added fitz, decidedly. "must you? then i suppose i am to understand that you were a party to the robbery, as i have suspected from the beginning." mr. wittleworth thought this was a very unreasonable view to take of the case. he decided to leave, and conduct the negotiation for the reward in some other manner. he turned to go, but the banker seized him by the collar and held him. mr. wittleworth was in hot water. chapter xx. an avalanche of good fortune. mr. wittleworth was more astonished than he had ever before been in his life. this was the gratitude of great men! mr. checkynshaw did not seem to be at all rejoiced to find his papers, and was so mean as to send for constable clapp. "didn't you offer a reward of five hundred dollars for your papers, mr. checkynshaw?" asked fitz. "i did; and i am willing to pay the reward the moment you have explained to me where you got them," replied the banker, as he pitched his prisoner into a chair to await the arrival of the officer. "i came here in good faith, and i didn't expect to be treated in this manner," growled mr. wittleworth. "i am not yet willing to pay you for stealing my papers and money, or for employing another person to do it for you," added mr. checkynshaw, dryly. "i did not steal them." "then you cannot object to telling me where you obtained them." mr. wittleworth did object. he had undertaken to manage this business, and he expected to make at least a commission out of it. his plan was to pay maggie fifty or a hundred dollars of the reward, and keep the rest himself. it was not probable that the barber,--who was ill at the time,--or his family, had read the newspapers, and it was not likely that they knew anything about the reward. maggie, or even leo, would be entirely satisfied with the fifty dollars, and ought to be exceedingly obliged to him for managing the matter so well for them. constable clapp arrived in a few moments, and the case was stated to him. "how much money was stolen with the papers?" asked the officer. "about three hundred and fifty dollars," replied the banker. "very well; if this young gentleman will restore the papers and the money, he may take the reward; and then we shall be ready to attend to the criminal charge. that will make a balance of one hundred and fifty dollars in his favor," chuckled the officer. "i am entirely willing to pay the reward i offered," added mr. checkynshaw, magnanimously. "where did you get the papers, mr. wittleworth?" asked the detective. "i didn't steal them." "i don't say you did. where did you get them, was the question i asked." "of course i don't wish to expose anybody. they came into my possession in consequence of an accident." "exactly so!" said the officer, taking the papers from fitz, and producing a pair of handcuffs. "in consequence of an accident, i shall be obliged to put these irons on your wrists, and take you over to the jail." "me!" gasped fitz, the iron entering his lofty soul. "i should like to know what my friend choate would say to that!" "in one word, will you wear the bracelets, or will you tell where you obtained the papers? of course mr. checkynshaw will pay the reward. he is an honorable man, and does all he agrees. you will want the money to pay your friend choate for keeping you out of the state prison. what will you do?" fitz thought for a moment. the disgrace of being marched through the streets by a person so well known as mr. clapp, and with a pair of irons on his wrists, was intolerable to think of, and he decided to inform the officer where he had obtained the papers. he then related the particulars of his interview with maggie. "then you did not find the papers yourself?" said mr. checkynshaw, with a feeling of relief, for it would have galled him sorely to pay the five hundred dollars to one he disliked so much. "i did not," replied fitz. "then the reward does not belong to you." "it is hardly necessary for me to say that i was doing the business for miss maggimore." "but it was hardly necessary for you to conceal her name." the banker was really overjoyed to find his papers, and at once drew a check for the amount which he had offered as a reward. "we will go down and see maggie," said the banker, putting the check into his pocket. "i think the case is plain enough," added the constable. "when i ascertain where the papers were found, i shall be better satisfied." mr. checkynshaw called a carriage, and they went to phillimore court. no further notice was taken of mr. wittleworth; in fact he was utterly ignored from the moment he had told his story. he was permitted to depart in peace. he did depart, but not in peace; for he was not entirely satisfied. the reward ought to have been paid to him, and he should have had the lion's share of it. this was his feeling as he retired from the office. maggie was fearfully frightened when she saw the banker and the constable. the roses fled from her cheek, and she was pale and trembling. that awful officer had come to bear leo away to the jail. she was almost sorry that she had not burned the papers, instead of sending them back to the owner. "you have come for poor leo!" exclaimed she, in terror, when she opened the door. "don't be alarmed, maggie," said mr. checkynshaw, in a tone which was gentle for him. "we come to inquire about those papers you found." "i knew you did!" gasped maggie in despair, as the two gentlemen followed her into the rear room. "where did you find them?" asked mr. clapp, in a gentler tone than the banker could speak. "in leo's room," stammered she. "i must tell the truth; but i hope you won't harm poor leo." "will you show us just where you found them?" "i will, if you will come up stairs," she added, leading the way. "you won't put poor leo in jail--will you? i'm sure he didn't intend to do any wrong." "i don't think he did," replied the officer, moved by the distress of the poor girl. "i found them at the bottom of leo's chest," said maggie, as she pointed to the place where she had discovered them. "i was cleaning house, and i cleared out all the closets and drawers. i took all leo's things out of his chest, and i found those papers under his summer clothes." "did leo know they were there?" "i'm sure i don't know whether he did or not. i don't believe he did. he never stays in his room only when he is asleep. all the clothes he wears in the winter are in the top of the chest." "i looked into that chest when i searched the room on the day the safe was robbed," added the officer. "i put my hand down into the clothing; but i suppose i didn't reach the bottom. where is leo now?" "he is at school." "can you send for him?" "you won't take him up--will you? it would break his heart," pleaded maggie. "i don't think it will be necessary to arrest him," replied the constable, rather cautiously. "the man that stole the papers came to this room, and i have no doubt he put them there to get rid of them." "send for leo; i will promise you he shall not be taken up," added mr. checkynshaw, taking the responsibility upon himself. maggie wrote a note, and sent tom casey to the school with it, the gentlemen having taken seats in the front parlor. in a short time leo appeared, trembling lest his father had had another attack of paralysis. he was not a little surprised to find the banker and the constable awaiting his arrival. "leo, what do you keep in that chest of yours, up in your room?" asked the officer. "my clothes, sir," replied leo, astonished at the strange question. "what else?" "nothing else." "don't you keep any white mice in it?" said the constable, smiling. "no, sir." "don't your mice get out of their houses down stairs, and come up?" "i have seen two or three of them in the kitchen." "but don't they go up in your chamber?" "i never saw any up there," answered leo, puzzled by these singular inquiries. "what would you say if i told you that a couple of them had made a nest in your chest up stairs, and had a litter of little ones there?" "i don't know what i should say. i don't know that it would be very strange." "should you deny it?" "if you saw them there i should not, though i don't see how they could get into the chest. the lid is always closed." "but you might have left the lid up some morning, and the mice might have crawled down to the very bottom of the chest, and had a family there. could this have happened?" "it could; but i don't think it is very likely it did happen." "why not?" "i should have smelt them," laughed leo. "shouldn't you have seen them?" "i don't think i should. maggie puts my shirts and stockings at the top of the chest, and i hardly know what there is at the bottom. she takes care of my things." "is there anything in that chest besides your clothes?" "yes; i believe there is a piece of brass chain, a ball, some marbles, and a top in the till." "anything else?" "there may be some other things of that sort in the till. i don't remember; if you want to know, i will go up and show you." "are there any papers there?" demanded the constable, sharply. "yes, sir, there are two or three newspapers." "any written papers?" "not a paper." "have you had any papers there at any time?" "no, sir; i don't remember that i ever did. i keep my papers in the table drawer in the kitchen." "didn't you know there was a package of papers in the chest--such as bonds, deeds, and notes?" "no, sir, i didn't know it. i never saw anything of the kind there," replied leo, still puzzled, but satisfied now that something serious had happened. "have you overhauled the contents of your chest lately?" "no, sir; not since last summer, that i remember." "leo, in your chest were found the papers which mr. checkynshaw lost." "then that mr. hart, or whatever his name was, put them there!" exclaimed leo, his face turning red. "i never saw them, and didn't know they were there." [illustration: leo answers for himself.--page .] "i am satisfied," interposed mr. checkynshaw. "so am i," added mr. clapp. the truth as it was had been correctly discerned. "maggie, i offered a reward of five hundred dollars for those papers," continued the banker. "i would have given five thousand rather than not have had them." "then i am very glad you have found them," replied the fair girl, now entirely relieved of all her fears on account of her brother. "but you found them, maggie, and you are entitled to the reward. here is my check for the amount. your father can draw the money for you." "i don't deserve the reward!" exclaimed maggie, blushing deeply, as she took the check. "it is reward enough for me to find that leo is as good as i always believed him to be." "you found the papers, and i am indebted to you for their preservation. another might have destroyed them." "but i only took them out of the chest. i didn't know what they were. i almost made up my mind that they were good for nothing, and that leo had saved them from the dirt barrels to learn how to write such papers from. i didn't know what to do, and i sent for mr. wittleworth to tell me whether they were good for anything or not. he said they were very valuable, and told me it was fortunate i sent for him, and then kindly undertook to return them to you." "very kindly!" sneered the banker. "he claimed this reward." "he did?" "yes; but i am very glad it goes to you, instead of to him." maggie objected to taking such a vast sum of money for so slight a service; but mr. checkynshaw's mandate was imperative, and he departed, leaving her bewildered at the sudden fortune which had come down like an avalanche upon her. leo went back to school, as delighted at her good luck as his own in finding himself entirely freed from the charge of being concerned in the robbery. as usual, mr. wittleworth was the only person who was not satisfied. he had again been "left out in the cold." he wanted to know what had happened at the house of andré, and after dinner he called there; but maggie had gone to the barber's shop with her father's noonday meal, and he found the door locked. in the evening he went again, when both andré and leo were at home. chapter xxi. mr. wittleworth's wrongs. maggie, fluttering with delight, had taken mr. checkynshaw's check to her father when she carried his dinner. the barber was astonished as well as pleased with the gift, and, having drawn the check, deposited the money in the savings bank, as a provision for dark days, like those through which they had passed at the beginning of andré's illness. after supper the family gathered around the cooking-stove in the kitchen. never before had they been so happy as now, and never before were they so strongly attached to each other. they had passed through the storm of privation and trial--they had triumphed over adverse circumstances. leo tried to study his lesson, while andré and maggie were talking about the great event of the day, and comparing their present situation with the first days of the barber's illness, when all of them were trembling for the future. "god has been very good to us, my children, and i hope we shall always be grateful to him for his mercies," said andré, as a tear, which he could not repress, stole down his pale cheek. "i'm sure i never felt so good before in my life; and i know my prayers mean more to me now than ever before," replied maggie. "we have been faithful to each other, and god has been faithful to all of us, as he always is, even when we forsake and forget him." "ah, _mon père_, how could we help being faithful to you, when you were always so kind to us!" exclaimed maggie, as she rested her hand on andré's arm. "and leo--he has really been a lion! you don't know how brave he was; how he worked, and how he persevered! it was all _make_, and no _break_--wasn't it, leo?" "it has been, so far," replied leo, less demonstrative, but not less delighted than the other members of the family. "i think we can do anything we make up our minds to do. i have made up my mind to take the franklin medal this year, and, make or break, i'm going to do it." leo bent over his slate again, and seemed to be determined, make or break, that he would attend to his lessons, whatever happened in the room. unfortunately, in this instance, it was at least a partial break, for a very imperative knock was heard a few moments later at the front door. andré answered the summons, and admitted mr. wittleworth. "i hope i don't intrude," said fitz, as daintily as paul pry himself could have said it. "take a seat, mr. wittleworth," added maggie, giving him a chair at the stove. "thank you. i don't often go out evenings, for mother is alone. my friends groan and complain because i don't visit them; but really this is the first time i have been out of the house of an evening for a month," continued mr. wittleworth, as he seated himself in the offered chair, expecting the barber's family to appreciate his condescension in this particular instance. "the last time i went out of an evening," he added, "i called on my friend choate--you know choate? of course you do, mr. maggimore." "i have not that honor," replied the barber, modestly. "choate's a good fellow--choate is. he is the most gentlemanly person i ever met, not even excepting everett, who, by the way, was at choate's when i called upon him. winthrop was there, too; but winthrop is rather stiff--winthrop is. of course i haven't anything to say against winthrop. he is a great man, talented, a good speaker, and all that sort of thing; but you see he hasn't that companionable way with him that choate has. of course you will not mention what i say to winthrop, for i don't want him to know but what i think as much of him as i do of choate or everett." andré very kindly promised not to mention any disparaging allusion he might make in regard to the honorable gentleman. "in a private conversation one does not like to be held responsible for remarks dropped without much reflection," continued fitz. "i have nothing against winthrop, only he is not just like choate. choate is my idea of a perfect gentleman--choate is. but perhaps i am prejudiced in choate's favor. i used to be in the law business myself--in the same office with choate. well, really, i didn't come here to talk about choate, or any of the rest of my friends. isn't it singular how a light remark, casually dropped, leads us off into a conversation which occupies a whole evening?" andré acknowledged that it was singular how a light remark, casually dropped, leads us into a conversation which occupies a whole evening; but he hoped no light remark of mr. wittleworth would be expanded to that extent, for his room was better than his company, now that the family were at the high tide of happiness and prosperity. "i suppose miss maggimore has informed you that she sent for me this morning, in order to obtain the benefit of my advice," continued fitz. "yes, sir, she did," replied andré. "the case was rather a singular one; and being alone, she needed the counsel of some person of experience, and of extensive knowledge. she sent for me, and i came," added mr. wittleworth, rubbing his chin and pouting his lips, as was his habit when his bump of self-esteem was rubbed; though it was a notable fact that he always rubbed it himself--nobody else ever appeared to do so. "it was kind of you to come when i sent for you," said maggie, willing to give him all the credit she could. "i came; i saw--" but he did not conquer. "i saw the papers, and i undertook to manage the business for miss maggimore. i was willing to give her the full benefit of my knowledge and experience, though my doing so came very near involving me in a painful difficulty." "i am very sorry for that," interposed maggie. "it was all on account of my own excessive expenditure of good-nature. i wished to do you a good turn, and checkynshaw a good turn. so far as checkynshaw was concerned, it was a mistake; i am willing to confess that it was a blunder on my part. i confided in his honor. i might have known better, for checkynshaw is a cur--checkynshaw is." mr. wittleworth slipped lightly over the "painful difficulty" in which he was so nearly involved. he was willing to give maggie the benefit of his knowledge and experience in negotiating the strictly business matter in relation to the reward; but checkynshaw basely calumniated him, and bit the hand that was extended to serve him. "mr. checkynshaw came here, with the constable, and inquired into all the circumstances attending the finding of the papers," said maggie, tired of mr. wittleworth's tedious exordium. "he was entirely satisfied with what we had done." maggie then explained the manner in which the papers had come into leo's chest; that they were concealed there by "pilky wayne." "mr. checkynshaw was very good and very kind," she added, with enthusiasm. "checkynshaw?" exclaimed fitz, incredulously. "he was, indeed." "checkynshaw don't know how to be good and kind--checkynshaw don't. it isn't in him." "indeed, he does!" protested maggie. "so he does!" chimed in leo, who was very grateful to mr. checkynshaw for buying his merchandise and recommending it to his friends. "i blow for checkynshaw!" "mr. checkynshaw has been very kind to us, and we feel grateful to him for his goodness," added andré, in his mild, silky-toned voice. "i know checkynshaw. i've summered him and wintered him; and you have to summer and winter a man like checkynshaw before you know him. my friend choate knows him. me and choate both know him. checkynshaw is mean; checkynshaw has a small soul. you could set up two such souls as checkynshaw's on the point of a cambric needle, and they could wander about till the end of time without coming within hailing distance of each other." "mr. checkynshaw is not mean," replied maggie, her pretty face red with excitement and indignation. "excuse me, miss maggimore, but you don't know him." "i think i do know him. he gave me the reward of five hundred dollars for returning the papers to him," said maggie, warmly; and the banker might have rejoiced to be defended by so fair and spirited an advocate. "checkynshaw!" ejaculated mr. wittleworth, springing out of his chair. about the same instant leo closed his book savagely, and sprang to his feet, his manly face wearing a decidedly belligerent look. "see here, fitz; you have said just about enough," leo began, both fists clinched. "mr. checkynshaw is a friend of ours, and we are not going to sit here and have him abused." "don't be angry, leo; he isn't worth minding," whispered maggie in his ear. "then he gave you the reward?" added fitz, sitting down again. "he did," replied maggie. "well, that is the only white spot on the general blackness of his character." "no, 'tisn't!" protested leo. "you will excuse me, miss maggimore, if you think i speak too plainly; but candor is one of the attributes of a gentleman." "it's not necessary for you to be so very candid," suggested maggie. "i know the man," said fitz, pompously. "did i ever tell you how he treated me and my mother? i never did. well, i will." "nobody cares how he treated you and your mother," interposed leo. "allow me to contradict you, leo. i care; my mother cares; and every person who loves justice and fairness cares." in spite of several very pointed hints from andré, maggie, and leo, that they did not care to bear the story, fitz persisted in telling it, and did tell it. he declared it was his solemn conviction that mr. checkynshaw had wronged his mother out of the block of stores, and ten years' income of the same, for which he had paid her the petty consideration of ten thousand dollars. fitz had heard from his mother the narrative of the second mrs. checkynshaw's sickness, and of the sickness of little marguerite, who had been taken to the cholera hospital; and he related it all in the most painfully minute manner. "that child was the heir of my grandfather's property," continued fitz, eloquently; for he was still burning under the sense of his own wrongs. "if that child died, the block of stores, according to my grandfather's will, was to come to my mother. that child did die, in my opinion." "what makes you think so?" asked andré, interested, in spite of himself, in the story. "what makes me think so?" repeated mr. wittleworth, magnificently. "am i a man of ordinary common sense? have i lived to attain my present stature without growing wiser with every day of life i lived? of what avail are my judgment, my knowledge, and my experience, if i cannot penetrate a sham so transparent as this? what makes me think so? does a man of wealth and influence leave his own child among strangers, in a foreign land, for ten years? no! i repeat it, no!" "you say the child was sent to the cholera hospital?" asked andré, nervously. "she was; but in my opinion she died there." "o, she died there--did she?" said andré, with apparent relief. "checkynshaw says she did not die; i say she did." "why should he say she didn't die, if she did die?" inquired maggie, very innocently. "why should he? why, indeed?" repeated fitz, amazed at her obtuseness. "don't you see that, if the child died, the block of stores belongs to my mother? but it makes no difference now," sighed mr. wittleworth, "for my mother, contrary to my advice, contrary to my solemn protest, sold out all her right in the premises for a mere song." "but where is the child now?" "dead!" replied fitz, in a sepulchral tone. "mr. checkynshaw does not say so," persisted andré. "what does he say about the child?" "he says the child was taken by the sisters of charity, and that he found her in one of their nunneries or schools; but of course that is all bosh." mr. wittleworth had told his story, and having done so, he tore himself away, leaving andré very thoughtful. chapter xxii. the two marguerites. when mr. wittleworth passed out into the street, the excitement of the argument subsided. he felt that he had thoroughly and completely demolished mr. checkynshaw, and that nothing more could be said in the banker's favor after what he had said against him. the great man need not attempt to hold up his head again, after that. mr. checkynshaw had actually paid the reward to maggie. it was strange, but it was true; and the saddest part of it was, mr. wittleworth had received no share of the money. he had given his valuable advice to the barber's daughter, and his late employer had received the full benefit of it. if he, mr. wittleworth, had been so vicious and depraved, so lost to the high instincts of a gentleman, as wilfully and maliciously to have given miss maggimore bad advice--advice not based on his experience and knowledge of the world; in a word, if he had told her that the papers were good for nothing, the young lady would doubtless have destroyed them. instead of this, he had been upright and conscientious; he had given good, wholesome counsel, worthy of his knowledge and experience. miss maggimore had actually asked him if the papers were good for anything; and he had actually informed her that they were very valuable, thus saving them from a devastating conflagration in the cooking-stove. miss maggimore had actually been paid five hundred dollars for opening that chest, and taking therefrom the package of papers; while he, who had furnished the intelligence, supplied the brains, and even the physical power by which the papers had been conveyed to the banker's office, had not received a cent! there was something wrong, in the opinion of mr. wittleworth. the reward should be at least equally shared between him and her. in the morning he had made up his mind that fifty dollars would pay her handsomely, while the four hundred and fifty would not be an over-adequate compensation for the brains of the transaction. his calculations had been set at nought. he knew the value of those papers, but he had given the banker credit for integrity he did not possess, and had lost all. the world was always hard on mr. wittleworth, and at this time it seemed to be peculiarly savage towards him, especially as he had been out of business three months, and needed money badly. it would be useless for him to represent his redeeming agency in the affair to mr. checkynshaw. the great man refused to acknowledge his shining abilities. mr. checkynshaw was prejudiced--he was. but the barber was a singularly simple-hearted man. he would not rob a flea of the mite of warm blood needed for its supper. maggie was known throughout the neighborhood as a good little girl, and leo was a mere tinker. these people might be brought to see the justice of his claim, and to acknowledge that through his advice and influence the papers had been saved from destruction, and restored to their owner; or, to put the matter in its most direct form, that he had enabled them to obtain the reward. they were indebted to him for it, and it would be exceedingly stupid of them if they could not see that he was fairly entitled to at least one half of it. the next evening mr. wittleworth, to the consternation of leo, paid another visit to the humble domicile of the barber. the young student was disgusted. his lessons were behind, and he could not afford to be interrupted; and as soon as fitz came in, leo retreated to his chamber--a movement which suited the visitor quite as well as the scholar. "mr. wittleworth, i am very glad you called," said andré, "for i wished to ask you something more about mr. checkynshaw's daughter." "any information which i possess i will most cheerfully impart to those who need it; but i ought to say that i came on business, however," replied fitz, rather anxiously. "very well, mr. wittleworth; we will attend to the business first, if you desire." mr. wittleworth did desire, and it took him about an hour to go over the argument which had passed through his brain the night before; but he made it appear, to his own entire satisfaction, that he had been the sole instrumentality in enabling his auditors to obtain the princely reward. "but i hadn't the least intention of burning the papers," protested maggie. "it is true i almost wished i had burned them; but it was when i was afraid they would get leo into trouble." "exactly so; and it was through my advice, personal influence, and personal efforts, that the papers were restored to checkynshaw." "what portion of the reward do you claim, mr. wittleworth?" asked andré, very mildly. "i should be satisfied with one half of it, at this stage of the proceedings; though, when i consider that it was entirely through my advice and discreet action that the papers were saved, i think i should be justified in claiming four fifths, or even nine tenths of it. as it is, you having already received the money, i will be content with half of it; though this is rather hard on me, considering the personal indignity and the injury in my feelings to which i was subjected." maggie looked at andré, and andré looked at maggie. mr. wittleworth was modest in his demand, and it was plainly useless to discuss the question. "we understand your position, mr. wittleworth," said andré. "it takes us rather by surprise; but we will consider your demand, and return you an answer in a day or two. we may wish to consult mr. checkynshaw about it." "no!" said fitz, very decidedly. "after what i have said to you about checkynshaw, it would be absurd for you to consult him. checkynshaw is rich, and he is prejudiced against me--checkynshaw is. this is a question of abstract justice, not of personal feeling or personal prejudice. i only ask for justice." "we will think of it, mr. wittleworth, and give you an answer to-morrow or next day," repeated andré. "i am very much interested in what you said about mr. checkynshaw's first child." "in a question of abstract justice, andré, it is hardly necessary for an honest man to wait a single day before he does his duty. i prefer to settle this little matter at once," added fitz. "but i have not the money in the house. i put it in the savings bank," replied the barber, anxious only to defer the final answer. "but you can determine your duty in regard to my claim, and inform me of your intentions." "i have no intentions at present, and you will pardon me if i decline to say anything more about it to-night." fitz began to think he was overdoing the matter. andré appeared to be slightly ruffled, and he deemed it prudent to proceed no further. "very well, andré; if you do not see the justice of my claim, i will not press it. you are an honest and a just man. if i had not known you as such, i should not have troubled you. of course my future opinion of you must depend very much upon your decision in this matter. not that i care so much for the money, but i love justice. if i can afford you any information in regard to checkynshaw's child, i shall be glad to do so." "mr. wittleworth, i was in one of the cholera hospitals of paris at the time that child died--i think you said ten years ago." "is it possible!" exclaimed fitz. "it was ten years ago last august." "do you know in what hospital the child was placed?" asked andré, with breathless interest. "i do not, but my mother does. she has a letter written to her by the present mrs. checkynshaw, in which she informed her that marguerite had died in the hospital. but checkynshaw looked the matter up afterwards; and he says the child did not die; that she was taken away by the sisters of charity. that was all bosh." "could i see your mother?" asked andré. "certainly; you can walk over to my house and see her if you like." "i do not ask from an idle curiosity," added andré. "the foreign residents in paris were generally taken to the same hospital, in the rue lacépède. i was then the valet of an english gentleman, who died there of cholera. while i was there--for, after the death of my employer, i was engaged as a kind of interpreter for the english patients who did not speak french--the _hôpital des enfants malades_ was full, and a portion of our establishment was devoted to foreign children. i well remember two children of the name of margaret; and i have reason to remember them;" and andré glanced tenderly at maggie. "one of them died, and the other is my maggie." "but what was the other name of the one that died?" asked fitz, nervously. "marguerite chuckingham. i suppose there were other marguerites there; but i did not know them. they could not find the dead child's parents; they were dead themselves. i would like to see your mother's letter," added andré. accepting fitz's invitation, the barber and his daughter walked over to "his house," and were introduced to mrs. wittleworth. andré repeated his story about the two marguerites, and she was quite as much interested in it as her son had been. "i have the letter," said she. "i thought the property was mine, and that the letter might be of use to me; so i have carefully preserved it." she went to the bureau, and produced the letter. it contained a pitiful account of the sufferings of mrs. checkynshaw during the cholera season, and the announcement of little marguerite's death at the hospital in the rue lacépède. "that's the place!" exclaimed andré, much excited. "what became of the child?" asked mrs. wittleworth, not less agitated. "it must have been marguerite chuckingham, for that was as near as a frenchman would be likely to get the name." "but it may have been the other marguerite," suggested mrs. wittleworth. "no!" exclaimed andré, with something like a shudder at the thought of having maggie taken from him, even to dwell in the palatial home of the banker. "why may it not have been?" "because i traced the parents of my maggie to their lodgings, and both of them had died of cholera. the _concierge_ identified the clothing and a locket i found upon her neck. besides, maggie spoke french then, and the other child did not. i have no doubt the child that died was mr. checkynshaw's." "andré, your hand!" said fitz. "i don't wish to harm mr. checkynshaw," protested the barber, taking the hand involuntarily, rather than because he was interested in the act. "you love truth and justice; you have the reputation of loving truth and justice, all over the world--you have. you are a noble-minded man," continued fitz, eloquently. "now you can see what checkynshaw is, and now you can see what i am." "don't be foolish, fitz!" interposed mrs. wittleworth. "foolish! mother, have i not furnished wisdom for our family? have i not told you from the beginning what checkynshaw was? i told you the child was dead. now it is proved." "no matter if it is. it makes no difference now." "it is matter; it does make a difference. mother, you know how earnestly i protested against your signing that quitclaim deed. now i am justified. now you can see that i was right, and you were wrong." andré and maggie had no interest in this discussion, and they hastened their departure as soon as the atmosphere began to look stormy. the barber was sorry he had said anything. simple-minded man as he was, he had not foreseen that he was getting mr. checkynshaw into trouble, and he determined to say nothing more about it. fitz stormed furiously when it was proved that "wisdom was justified of her followers." he declared that checkynshaw had cheated his mother and himself out of their inheritance, and that justice should be done, if the heavens fell. "what can we do? i have signed the quitclaim deed to the block of stores." "no matter if you have. checkynshaw deceived you. you signed the deed only because he said the child was living. we shall prove that the child is dead. the proceeding will be in equity; all that has been done can be ripped up as easily as you can tear up a piece of paper. i know something about law. me and choate have talked over cases in equity." how long this tempestuous debate would have continued none can know, for it was disturbed by the ringing of the door bell. the person admitted was john wittleworth himself, the husband and father, who came to his family clothed and in his right mind, from the house of correction, where he had served a term of four months as a common drunkard. he was cordially welcomed, for he was himself; and there, on his bended knee, he promised, and called upon heaven to record his vow, that he would never again taste the intoxicating cup. he had been discharged that afternoon, and had been endeavoring till that late hour to find his wife and son. he had finally traced them to their new home. in the course of the evening, after the past had been fully discussed, fitz brought up the matter of mr. checkynshaw's child, and all the facts which had been developed were fully stated to him. fitz found a warm supporter of his views in his father, who declared that the quitclaim deed was not valid, because he had not joined her in making it. within three days proceedings in equity were commenced against mr. checkynshaw. chapter xxiii. the gold locket. mr. checkynshaw was astonished and disgusted at the conduct of the wittleworths. the block of stores did not appear even yet to be securely in his possession. it was true he had the quitclaim deed of the contingent heir, but this did not seem to be of much value under the circumstances. mr. wittleworth, senior, had again appeared upon the stage. he had not before considered him in making his calculations; for he was a miserable sot, before whom, and at no great distance from him, yawned the drunkard's grave. john wittleworth, in his right mind, was an able man, and his reappearance explained the decided action of the family. he had joined the temperance society, and he was now a stumbling-block in the path of the banker. mr. checkynshaw was indignant. he had paid ten thousand dollars for that quitclaim deed, or rather he had given it in charity; and this money was to pay the expenses of the suit brought against him! he went to see mrs. wittleworth, and only hoped that he should not see john or his son. unfortunately, fitz was at home. fitz was airy, fitz was grand, fitz was magnificent. his views and opinions had come to be appreciated; they had risen where the froth on the beer rises, to the top of the mug. to use his mother's homely but expressive saying, "you couldn't touch fitz with a ten-foot pole." "ellen," said mr. checkynshaw, solemnly, "it _did_ seem to me that i had done my whole duty to you, when, three months ago, i placed you out of the reach of want for the rest of your lifetime. i confess my grief and surprise, after what i have done for you, that this suit should be brought against me." "if the matter had been left to me, the suit would not have been brought against you," replied mrs. wittleworth, who was really much confused and abashed at the reproaches of the great man. "but, ellen, i must hold you responsible for it. if you had not consented, it could not have commenced. it is done in your name." "hold me responsible, mr. checkynshaw," interposed fitz, placing himself before the banker, and stroking his chin with the most elegant assurance. mr. checkynshaw utterly ignored fitz, took no notice of him, passed him by in silence. "the consideration mentioned in the quitclaim deed, ellen, was ten thousand dollars," continued the great man. "of course you are ready to pay this back." "not at all, sir; we are not ready to pay it back," said fitz; "but we are ready to give you a receipt for it on account." "it is hardly right, ellen, that i should furnish money for you to carry on a suit against me. i gave it to you to keep you from the almshouse, and that you might be independent of any neglect on my part in the future. this money is now to be wasted in idle litigation--in paying the expenses of a lawsuit brought for the sole purpose of annoying me." "the suit is brought in the name of justice and humanity," shouted fitz, eloquently, and with a spread-eagle gesture. "the palladium of our liberties--" "be still, fitz--don't be silly!" interposed his mother. fitz's elegant speech was nipped in the bud. "i don't like to do it, ellen, but i must insist that the money be paid back to me immediately," added the banker. "it is not right for you to spend money given to keep you out of the poorhouse in annoying your benefactor." mr. checkynshaw looked injured. "i am willing to pay the money back as soon as i can," added mrs. wittleworth. "we are not willing to pay the money back, mother. that would not be proper or business-like, when mr. checkynshaw owes us at least fifty thousand dollars for back rents of the block of stores," fitz protested. "i shall have to sue you at once, unless the money is paid," said mr. checkynshaw, mildly. "your husband brought the suit against me without giving me any notice. i wished to take a more christian course with you; but i can stay no longer to be insulted by this puppy!" and the banker nodded his head in the direction of fitz. "puppy!" yelled mr. wittleworth, throwing back his head. "puppy!" "be still, fitz!" said his mother. "be still, and be called a puppy!" "mr. checkynshaw, i can only say that i meant to do right," added mrs. wittleworth. "puppy!" howled fitz, pacing the room violently. "puppy!" "you meant to do right!" exclaimed the banker. "i did. you told me that marguerite was alive and well, and that i was--" "a puppy! that's an insult!" soliloquized mr. wittleworth. "that i was not the legal heir; that i had no claim upon you." "and you have not," replied mr. checkynshaw. "the blood of the wittleworths boils!" stormed fitz. "but marguerite is dead--died ten years ago." "what nonsense is this!" said the banker, in disgust, though his face was a shade paler than usual. "we have the means of proving that marguerite died at the time your wife wrote me the letter to that effect." "yes, sir; we can prove it, sir!" added fitz, forgetting for the moment that he was a puppy. "we can prove it by good and reliable witnesses, sir." "ellen, this is absurd," continued mr. checkynshaw "my wife did write you a letter; but you know what paris must have been when the cholera was cutting down men, women, and children by the hundred daily. marguerite had the cholera, and my wife had it. is it strange that they were separated? is it strange that the child was reported to be dead? is it strange that, at such a time, my wife believed the report? she was mistaken. i found the child, and hastened to correct the false rumors." "we can prove, by a credible witness, that the child, called marguerite chuckingham, died," foamed fitz. "who is the witness?" demanded the banker, turning suddenly upon mr. wittleworth, and for the first time, apparently, conscious of his presence. "by andré maggimore, a good man and true, who was employed in the hotel de saltpetre, in the ruee saleratus," replied mr. wittleworth, triumphantly. he had been reading a book on paris, where mention was made of the _salpêtrière_, a great almshouse; but the street he named was doubtless his own corruption of the _rue lacépède_, of which he had only heard in andré's narrative. mr. checkynshaw was really troubled now. another of the recipients of his bounty had proved faithless; one renegade beneficiary had played into the hands of another. andré had shaved him for years, but had never said a word about the hospitals of paris to him; indeed, andré had never said anything to him, except in answer to his own questions. in reply to his inquiries, mrs. wittleworth stated that the barber had called upon her, and repeated what he had said, in evidence of the truth of her assertion that marguerite was dead. "perhaps andré means to be truthful, and to assert only what he believes to be true; but he is mistaken," said mr. checkynshaw, nervously. "do you think i should not know my own child when i saw her?" "of course you would; but andré is very positive your child was the marguerite chuckingham that died," added mrs. wittleworth. "this matter is too ridiculous to take up my time for a moment. i am ready to abide the decision of the court," continued the banker, taking his hat and moving towards the door. "i hope you are equally ready to do so, ellen." "i wish to do only what is right," replied she. "will you see my husband?" "no; i will not," answered mr. checkynshaw. "if he wished to see me before he commenced this suit, it would have been proper for him to do so. i shall not run after him." "and he will not run after you," interposed fitz. "justice and humanity--" "be still, fitz." "we shall retain choate in this case. me and choate have talked the matter over, and--" mr. checkynshaw bowed stiffly, and left the room before fitz had time to say what terrible things "me and choate" intended to do. the banker was evidently in the most uncomfortable frame of mind. he was nervous and uneasy. his step in the street was quick and sharp, as he walked to phillimore court. he did not expect to find andré there, and he did not. but maggie was a remarkably intelligent girl, open and truthful, and she would be less likely to veil any designs from him than one who had seen more of the world. the banker tried to think what motive the barber could have for arraying himself against one who had done so much for him--one who had voluntarily paid his family the reward of five hundred dollars. it was possible that the wittleworths had been at work upon andré; that they had induced him to give evidence in support of their assertion that marguerite was dead. mr. checkynshaw was a shrewd and deep man, in his own estimation, and he was confident, if any such scheme had been devised, he could fathom it. he rather preferred, therefore, to see the members of the family separately, and maggie was the best one to begin with. mr. checkynshaw was admitted to the parlor of the barber's home, and maggie was the only person in the house with him; for leo was at school, still determined, make or break, to obtain the medal. the fair girl blushed when she recognized the visitor, and, having heard that the wittleworths had instituted the suit, she trembled with fear; for she suspected that the great man's coming related to that event. "maggie, i am sorry you and your father have been giving bad counsels to those wittleworths," the banker began, in solemn tones, but apparently more in grief than in anger. "why, sir! bad counsels?" exclaimed maggie. "i have given the wittleworths money enough to keep them comfortable for the rest of their lives; but they are ungrateful, and are now seeking to annoy me as much as possible." "i am very sorry." "i thought i had done enough for your family to make you all my friends; but it seems i was mistaken," added the great man, sadly reproachful in his manner. "i am sure, sir, we are very grateful to you, and would not willingly do anything to injure you," protested maggie, warmly. "why did your father tell the wittleworths, then, that he was employed in the cholera hospital in paris?" "because he was employed there," replied maggie, who deemed this a sufficient reason for saying so. "was he, indeed?" asked the banker, who had been sceptical even on this point. maggie told the whole story of the two marguerites, as she had heard it from her father. "one marguerite died, and you were the other," said mr. checkynshaw, musing. "yes, sir; and i don't know to this day who my father and mother were; but i suppose they died of cholera. i was told they did. _mon père_ traced them to their lodgings, and identified the clothing and a locket i wore." "a locket?" asked the banker, curiously. "yes, sir." "what was the locket?" "it was a gold one, with the miniature of a gentleman on one side, and a lady on the other, with locks of hair. i suppose they were my father and mother." "where is the locket now?" "_mon père_ has it. i don't know where he keeps it. he tried to find my parents before he came to america, but without success. i saw the locket once, when i was a little girl; but _mon père_ don't like to talk about these things. he loves me, and he only fears that i may be taken from him." "but he talked with the wittleworths about them." "he couldn't help it then," pleaded maggie, "when he heard the story of your child from fitz." mr. checkynshaw abruptly left the house, and hastened to the shop of cutts & stropmore. he had a long conversation with andré, and finally they went to phillimore court together. the banker insisted upon seeing the locket, and andré showed it to him. chapter xxiv. me and choate. "a puppy!" hissed through the teeth of fitz, when the door closed behind the great man. "the blood of the wittleworths boils!" "then you had better let the blood of the wittleworths cool off, my son," added his mother, who had no taste for the grandiloquent. "he called me a puppy--called _me_ a puppy!" "you shouldn't bark so loud, then. i don't know that any but puppies interrupt people who are busy in conversation. when will you learn to keep still, fitz?" "when! when justice and humanity no longer require me to speak in tones of thunder against oppression! mother, we have struck the enemy a fatal blow! didn't you see him cringe?" "no, i didn't see him cringe. i am only sorry that i consented to have this suit brought against mr. checkynshaw." "o, mother! after all, you are only a woman!" "stop your nonsensical talk, fitz! why don't you go out and try to find a place to work?" "a place to work!" sneered fitz. "in a few weeks--be it a few months, if you please--we shall be in possession of that block of stores, with fifty thousand dollars in the bank. what need have i of a place? besides, i have this trial to look out for." "i think your father can attend to that better without you than with you." "father means well, and i trust he will do well," added the hopeful son, patronizingly. "but father's infirmity has weakened him. he is only the ghost of what he was." "are you not ashamed of yourself to speak of your father in that way, fitz? don't you make another such remark as that; if you do, you shall not stay in the house with him. your father has more knowledge and experience in one hair of his head than you have in the whole of your silly brain." "was i not right about this affair? have i not persisted, from the beginning, that the child was dead?" "that remains to be proved." "i think i understand this business better than any other man; and if you are beaten in the suit, it will only be because father does not take my advice. i have studied the case. i have given my whole, my undivided attention to the matter for several weeks." "it would have been better if you had given your undivided attention to something else." "mother, i see that you are bound to follow after foolishness rather than wisdom. but i cannot forget that i am your son, and that you are my mother. i shall not willingly permit your interests to be sacrificed. i advised father to retain choate. he has not seen fit to do so. this shows that he don't understand the matter; that he does not comprehend the difficulty in fighting a man like checkynshaw, who is both wealthy and influential. choate can carry the case. choate is a friend of mine--choate is; and i am going to see to it that choate don't stand in a false position before the country in this great case." "you silly fellow! what are you going to do now?" demanded mrs. wittleworth. "i'm going to see choate," replied fitz, putting on his cap. his mother protested against any and all steps which her son might take; but fitz left the house. he had a supreme contempt for the every-day practical wisdom of his father and mother, and believed that failure could result only from their neglect to hear and heed his sage counsels. he actually went to the office of the distinguished gentleman who stood at the head of the legal profession, and who had been a member of the united states senate. mr. choate was a very gentlemanly man, affable and kind to all, to whatever sphere in life they belonged. he spoke with gentleness and consideration to the boy as well as to the man. [illustration: me and choate.--page .] fitz had been the errand boy in the office of the eminent lawyer, and, of course, had practically experienced the kindness of his nature and the gentleness of his manner. fitz "felt big," and put on airs, even when he was a smaller boy than now. mr. choate appreciated genuine humor, and it is more than probable that he enjoyed the "big talk" of the office boy. perhaps he was more familiar with him on this account than he otherwise would have been. fitz did not find the distinguished gentleman in his office the first time he went there; but he repeated the call till he did find him. the eloquent advocate received him very graciously, as he did everybody who had any claim upon his attention. fitz stated his business as briefly as he could. "i cannot attend to the case," said the great lawyer, very kindly, but very decidedly. "excuse me, mr. choate; but this is a case of no little importance. ever since i was in your office, i have had the highest opinion of you, both as a man and a lawyer." "i thank you for your favorable consideration," replied the eminent orator, soberly. "if there is any man on the earth whom i respect and esteem above all others, that man is mr. choate." "i hope always to prove worthy of your regard." "i come to you now, sir, as a friend--for i am proud and happy to consider you as such. you were always very kind to me." "i trust i have always recognized your great merit." "you have, sir; and the boast of my life will be, that i have been associated with you in your office." "you do me honor; and i shall always hold in grateful remembrance the distinguished service you rendered us here." "it is glorious to be appreciated, mr. choate. you are appreciated, mr. choate. folks know you, and look up to you. they believe you are _some_." "i am grateful for their and your appreciation. but, really, mr. wittleworth, i must beg you to excuse me, for i have important business before me," added the lawyer, nervously turning over a bundle of papers, covered with strange characters, which no mortal man could read; for they were more inexplicable than chinese and syriac to a yankee farmer. "pardon me for detaining you yet a moment longer," pleaded fitz, placing himself in the centre of the room, with his hat under his arm. "this is a case of wrong and injustice, of oppression and usurpation. my mother is the rightful heir to a block of stores in this city, which the greed of avarice withholds from her. me and father have taken up the matter. we have been foully wronged;" and mr. wittleworth threshed his arm, and waxed eloquent. "the heel of injustice has been placed upon our necks. mr. choate, you are the people's advocate. rising superior to all hopes of fee or reward, you raise your eloquent voice in behalf of the widow and the orphan. you plead at the bar of justice for the rights of the down-trodden. your voice is like a trumpet, and--" "so is yours; i beg you will not speak so loud. what do you wish me to do?" interposed mr. choate. fitz explained what he wished the great orator to do--to raise his voice in behalf of the oppressed, meaning his mother and himself; and he soon became quite stormy again. his single auditor, evidently amused by this display of rhetoric, permitted him to go on. "who has the block of stores now?" asked mr. choate, when fitz began to be out of breath. "mr. checkynshaw, the banker." "ah, indeed! i am very sorry, but i am already retained on the other side." "on the other side!" gasped fitz. "i am; and really, mr. wittleworth, you must excuse me now. "on the other side!" repeated fitz. "can it be that the mighty name of choate is to be linked with injustice and oppression? i will not believe it! i counted something upon your friendship for me, mr. choate." the great orator was evidently trying to read some of the strange characters in the manuscript before him, and, regardless of what fitz was saying, had relapsed into a fit of abstraction, which effectually placed him out of the reach of mr. wittleworth's reproaches. the sheets looked as though a fish-worm had come out of the inkstand, and crawled over the virgin page. it was doubtful whether he was able to read anything he had written, and possibly he was trying to remember what he had intended to commit to the paper. fitz, finding that the distinguished gentleman took no further notice of him, put on his hat, and marched in stately grandeur out of the office. the great man had sunk considerably in his estimation, though, as a matter of history, he was never pained by having the fact brought to his knowledge. mr. wittleworth had a great deal of confidence in abstract right and justice. if mr. choate pleaded the cause of mr. checkynshaw, he would in this instance be beaten. it would be a good lesson to the great lawyer, and mr. wittleworth magnanimously hoped that he would profit by it. he was to lose all the glory, honor, and immortality to be gained by being on the right side in the great case of wittleworth _vs._ checkynshaw; but it was not mr. wittleworth's fault. he had given him an opportunity to enlist under the banner of truth and justice, and he had refused to do so. it was his own choice, and he must abide the consequences. mr. wittleworth rather pitied him, for he always had a very tender regard for the reputation of his friends. mr. wittleworth was compelled to rely upon the skill and knowledge of the legal gentleman whom his father had employed to conduct the suit; but he had faith that justice was on his side, and must prevail in the end. he waited--he could not do anything but wait--until the day assigned for the hearing of the case arrived. mr. wittleworth took a seat with his father and mother within the bar, on this, as it seemed to him, most momentous occasion the world had ever seen. mr. checkynshaw appeared by counsel, and asked for a continuation of the case for a reasonable time to enable him to bring his daughter from france. the banker's business lawyer said a few words in making the request, and then mr. choate, who had been employed by the banker, as well as retained, added the weight of his personal influence to the application. to the intense disgust of mr. wittleworth, it was granted so promptly that he hardly knew what had happened. another case was called, and the wittleworths went home. though mr. checkynshaw had threatened to sue them for the money he had paid, nothing more was said or heard from the action. fitz assured his father and mother that the banker could not produce his daughter, and that the case would not come to trial. if they were only firm and decided with him, mr. checkynshaw would give up the block of stores, and pay over the back rents. he must do so, or his reputation would be blasted forever. he must stand before the world as a knave and a swindler, unless he did full and ample justice to the widow (who had a husband), and the orphan (who had a father and mother); for mr. wittleworth, when he waxed eloquent, had a habit of confounding terms. about a week after the hearing which had been cut short so suddenly, fitz, deeming it his duty to look after the witnesses in the great case of wittleworth _vs._ checkynshaw, thought it advisable to call one evening at no. phillimore court. the door was locked, and the house was dark. he repeated the call every evening for a week, but with no better result. then he went in the daytime. no one answered his knock, and the door was as unyielding as a rock of granite. mr. wittleworth was bewildered. mr. checkynshaw had done this! he had spirited away the chief witness. fitz went to the barber's shop, and inquired for andré. he had left his place ten days before. fitz met leo on the street one day, a month later. "where do you live now?" he asked. "i am boarding in gridley street." "where are maggie and your father?" "gone to france with mr. checkynshaw after his daughter," replied leo, hurrying on his way; for, make or break, he intended to be at school in season. mr. wittleworth scratched his head and looked foolish. mr. checkynshaw appeared to be flanking him. chapter xxv. the elegant young lady. leo still slept at the house in phillimore court, though he took his meals in gridley street. it was necessary for him to go two or three times a day to his shop to look after his stock of mice, rabbits, pigeons, and guinea pigs, in which he still carried on a tolerably lucrative commerce in supplying his old friends and customers. every moment of his time was occupied from six o'clock in the morning until ten o'clock at night. he did everything "upon honor," and he carried this rule into his lessons as well as his mercantile speculations. what he learned he really learned, and never left the subject till he had fully mastered it. though he had been absent from school over two months, he stood so well in his class, that, with the severe exertion he made, he was able to regain the position he lost. as soon as his father began to improve in health, and there was a prospect that leo might again take his place in school, he devoted himself to his studies, and followed up his geography, history, and arithmetic with a zeal which promised the best results. he called upon the master, and received directions for the conduct of his course. there are always plenty of good people to help those who are willing to help themselves, and leo had all the friends he needed. everything was going on well with leo, even after the sudden disappearance of andré and maggie, whom, no doubt, he greatly missed in their absence. if he knew anything about the reason for their abrupt departure, he kept his own counsel, especially in the presence of fitz wittleworth, who, since he had discovered that "_his_ witness" had been tampered with, had become the tormentor of the young mechanic. fitz placed himself at the corner of gridley street almost every day, intent upon worming something out of leo. the latter was too busy to waste any time on such a fellow as mr. wittleworth, and used to avoid him, as far as he could, by taking a round-about way to his boarding-house. but sometimes fitz blundered upon his victim. "i want to see you, leo," said he one day, when he had by a happy scheme outflanked him. "i'm in a hurry, fitz; i can't stop now. my mice haven't had their dinner yet," replied leo, uneasily. "they won't starve just yet. hold on! i've got something for you," persisted fitz, when the victim began to move on. "i don't want anything." "did you know your father had got himself into a scrape?" "no, i didn't," answered leo, who was interested in this intelligence. "he has; and he'll have to answer to the court for clearing out. i suppose you never read law, and don't know anything about the subordination of witnesses. i'll tell you." "i can't stay to hear it now," replied leo, laughing, for he knew the difference between "subordination" and "subornation." "i want to talk with you about half an hour some time." "what about?" "about your father. checkynshaw has bought him up." "what do you mean by 'bought him up'?" demanded leo, indignantly. "i mean that checkynshaw has paid him to keep out of the way in our great case of wittleworth versus checkynshaw," added fitz. "i say he hasn't." "hasn't he cleared out?" "what if he has? he's coming back again." "don't tell me! i know something about law." "i won't tell you, and you needn't tell me. if you'll keep your side of the street, i'll keep mine. if you mean to tell me that andré maggimore has done anything wrong, or means to do anything wrong, you don't know the man." "i say he has. he was summoned as a witness for our side, and he has sold out to the enemy." "he hasn't done anything of the sort." "what has he gone to france for, then?" "that's his business, not yours." "yes, it is my business; i manage our suit, and you had better tell me all you know about it." "i guess not! in the first place, i don't know much about it; and in the second, if i did, i wouldn't tell you." "if andré maggimore commits perjury--" "that will do, fitz wittleworth. i don't want to quarrel with you, and i don't mean to do so; but you can't talk like that to me without getting a broken head. so you can't talk to me at all. if you speak to me again, i won't answer you." leo turned abruptly from fitz, bolted into a run, and did not slacken his pace till he reached the house. he was tempted to pitch into fitz; his fists had involuntarily closed; and he felt that if he listened any longer, he should not be able to control his wrath. leo stuck to his text, and when fitz attempted to speak to him, he dodged him as though he had been an unclean beast. of course leo knew why his father and his sister had gone away; but he did not intend to give the wittleworths the benefit of his knowledge. he had an occasional letter from maggie, and about a week before the exhibition, he received one informing him that she and her father would sail for home in the next steamer, and expected to be present at the exhibition. the great day of the school year arrived. the examination for medals had taken place, and leo confidently expected this crowning distinction of his school life, though no one could know who were to be the happy recipients of the medals until their names were called on the great day. there was only one damper upon his enthusiasm as the eventful occasion dawned upon him. the steamer bearing andré and maggie had been expected the day before, but she had not arrived; and leo felt that half his pleasure would be lost because they were not present to witness his triumph. the exercises of the exhibition proceeded, and leo spoke his piece, and carried through his part in the original dialogue to the entire satisfaction of all interested. the silver pitcher had been presented to the "beloved teacher," and the chairman of the district committee had risen to deliver the medal speech, when the crowd at the doors was opened by the gentlemanly policeman in attendance to allow the passage of some favored guests. leo was in a flutter of excitement; for, shortly after the exercises began, the school-house being located near the bay, he had heard the two guns which announced the arrival of an english steamer, in those blissful days when boston was favored by the cunard line. through the crowd came mr. checkynshaw, followed by a young lady of remarkable beauty, who was most elegantly dressed; and behind her came andré maggimore. they were provided with seats, and the exercises proceeded. everybody seemed to pay more attention to the beautiful young lady than to the excellent chairman, whose _forte_ certainly was not speech-making. the fashion of her dress was a season ahead of the ideas of other ladies present, and was of the most costly material. some of the people thought they had seen her before, but they were not quite sure. leo was certain that he had seen her before, and he found it hard work to keep his seat during the solemn and impressive remarks of the worthy chairman of the district committee; and it was only when he began to call the names of the successful candidates for the medal that the whole attention of the aspirant was given to him. "leopold maggimore," called the chairman for the sixth name, which would have been the first if leo had not been absent so long. there was some applause bestowed upon each of the recipients; but that which greeted leo's name was warm and enthusiastic. andré smiled, and the beautiful young lady in the elegant dress smiled; and even mr. checkynshaw was so far in sympathy with the occasion that he smiled too, when the blue ribbon was put upon the neck of leo. after that, the time hung heavy upon all our characters who were present, especially as the distinguished gentlemen who had been invited to make a "few remarks" were unusually long-winded and prosy. the exhibition was finished at last, and the elegant young lady flew to the seat of leo, the silk fluttering like a summer tempest, grasped both his hands, and actually kissed him before the assembled multitude. there were several scores of nice young men present, who envied leo now more than when the blue ribbon was placed on his neck; and it ought to be added that leo bore his martyrdom with remarkable fortitude. andré then grasped his hand, and the tears stole down his pale face. even mr. checkynshaw condescended to take the hand of the young man, and congratulate him upon the distinction he had won. the party left the school-house. there was a carriage waiting at the door for the banker, which bore them to pemberton square. it is not of much consequence what happened there, and we need only say that the elegant young lady was rather sad, and seemed to cling more to andré and leo than to the lofty man who entertained them, or to his family. the great case of wittleworth _vs._ checkynshaw had been twice postponed during the absence of the defendant, and it was called for the fourth time only a few days after his return. all the parties were present this time. mr. fitz wittleworth did not seem quite as confident as before. there were indications of a "gigantic conspiracy," as he expressed it, against the majesty of justice as represented by the wittleworths. it was alleged that the defendant had his daughter in court--and a beautiful young lady she was; but mr. wittleworth insisted that this person--elegant and richly dressed as she appeared--was an impostor, employed to personate the deceased child of his powerful rival, and thus enable him to retain the block of stores and the back rents. mrs. checkynshaw and elinora were in court; so were andré and leo. mr. choate was there, and mr. wittleworth cast a reproachful glance at him; but it was fortunate for the distinguished orator that he did not know how much he had fallen in the estimation of one "who had formerly been in the office with him." certain dry formalities were solemnly passed through; the counsel for the plaintiff made a statement, during which he read extracts from the will of mr. osborne. it was plain enough to everybody that the block of stores belonged to mrs. wittleworth, unless the trustee and defendant could produce his daughter. she was produced; but fitz was still hopeful. the elegant young lady was no other than miss maggie maggimore. it was evident enough to him that she had been engaged to play the part in the farce. mrs. checkynshaw was the first witness called. she told the whole story about the cholera in paris; that marguerite, her husband's daughter, had the disease first, and was reported to have died with it; that she was taken with the terrible malady shortly afterwards; and that the child wore, at the time she was taken to the hospital, a gold locket, which contained portraits of her father and mother, and a lock of the hair of each. this locket was handed to her, and she identified it. fitz began to be alarmed. andré was called next. he had been employed as an interpreter in the hospital in the rue lacépède. he had frequently seen the child whose name was entered on the books of the establishment as marguerite poulebah. he was informed that her parents had died, and that she had no friends to whom she could be sent. he became very much interested in her, and when something was said about taking her to an orphan asylum, he had invited her to go home with him. he kept her there a few days, and became so much attached to her that he was not willing to give her up. his landlady took care of her till he embarked for america, where he soon found employment as a barber and had ever since retained her. he identified the locket as the one worn by the child when he took her from the hospital. he confessed that he had done wrong in not using greater efforts to find the friends of the child; but they were so much attached to each other that a separation would have been insupportable to either. andré finished his direct statement, and the counsel for the plaintiff immediately opened upon him so fiercely that fitz began to feel that the day was not wholly lost. chapter xxvi. the rich man's daughter. "where were you born, mr. maggimore?" asked the wittleworth lawyer. "in london," replied andré. "are you a frenchman?" "my father was italian, my mother french." "did you ever learn the barber's trade, or did you pick it up yourself?" "i was apprenticed to a barber in london, and served seven years." "have you always worked at the business?" "no, sir. i used to shave an english gentleman who had a stiff arm, and i finally went into his service as his valet. i remained with him till he died of cholera in paris. i lived with him fourteen years," answered andre, meekly. "have you ever told any person that marguerite checkynshaw died at the hospital?" demanded the attorney, sharply. "i have, sir." "was it true?" "no, sir." "why did you say so, then?" "because i thought it was true." "what made you think so?" "the last name of the marguerite that died was so like checkynshaw." "what was the name of the other marguerite?" "poulebah." "did you make any effort to find the parents of the child you adopted?" "i did; i found the lodgings they had occupied, and the _concierge_ identified some clothing and the locket which i carried to him. he told me that the parents of the child were both dead. he only knew that they were english. i have no doubt now that he was a bad man, and that he told me what he knew was not true in regard to the child." "why so?" "i think it is probable the chuckinghams left some property in their rooms which he desired to keep, and because i have learned from mr. checkynshaw that the house i visited was not the one occupied by him. the _concierge_ told me two falsehoods--that the clothing and locket belonged to the child of his lodger, and that she spoke french." the lawyer twisted the matter about in various ways; but andré was as clear as light itself, and he did not materially contradict himself. mrs. checkynshaw was called for the defence; but, to the astonishment and disgust of the legal gentleman and his employers, she testified, in the most positive manner, that the elegant young lady in court was marguerite checkynshaw. she had taken care of her as a child, and she could not be mistaken. mrs. wittleworth was put upon the stand, with the letter announcing the death of marguerite in her hand; but, poor woman, all her evidence was against herself. she identified the locket, and was in the end very sure that the beautiful young lady was her niece. mr. fitzherbert wittleworth was utterly disgusted, though he could not help believing that the young lady was his cousin. not a doubt was left in the mind of any person, and of course mr. checkynshaw won his case; but the great man was very far from satisfied with himself, or with the position in which the trial left him. it was apparent to all the world that he had attempted to defraud mrs. wittleworth out of the block of stores, and ten years' income upon it; but the banker was not a man to bend before the storm of popular opinion. he took the trouble to define his position, and to explain away what was dark and unsatisfactory. he did not believe his child was dead. he was satisfied that marguerite poulebah was marguerite checkynshaw, though he could not find her. the director of the hospital said the sisters had taken her, and he was sure she was living. besides, it would have been wicked to hand the property over to mrs. wittleworth for her drunken husband to squander away, and make her a beggar a second time. he intended, in due time, if his daughter did not appear, to pass the property to the rightful heir when it could be safely done. the integrity of his intentions could not be doubted, for had he not given mrs. wittleworth ten thousand dollars? the quitclaim deed, he declared, was only to save himself from being annoyed by fitz and his father. of course he intended to make it all right in the end. mr. checkynshaw did not forgive the wittleworths for the mischief they had attempted to do. he hinted at steps for compelling them to restore the ten thousand dollars; but maggie protested, in her way, against such a course, and nothing was ever done. marguerite checkynshaw went to live in pemberton square; but she was not happy there, and every day she visited the house at no. phillimore court. poor andré was actually miserable. he had lost his darling child, and it was little comfort to know that she dwelt in the midst of luxury and splendor. though he saw her every day, he was sad, and almost disconsolate. maggie tried to be happy in her new home, but her heart was not there. mrs. checkynshaw was cold and distant to her, and elinora was a little, petulant, disagreeable tyrant, who lived for herself alone. she tried to love her, but she tried in vain. her father was kind and indulgent to her; yet she saw but little of him. maggie went to school for two years, and was busy with her studies and her music lessons; but not an evening passed without her going to see her foster-father, after he left the shop. about nine o'clock leo walked home with her; but he seldom entered her father's house. in the choice of a pursuit for life, leo won the day, and went to learn the machinist's trade. he did not give up the "mouse business" entirely, but found time to make new houses; and there were customers to purchase them, adding quite a sum to the income of his foster-father. a housekeeper was employed to take maggie's place; but home was never the place it had been after maggie went away. john wittleworth kept his solemn promise, and continued to be a steady man. he obtained employment in a wholesale grocery, and served so faithfully that he won the esteem and regard of the firm. his former ambition returned to him, and when he spoke of going into business on his own account, with a portion of his wife's money as his capital, he was admitted as a partner in the firm that employed him. he was a man of excellent abilities, and in time he acquired a handsome property. fitz never amounted to much. his ideas were too big for his station. he obtained several situations; but, as he aspired to manage his employers' business without their aid, he was often out of a place. when his father went into business, he was taken as an entry-clerk; but he was such a trial that even parental solicitude could not tolerate him, and he was sent away. he was not a bad boy; but self-conceit was the rock on which he wrecked himself. he found another situation, and another, and another; but his stay in each was short. and so he went from one place to another, achieving nothing, until he was twenty-five years old, when he married a lady ten years his senior, whom even the twenty thousand dollars she possessed did not tempt any one else to make a wife. fitz is a gentleman now; and though his lot at home is trying, he still maintains his dignity, and lives on his wife's property. he is not dissipated, and has no bad habits; but he does not amount to anything. people laugh at him, and speak contemptuously of him behind his back; and he is, and will continue to be, nothing but a cipher in the community. in the little smoking-room in the house in pemberton square, three years after maggie went to live there, on the very sofa where andré maggimore had lain, was stretched the inanimate form of another person, stricken down by the same malady. it was mr. checkynshaw. the two gentlemen with whom he had been conversing when attacked by the fit had placed him there, and dr. fisher had been sent for. from that sofa he was conveyed to his bed, still insensible. his eyes were open, but he knew none of those who stood by his couch. the doctor came; but the banker was out of the reach of human aid, though he survived a day and a half. maggie watched over him, as she had over andré; but vain was her care, and vain were her hopes. her father died. a few days later a long funeral procession left the house, and mr. checkynshaw was borne to his last resting-place at mount auburn. mrs. checkynshaw was bewildered and overwhelmed; elinora was so nervous that she required an attendant constantly; and maggie had little time to weep herself, so devoted was she to the wants of others. by the death of her father, everything was changed with maggie. there was little sympathy between her and the other members of the family. mrs. checkynshaw decided that the house should be sold, and that she and the two daughters should board with a relative of her own. maggie did not like this arrangement, though she was prepared to accept it if no better one could be suggested. she stated her objection in the gentlest terms; but her step-mother was cold, and even harsh, and maggie realized that the future was to be more unhappy than the past. in this emergency she consulted her old friend, dr. fisher, who was familiar with all the circumstances of the family. "i cannot live with mrs. checkynshaw and elinora, now that my father is no longer with us," said she, sadly. "i do not like them, and they do not like me." "it is not necessary that you should live with them," replied the doctor. "couldn't i live with andré again?" asked she, eagerly. "certainly you can. leave this to me. i will see your father's executors, and tell them your wishes." "thank you, doctor." "the block of stores yields a large income, besides your share of your father's property; but, maggie, you are under age, and you must have a guardian to take charge of your property. your own wishes in this matter will be consulted." "andré!" exclaimed she, with enthusiasm. the doctor smiled, and shook his head. "why not?" demanded she, her face looking sad again. "andré is a very good man, but he does not know much about business." "there is nothing to do at present but to collect the rents on the block of stores. i could not name any one but andré for my guardian." "perhaps the court will not approve of him if you do," added the doctor, with a smile. "i'm sure andré is honest and true, and will be faithful to the end. he knows enough about business to take care of the property." maggie argued like a woman, and the doctor promised to do what he could to meet her wishes. mr. checkynshaw's executors were opposed to the plan; but, at the earnest solicitation of maggie and the doctor, they at last consented to recommend it, and andré was appointed guardian of the rich man's daughter. if ever a man was amazed and bewildered, andré was, when he found himself the keeper of such a vast property. maggie had a plan of her own. andré was to be a barber no longer. a nice brick house in harrison avenue was hired, and furnished in good style, and the strange family were once more united. leo sold out the mouse business to tom casey, and was as happy as a lord in his new home. the executors paid maggie's share of her father's estate to andré, in accordance with the provisions of the will. the ex-barber was not a business man; but this fact rendered him all the more cautious in handling the property intrusted to his care. he had shaved men of dignity and substance for so many years, that he had no lack of friendly advisers. with fear and trembling he discharged his sacred duty. but andré's duties as guardian were abruptly terminated one day, before maggie was twenty-one. a remarkably good-looking young lawyer, mr. charles harding, the partner of an older legal gentleman who had done andré's business, relieved him of his charge by marrying his ward. everybody said he was a splendid fellow, and maggie knew he was. no one seemed to be astonished except leo, who thought the affair had come off rather suddenly. he did not exactly understand how maggie could have fallen in love with any fellow--he never thought of such things. "so maggie is married," said mr. fitz wittleworth one day, when they met in the street. "yes; and a capital fellow harding is, too," replied leo, warmly. "it was rather sudden--wasn't it?" "well, it was rather sudden; but when i think what a beautiful girl maggie was, and when i think what a good girl she was, i am not at all surprised--not a bit." "but, leo, i always thought you would marry maggie," added mr. wittleworth, stroking his chin. "i!" exclaimed leo, opening his eyes. "why, i never thought of such a thing." "the more fool you, when you could have done it." "what, marry my sister!" "she isn't your sister, any more than i am." "well, it's all the same thing, and i could never look upon her as anything but a sister," replied leo, as he hastened to his work. leo was satisfied; for he could still love mrs. harding as a sister; and he had certainly never thought of her in any other relation. perhaps he did not think of anything at that time but machines and machinery. both he and andré remained with mrs. harding, for she would not consent to their leaving her. and her husband liked them because she did. when leo was twenty-five, his inventive genius had laid the foundation of his fortune, and his "royalties" soon made him independent, for he had the business ability to profit by his inventions. when he was married, the "strange family" was separated, but never in spirit. andré goes from one house to the other half a dozen times a day, and is honored as a "grandpa" by four little boys and girls. leo has always been the determined and persevering individual he was in his youth, when engaged in the "mouse business." as an apprentice, as n journeyman, as a master machinist, and as an inventor, it has been "make or break" with him; and, though the parts of his machinery often did break, and the apparatus failed to do its expected work, he did not give up; and he conquered in the end, whatever trials and difficulties interposed. mrs. harding is superlatively happy in her husband, her children, her foster-father, whom she still lovingly calls "_mon père_" and in her noble brother. she calls, at long intervals, upon mrs. checkynshaw and elinora; and peace reigns between the two houses of checkynshaw and wittleworth. though she was never happier than when she knew no other relation than that of the poor man's daughter, she has every reason to be thankful, and is thankful, to god for the blessings which have come to her as the rich man's daughter. the rainbow bridge books by frances margaret fox =what gladys saw.= a nature story of farm and forest. with full page illustration. containing pages. cloth bound. price, $ . . =the rainbow bridge.= a story. with full page colored frontispiece. containing pages. cloth bound. price, $ . . [illustration: mrs. moore rocked a baby before the nursery fire.] the rainbow bridge a story by frances margaret fox _author of "what gladys saw," "farmer brown and the birds," etc._ illustrated by frank t. merrill [illustration] w. a. wilde company boston chicago _copyright, _ by w. a. wilde company _all rights reserved_ the rainbow bridge _to the dear friend of my childhood and later years mrs. william w. crouch_ contents i. a little pilgrim begins a journey ii. marian's first day in school iii. she goes to church iv. aunt amelia v. marian's new home vi. that yellow cucumber vii. an undeserving child viii. in the name of santa claus ix. at the rich man's table x. a game of sliced birds xi. the way of the transgressor xii. marian's diary xiii. diphtheria xiv. musical conversations xv. little sister to the dandelion xvi. professor lee, botanist xvii. the composition on wild flowers xviii. marian's letter home xix. the most truthful child in school xx. more changes xxi. marian remembers her diary xxii. florence weston's mother xxiii. how marian crossed the rainbow bridge the rainbow bridge chapter i a little pilgrim begins a journey there was always room for one more in the home for little pilgrims. especially was this true of the nursery; not because the nursery was so large, nor because there was the least danger that the calico cats might be lonesome, but mrs. moore loved babies. it made no difference to her whether the wee strangers were white or black, bright or stupid, she treated them all alike. they were dressed, undressed, bathed, fed and put to sleep at exactly the same hours every day, that is, they were laid in their cribs whenever it was time for them to go to sleep. little pilgrims were never rocked and mrs. moore had no time for lullaby songs, whatever may have been her inclination. yet there came a night when mrs. moore rocked a baby before the nursery fire and sung to it all the songs she knew. that was the night marian lee entered the home with bright eyes wide open. she not only had her eyes open when she was placed in mrs. moore's arms, but she kept them open and somehow compelled mrs. moore to break her own rules and do as she had never done with a new baby. to be sure, marian lee couldn't talk, having started on her pilgrimage only six months before, but in a way of her own, she declared herself well pleased with the home and with the nursery in particular. she enjoyed her bath and said so. the warm fire in the grate pleased her and mrs. moore's face was lovely, if a baby's ideas were of any account. the trouble began when marian was carried into the still room where the sleeping pilgrims were, and placed in a crib. the minute her head touched the pillow she began to cry. when mrs. moore left her, she cried louder. that awakened tiny joe in the nearest crib and when he began to wail, bennie and johnnie, sam and katie, as well as half a dozen others joined in the chorus. not to be outdone by these older pilgrims, marian screamed louder than any of them until mrs. moore took her back to the fire and quiet was restored. now it was strictly against mrs. moore's rules to humor a baby in that fashion, and mrs. moore told marian so, although she added in the next breath, "poor little dear." the "poor little dear" was cooing once more and there really seemed nothing to do but kiss, and cuddle and rock the baby as her own mother might have done. she was so unlike the others in the home; so soft, round and beautiful. "you are no ordinary baby, precious one," said mrs. moore, whereupon marian laughed, flourished her hands and seemed much pleased. "i think," continued mrs. moore, as she kissed the pink fists, "i think some one has talked to you a great deal. my babies are different, poor little things, they don't talk back as you do." before long, the rows of white cribs in the other room were forgotten and mrs. moore began singing to marian as though she were the only baby in the big home. lullaby after lullaby she sang while the fire burned low, yet the baby would not sleep. softly at last, mrs. moore began a lullaby long unsung: "all the little birdies have gone to sleep, why does my pet so wide awake keep? peep, peep, go to sleep, peep, peep, go to sleep. "all the little babies their prayers have said, their mothers have tucked them up snugly in bed. peep, peep, go to sleep, peep, peep, go to sleep." when the blue eyes closed, mrs. moore suddenly realized it was but another little pilgrim that she held and not her own baby so often hushed to sleep by that old lullaby many years ago. for the sake of that baby, mrs. moore had loved all the motherless little ones in the home--all the unfortunate, neglected waifs brought to its doors. she had loved them impartially until that night. she had never before asked who a baby was, nor what its surroundings had been. its future was her only concern. to care for each baby while it was in the nursery and to be sure it was placed in a good home when taken away, was all she wished to know. no baby had ever crept into mrs. moore's innermost heart as marian did that night. an hour later the superintendent was surprised when mrs. moore asked for the history of that latest little pilgrim. "she's a fine child," mused the superintendent, adding cheerfully, "we'll have no trouble finding a home for her; i doubt if she's here a month." mrs. moore said nothing but she was sure marian would stay more than a month. after she heard the superintendent's story, she was more sure of it. thus it happened that tiny joe, who was not a bit attractive, and bennie and johnnie, who were disagreeable babies if such a thing may be, and sam and katie whose fathers and mothers were drunkards, as well as a dozen other little waifs, were given away long before marian learned to talk: marian, the beautiful baby, was somehow always kept behind mrs. moore's skirts. as the child grew older, she was still kept in the background. the plainest dresses ever sent in to little pilgrims, were given to marian. her hair was kept short and when special visitors were expected, she was taken to the playground by an older girl. all this time a happier baby never lived than marian. no one in the home knew how tenderly mrs. moore loved her. no one knew of the caresses lavished upon her when the infant pilgrims were busy with their blocks or asleep in their cribs. at last the superintendent questioned mrs. moore. he said it seemed strange that no one wished to adopt so lovely a child. mrs. moore explained. she told the superintendent she hoped marian would be claimed by folks of her own, but if not--mrs. moore hesitated at that and the superintendent understood. "we won't give her away," he promised, "until we find the right kind of a mother for her. that child shall have a good home." too soon to please mrs. moore, marian outgrew her crib and went to sleep in the dormitory. the child was pleased with the change, especially as mrs. moore tucked her in bed and kissed her every night just as she had done in the nursery. marian was glad to be no longer a baby. the dormitory with its rows and rows of little white beds, delighted the child, and to be allowed to sit up hours after the babies were asleep was pure joy. the dining-room was another pleasure. to sit down to dinner with two hundred little girls and boys and to be given one of the two hundred bright bibs, filled her heart with pride. the bibs certainly were an attraction. marian was glad hers was pink. she buttoned it to her chair after dinner just as she saw the others do. one thing troubled marian. she wished mrs. moore to sit at the table beside her and drink milk from a big, white mug. "do childrens always have dinner all alone?" she asked. instead of answering the child, mrs. moore told her to run away and play. then she looked out of the window for a long, long time. perhaps she had done wrong after all in keeping the baby so long in a "home with a capital h." chapter ii marian's first day in school there was no kindergarten in the home for little pilgrims when marian was a baby. the child was scarcely five when she marched into the schoolroom to join the changing ranks of little folks who were such a puzzle to their teacher. every day one or more new faces appeared in that schoolroom and every day familiar faces were gone. for that reason alone it was a hard school to manage. the teacher, who had been many years in the home, smiled as she found a seat for marian in the front row. marian at least might be depended upon to come regularly to school: then, too, she would learn easily and be a credit to her instructor. plain dresses and short hair might do their worst, the face of the child attracted attention. the teacher smiled again as marian sat in the front seat before her, with hands folded, waiting to see what might happen next. roll call interested the child. she wondered why the little girls and boys said "present" when the teacher read their names from a big book. once in a while when a name was called, nobody answered. finally the teacher, smiling once more, said, "marian lee." the little girl sat perfectly still with lips tightly closed. "you must say 'present' when your name is called," suggested the teacher. no response. "say present," the teacher repeated. "but i don't like this kind of play," marian protested, and then wondered why all the children laughed and the teacher looked annoyed. "but you must say present," the young lady insisted and marian obeyed, though she thought it a silly game. the things that happened in the schoolroom that morning were many and queer. a little boy had to stand on the floor in front of the teacher's desk because he threw a paper wad. then when the teacher wasn't looking he aimed another at marian and hit her on the nose and when marian laughed aloud, the teacher, who didn't know what happened, shook her head and looked cross. it distressed marian so to have the teacher look cross that she felt miserable and wondered what folks went to school for anyway. a few moments later, she knew. the primer class was called and marian, being told to do so, followed a dozen little pilgrims to the recitation seat where she was told that children go to school to learn their letters. marian knew her letters, having learned them from the blocks in the nursery. "you must learn to read," advised the teacher, and marian stared helplessly about the schoolroom. she felt sure it wouldn't be a bit of fun to learn to read. nor was it, if her first lesson was a sample. it wasn't long before marian was tired of sitting still. she wasn't used to it. at last she remembered that in her pocket was a china doll, an inch high. on her desk was the new primer. the cover was pasteboard and of course one could chew pasteboard. the china doll needed a crib and as there seemed nothing to make a crib of but the cover of her primer, marian chewed a corner of it, flattened it out and fitted the doll in. it pleased her, and she showed it to the little girl in the next seat. soon the teacher noticed that marian was turning around and showing her primer to all the children near, and the children were smiling. "marian, bring your book to me," said the teacher. then there was trouble. little pilgrims had to be taught not to chew their books. the teacher gave marian what one of the older girls called a "lecture," and marian cried. "i didn't have anything to do," she sobbed. "nothing to do?" exclaimed the teacher, "why, little girl, you should study your lesson as you see the other children doing. that is why you are in school--to study." marian went to her seat, but how to study she didn't know. she watched the other children bending over their books, making noises with their lips, so she bent over her primer and made so much noise the teacher told her she must keep still. "why, marian," said the young lady, "what makes you so naughty? i thought you were a good little girl!" poor marian didn't know what to think. tears, however, cleared her views. she decided that as going to school was a thing that must be endured because mrs. moore would be displeased otherwise, it would do no good to make a fuss. she would draw pictures on her slate or play with the stones in her pocket--anything to pass the time. there was a great deal in knowing what one could or could not do safely, and marian learned that lesson faster than she learned to read. when she was dismissed that afternoon, the little girl flew to the nursery to tell mrs. moore about her first school day. soon after when marian ran laughing into the hall on her way to the playground, she met janey clark who sat behind her in school. "is mrs. moore your ma?" asked janey. "what's a ma?" inquired marian, seizing janey's two hands. "a ma," was the reply, "why a ma is a mother. is mrs. moore your mother?" "maybe," agreed marian. "oh, no, she isn't either. i know all about mothers, we sing about 'em, of course. i guess i never had one." "my mother just died," declared janey, tossing her head in an important way that aroused marian's envy. "well, mine died too!" responded marian. "did you have a funeral?" persisted janey. "did you?" marian cautiously inquired. "well i should say yes," was the reply. "then i did too," observed marian. "well," remarked janey, "that's nothing to brag of; i don't suppose there's anybody in this home that got here unless all their folks died dead. we are here because we don't belong anywhere else, and we are going to be given away to folks that'll take us, pretty soon." that was too much for marian. "why, janey clark, what a talk!" she exclaimed, then turning, she ran back to the nursery. "nanna, nanna!" she cried, "where's my mother?" mrs. moore almost dropped a fretful baby at the question. "did i ever have a mother?" continued the child, whose dark blue eyes looked black she was so much in earnest. "i thought mothers were just only in singing, but janey clark had a mother and she died, and if janey clark had a mother, i guess i had one too that died." the fretful baby was given to an assistant and mrs. moore took marian in her lap. "what else did janey tell you?" she asked. "well, janey said that all of us childrens are going to be gived away to folks. mrs. moore, did all the childrens that live here have mothers that died?" "not all of them, marian, some of the mothers are living and the children will go back to them: but your mother, little girl, will never come back for you. god took her away when he sent you to us. we keep little children here in our home until we find new fathers and mothers for them. sometimes lovely mothers come here for little girls like you. how is it, marian, do you want a mother?" the child nodded her head and looked so pleased mrs. moore was disappointed. it would be hard enough to part with the child anyway, but to think she wished to go was surprising. two soft arms stole around mrs. moore's neck. "i'm going to have you for my mother," marian explained, "and i'm going to live here always. i don't want to be gived away." chapter iii she goes to church janey clark was taken ill one day and was carried to the hospital. when she returned months afterward, she had something to tell marian. "you want to get yourself adopted," was her advice. "i'm going to, first chance i get. when i was too well to stay in the hospital and not enough well to come home, a pretty lady came and said would i like to go to her house and stay until i was all better." "did she 'dopt you?" questioned marian. "no, of course not, or i could have stayed at her house and she would be my mother. she didn't want to keep me but only to borrow me so the children she is aunt to would know about little pilgrims and how lucky it is not to be one their own selves. and at her house," continued janey, "if you liked something they had for dinner pretty well, you could have a second helping, if you would say please. you better believe i said it when there was ice cream. and the children she was aunt to took turns dividing chocolate candy with me, and the only trouble was they gave me too much and made me sick most all the time. what do you think! one day a girl said she wished i was a little cripple like a boy that was there once, because she liked to be kind to little cripples and wash their faces. wasn't she just lovely? oh, marian, i want to be adopted and have a mother like that lady and a room all my own and everything." "but i would rather live with mrs. moore," objected marian. "i've picked her out for my mother." "all right for you, stay here if you want to," agreed janey, "but i'm not, you just wait and see." janey clark was adopted soon after and when marian was invited to visit her, she changed her mind about living forever in the home for little pilgrims. mrs. moore promised to choose a mother for her from the many visitors to the home, yet she and marian proved hard to suit. "i want a mother just like my nanna," said marian to the superintendent, who agreed to do all he could to find one. in spite of his help marian seemed likely to stay in the home, not because no one wanted her but because the child objected to the mothers who offered themselves. all these months the little girl was so happy and contented the superintendent said she was like a sunbeam among the little pilgrims and if the school-teacher had some ideas that he and mrs. moore didn't share, she smiled and said nothing. in time, marian talked of the mother she wished to have as she did of heaven--of something beautiful but too indefinite and far away to be more than a dream. one never-to-be-forgotten morning, the dream took shape. a woman visited the home, leading a little girl by the hand. a woman so lovely the face of the dullest little pilgrim lighted as she passed. it was not so much the bright gold of her hair, nor the blue eyes that attracted the children, but the way she smiled and the way she spoke won them all. she was the mother for whom marian had waited. it didn't occur to the child that the woman might not want her. it was noon before the strangers were through visiting the chapel, the schoolroom, the nursery and the dormitories. like a shadow marian had followed them over the building, fearing to lose sight of her chosen mother. on reaching the dining-room the woman and child, with the superintendent, stood outside the door where they watched the little pilgrims march in to dinner. noticing marian, the superintendent asked her why she didn't go to the table, and marian tried to tell him but couldn't speak a word. the man was about to send her in the dining-room when he caught the appealing look on the child's face. at that moment the stranger turned. marian seized her dress and the woman, glancing down, saw the dear little one and stooping, kissed her. the superintendent smiled but marian began to cry as the woman tried ever so gently to release her dress from the small, clinging fingers. "we must go now," the stranger said, "so good-bye, dear child." "i'm going with you," announced marian. "i want you for my mother." "but, don't you see, i have a little girl? what could i do with two?" remonstrated the woman. "there, there," she continued, as marian began to sob piteously, "run in to dinner and some day i will come to see you again. perhaps they may let you visit my little girl and me before long. would you like that?" "no, no," wailed marian, "i want you for my mother." "come, marian, sweetheart, let's go find mrs. moore," suggested the superintendent, taking her by force from the visitor, whose eyes filled with tears at the sight of little outstretched arms. for years afterwards there were times when that woman seemed to feel the clinging fingers of the little pilgrim who chose her for her mother. she might have taken her home. the next time she called to inquire for the child, marian was gone. an unexpected thing happened as marian was borne away to the nursery. the stranger's little girl cried and would not be comforted because she couldn't stay and have dinner with the little pilgrims. she was still grieving over her first sorrow after mrs. moore had succeeded in winning back the smiles to the face of her precious marian. "well, i know one sure thing," declared the little pilgrim as she raised her head from mrs. moore's shoulder and brushed away the tears. "i know that same mother will come and get me some time and take me home and then you will come and live with me--and won't it be lovely! let's have some dinner, i'm hungry!" mrs. moore smiled and sighed at the same time, but she ordered a luncheon for two served in the nursery and marian's troubles vanished: also the luncheon. the next time the superintendent saw the child, she was sitting on the nursery floor singing to the babies. he was surprised and pleased when he heard the sweet, clear voice and straightway sought mrs. moore. "let me take her sunday," he suggested. "i didn't know our marian was a singer." "are you going into the country?" asked the nurse. "no, mrs. moore, not this time. we expect to have services in one of the largest churches right here in the city. we have made special arrangements and i shall take twenty-five of the best singers in the home with me. marian will have plenty of company." "she is young," objected mrs. moore. the superintendent laughed. "petey ross," said he, "was two years old when he made his first public appearance on the platform; marian is nearly six." "yes," agreed mrs. moore, "that is true and i remember that petey ross was adopted and in less than a week after that first appearance. marian," she continued, "come here, darling. do you want to go to a big church with the children next sunday and sing one of the songs you and i sing to the babies?" "yes, nanna, what for?" "because the superintendent wishes you to. every sunday he takes some of our little boys and girls away to sing in the different churches, where he tells the people all about the home for little pilgrims." "oh, yes, now i know," declared marian. "janey clark used to go and sing. she said that was the way to get yourself adopted. i'd like to go if i don't have to get adopted and if nanna may go too." "all right, marian, i will go," assented mrs. moore, "and nobody shall adopt you unless you wish it. now run back to the babies. little ned and jakey are quarreling over the elephant. hurry, marian, or its ears will be gone." "she'll demand a salary in another year," remarked the superintendent, watching the little girl's successful management of the babies. "i shouldn't know how to get along without her," said mrs. moore, "and yet it isn't right to let her grow up here." sunday morning it would have been hard to find a happier child than marian anywhere in the big city. she had never been in a church before and quickly forgot her pretty white dress and curls in the wonder of it all. she sat on the platform, a radiant little pilgrim among the twenty-five waifs. soon the church was filled. after the opening exercises the service was turned over to the superintendent of the home for little pilgrims. he made a few remarks, and then asked marian to sing. pleased by the friendly faces in the pews and encouraged by mrs. moore's presence, marian sang timidly at first, then joyously as to the babies in the nursery. "'i am jesus' little lamb happy all the day i am, jesus loves me this i know for i'm his lamb.'" as she went on with the song, the little girl was surprised to see many of the audience in tears. even mrs. moore was wiping her eyes, although she smiled bravely and marian knew she was not displeased. what could be the matter with the folks that bright sunday morning? janey clark said everybody always cried at funerals. perhaps it was a funeral. at the close of her song marian sat down, much puzzled. after johnnie otis recited the poem he always recited on visitors' day at school, "the orphan's prayer," all the little pilgrims, marian included, were asked to sing their chapel song. what was there sad about that, marian wondered. she always sang it over and over to the babies to make them stop crying. "it is all for the best, oh, my father, all for the best, all for the best." when the little pilgrims were seated, the superintendent made a speech to which marian listened. for the first time in her life she knew the meaning of the home for little pilgrims. she understood at last all that janey clark had tried to tell her. no wonder the people cried. marian stared at the superintendent, longing and dreading to hear more. story after story he told of wrecked homes and scattered families; of little children, homeless and friendless left to their fate upon the street. "whatever may be the causes which bring these waifs to our doors, remember," said he, "the children themselves are not to blame. it is through no fault of theirs their young lives have been saddened and trouble has come upon them while your little ones are loved and cared for in comfortable homes." the superintendent grew eloquent as he went on. how could it be, marian wondered, that she had never known before what a sad, sad place was the little pilgrims' home? where did her mother die and where was her father? perhaps he was in the dreadful prison mentioned by the superintendent. it was such a pitiful thing to be a little pilgrim. marian wondered how she had ever lived so long. oh, if she could change places with one of the fortunate little ones in the pews. the superintendent was right. every little girl needed a father and mother of her own. she wanted the lovely mother who had passed her by. what was the superintendent saying? something about her? the next thing marian knew the man had taken her in his arms and placed her upon the little table beside him. she thought he said "'for of such is the kingdom of heaven,'"--she wasn't sure. in the quiet moment that followed, marian looked all over the church for the mother of her dreams. maybe she was there and perhaps she would take her home. if she could only see that one face for a moment. "i am going to ask our little girl for another song," the superintendent said, telling marian what to sing. the child hesitated, then looked appealing towards mrs. moore. she had forgotten her during the speech--dear, kind mrs. moore. "don't be frightened," whispered the superintendent, whereupon to the surprise of every one in the church, marian put her head upon his shoulder and sobbed aloud, "i don't want to be a little pilgrim any more! oh, i don't want to be a little pilgrim any more!" another second and mrs. moore's arms were around the child and the superintendent was alone on the platform with the twenty-five. "he told me to take you for a walk in the park," whispered mrs. moore, "so don't cry, marian, and we will leave the church quickly as we can. we will talk about the little pilgrims out in the sunshine where the birds are singing and we can see the blue sky." mrs. moore would have been tempted to have stayed in the church had she known the superintendent's reason for wishing her to take the child away; nor would the good man have done as he did, could he have guessed the immediate consequences. when marian was gone, the superintendent told her story effectively. she might have had her choice of many homes within a week had it not been for the appearance of aunt amelia. chapter iv aunt amelia there was no question about it. aunt amelia had a perfect right to claim the child. the superintendent was sorry to admit it, but what could he do? mrs. moore was heartbroken, but she was powerless. the proofs were positive. aunt amelia's husband and marian lee's father were half-brothers and here was aunt amelia insisting upon her right to do her duty by the child. marian never heard of aunt amelia until it was all over and the superintendent sent for her. she came dancing into the office, her face aglow until she saw aunt amelia. then the sunshine faded from her eyes and she shrank past the stranger, scarcely breathing until the superintendent's arms were about her. from that safe shelter she surveyed aunt amelia. there was nothing in the woman's appearance to inspire confidence in a little child. she was tall, thin, bloodless. one felt conscious of the bones in her very forehead. she wore her scant, black hair in wiry crimps parted in the middle. her eyes were the color of stone, while her lips formed a thin, pale lone line closing over projecting front teeth. there was a brittle look about her ears and nose as though a blow might shatter them. angles completed the picture. "you say you have a child of your own, mrs. st. claire?" the superintendent asked the question doubtfully. it seemed probable that his ears had deceived him. "i have," was the reply. "then marian will be sure of a playmate." the man seemed talking to himself. "if she behaves herself--perhaps," was the response. "what do you mean?" demanded the superintendent. "i think i expressed myself clearly," said mrs. st. claire. "if marian behaves and is worthy of my little daughter's companionship, we may allow them to play together occasionally." "does she want to 'dopt me?" whispered marian; "tell her no, quick--i got to go back to the nursery. put me down." "i am your aunt amelia," announced the woman, "and i have come to take you to michigan to live with your uncle george and me." "where did i get any uncle george?" asked marian, turning to the superintendent. "it isn't necessary to give a mere child too much information," put in mrs. st. claire; "it is enough for her to know that she has relatives who are willing to take her and do their duty by her." regardless of this the man answered one of the questions he saw in marian's solemn blue eyes. "your uncle and aunt," he explained, "are visiting in the city; they were in church last sunday when you sang. when relatives come for little pilgrims, marian, we have to let them go." "you will not send me away with--her!" exclaimed the child, terror and entreaty expressed in the uplifted face. "dear child, we must." "but i won't go, i won't go," cried marian, clinging to the superintendent for protection. "oh, you won't send me away, mrs. moore won't let them take me--i won't go! please let me stay until the pretty mother comes again and i will ask her to take me and i know she will. oh, if you love me, don't send me away with her!" "it is just as i told my husband sunday morning," remarked mrs. st. claire as the superintendent tried to soothe marian's violent grief. "i said the child was subject to tantrums. it is sad to see such traits cropping out in one so young. lack of training may have much to do with it. other influences----" "pardon me, madam," interrupted the superintendent, "you forget that this little one has been with us since she was six months old. mrs. moore has been a mother to her in every sense of the word. it is only natural that she dreads going among strangers. she is a good little girl and we all love her. hush, sweetheart," he whispered to the sobbing, trembling child, "perhaps your aunt may decide to leave you with us." "i--i--i won't--won't go," protested marian, "i--i won't go, i won't go!" "are you willing, madam, to give this child to us?" continued the superintendent; "perhaps you may wish to relinquish your claim, under the circumstances." "i never shrink from my duty," declared the woman, rising as she spoke, grim determination in every line of her purple gown; "my husband feels it a disgrace to find his brother's child in an orphan asylum. she cannot be left in a charitable institution while we have a crust to bestow upon her. she will take nothing from this place except the articles which belonged to her mother. i will call for the child at eight this evening. good-morning, sir." "i--i won't go--i--won't go! you--you needn't come for me!" marian had the last word that time. the babies were left to the care of assistant nurses that afternoon. mrs. moore held marian and rocked her as on that night so long before when she became a little pilgrim. for some time neither of them spoke and tears fell like rain above the brown head nestled in mrs. moore's arms. marian was the first to break the silence. "i--i won't go, i won't go," she repeated between choking sobs, "i--i won't go, i won't go, she'll find out she won't get me!" mrs. moore tried to think of something to say. just then a merry voice was heard singing in the hall outside, "it is all for the best, oh, my father, all for the best, all for the best." "will they let me come to see you every day?" asked marian when the singer was beyond hearing. "will they?" she repeated as mrs. moore made no answer. "where is michigan, anyway? what street car goes out there?" it was some time before mrs. moore could speak. her strongest impulse was to hide the precious baby. what would become of her darling among unloving strangers? who would teach her right from wrong? suddenly mrs. moore realized that in days to come there might be time enough for tears. there were yet a few hours left her with the little girl which she must improve. gently and tenderly she told marian the truth. michigan was far, far away. she must go alone, to live among strangers--yet not alone, for there was one in heaven who would be with her and who would watch over her and love her always, as he had in the home. poor marian heard the voice but the words meant nothing to her until long afterwards. mrs. moore herself could never recall just what she said that sad day. she knew she tried to tell marian to be brave, to be good; to tell the truth and do right: but more than once she broke down and wept with her darling. when mrs. st. claire called at eight, she was greeted by a quiet, submissive child who said she was ready to go. more than that, the little thing tried to smile as she promised to be a good girl. perhaps the smile wouldn't have been so easily discouraged if mrs. st. claire had kissed the swollen, tear-stained face, or had said one comforting word. the time of parting came. when it was over, mrs. moore lifted the sobbing child into the carriage. then she knew that in spite of the stars the night was dark. chapter v marian's new home the second day of the journey to the new home, marian laughed aloud. she had slept well the night before and had taken a lively interest in everything she saw from the time she was awakened by the first glimpse of daylight through the sleeper windows. not that she was happy, far from it, but it was something that she wasn't utterly miserable. uncle george was pleasanter than his wife, and although he said little from behind his newspaper, that little was encouraging: his tones were kind. ella st. claire, the cousin, three years younger than marian, was inclined to be friendly. left to themselves the children might have had a delightful time, but mrs. st. claire had no intention of leaving the two to themselves; it was not part of her plan. marian made several attempts to get acquainted and ella kept edging away from her mother, until in the middle of the forenoon, mrs. st. claire remarked that if she wished to have any peace she must separate the children. accordingly she took ella by the hand and went several seats back, leaving marian alone. as she left, ella begged for a cooky. "i'm hungry, too," added marian. mrs. st. claire gave ella the cooky and passed a bit of dry bread to marian. "if you please," suggested marian, "i like cookies, too." "you will take what i give you or go without," said mrs. st. claire; "you can't be starving after the breakfast you ate in buffalo." marian, sorry she had spoken, dropped from sight in the high-backed seat. there was a lump in her throat and so deep a longing for the home she had left it was hard to keep the tears back. just then an old man began snoring so loud the passengers smiled and marian laughed in spite of herself. having laughed once she grew more cheerful. there were green fields and bits of woodland to be seen from the car windows, cows, sheep, bright flowers growing along the track, country roads and little children playing in their yards, sitting on fences and waving their hands to the passing train. wonderful sights for a child straight from the little pilgrims' home in a big city. uncle george, growing tired of his paper, crossed the aisle and sat down beside his niece. marian looked up with a happy smile. "i wish the cars would stop where the flowers grow," she said, "i'd like to pick some." "the cars will stop where the flowers grow," answered the man. "when we get home you will live among the flowers; marian, will you like that?" "oh, goody!" the child exclaimed. "oh, i am so glad! may i pick some flowers?" "indeed you may, and we'll go to the woods where the wild flowers are. were you ever in the woods?" marian shook her head. "i've been in the public gardens and on the common, though, and i know all about woods." "who told you about the woods?" "nanna--mrs. moore." "was she your nurse?" "yes, uncle george, she was my everybody. i love her more than anybody else in the world. she is the prettiest, nicest one in the home." "see here, little girl," interrupted the man, "will you promise me something?" "why, yes, what is it?" "i want you to do me this one favor. don't tell any one you were ever in an orphan's home." the child was silent. "what will i talk about?" she finally asked. uncle george laughed. "take my advice and don't say much about anything," was his suggestion. "you'll find it the easiest way to get along. but whatever you talk about, don't mention that home." later, aunt amelia added a word on the same subject, but in a manner so harsh marian became convinced that to have lived in an orphan asylum was a disgrace equal perhaps to a prison record. she determined never to mention the home for little pilgrims. janey clark must have known what she was talking about and even mrs. moore, when questioned, had admitted that if she had a little girl it would make her feel sad to know she lived in a home. before the journey was ended marian was thankful that relatives had claimed her. perhaps if she tried hard, she might be able to win aunt amelia's love. she would be a good little girl and do her best. one thing marian learned before she had lived ten days with aunt amelia. the part of the house where she was welcome was the outside. fortunately it was summer and the new home was in a country town where streets were wide and the yards were large. back of aunt amelia's garden was an orchard, and there or in the locust grove near by, marian passed untroubled hours. the front lawn, bordered with shrubs and flower beds, was pleasing enough, but it wasn't the place for marian who was not allowed to pick a blossom, although the pansies begged for more chance to bloom. she could look at the pansies though, and feel of the roses if aunt amelia was out of sight. how marian loved the roses--especially the velvety pink ones. she told them how much she loved them, and if the roses made no response to the endearing terms lavished upon them, at least they never turned away, nor said unkind, hard things to make her cry and long for mrs. moore. when marian had been with the st. claires a week, aunt amelia told her she could never hope to hear from mrs. moore, partly because mrs. moore didn't know where she lived, and also because mrs. moore would gladly forget such a bad tempered, ungrateful little girl. the pink roses under the blue sky were a comfort then. so were the birds. day after day marian gave them messages to carry to mrs. moore. she talked to them in the orchard and in the locust grove, and many a wild bird listened, with its head on one side, to the loving words of the little girl and then flew straight away over the tree-tops and the house-tops, away and away out of sight. several weeks passed before marian knew that she might pick dandelions and clover blossoms, bouncing bet and all the roadside blooms, to her heart's content. that was joy! under a wide-spreading apple-tree, marian made a collection of treasures she found in the yard. curious stones were chief among them. bits of moss, pretty twigs, bright leaves, broken china, colored glass--there was no end to the resources of that yard. one morning she found a fragile cup of blue. it looked like a tiny bit of painted egg shell, but how could an egg be so small, and who could have painted it? she carried the wonder to uncle george who told her it was part of a robin's egg. "who ate it?" asked marian, whereupon uncle george explained to her what the merest babies knew in the world outside the city. more than that, he went to the orchard, found a robin's nest on the low branch of an apple-tree, and lifted her on his shoulder so that she might see it. there were four blue eggs in the nest. marian wanted to break them to see the baby birds inside, but uncle george cautioned her to wait and let the mother bird take care of her own round cradle. in the meantime madam robin scolded uncle george and marian until they left the tree to watch her from a distance. that robin's nest filled marian's every thought for days and days. when the baby birds were hatched she was so anxious to see them oftener than uncle george had time to lift her on his shoulder, she learned to climb the tree. after that marian was oftener in the apple-trees than under them. had there been no rainy days and had the summer lasted all the year, marian would have been a fortunate child. aunt amelia called her a tomboy and said no one would ever catch ella st. claire climbing trees and running like a wild child across the yard and through the locust grove. the two children admired each other. had it been possible they would have played together all the time. marian, who became a sun-browned romp, thought there never was such a dainty creature as her delicate, white-skinned cousin ella, whose long black curls were never tumbled by the wind or play: and ella never missed a chance to talk with her laughing, joyous cousin, who could always think of something new. aunt amelia said that ella wasn't the same child when she was left with marian for half an hour, and she could not allow the children to play together for her little daughter's sake. it was her duty as a mother to guard that little daughter from harmful influences. this was the talk to which marian listened day after day. it grieved her to the quick. again and again, especially on rainy days, she promised aunt amelia that she would be good, and each time aunt amelia sent her to her room to think over the bad things she had done and what an ungrateful child she was. although marian became convinced that she was a bad child, she couldn't sit down and think of her sins long at a time, and her penitent spells usually ended in a concert. uncle george took her to one early in the summer, and ever after, playing concert was one of marian's favorite games. she had committed "bingen on the rhine" to memory from hearing it often read in school at the home, and on rainy days when sent to her room, she chanted it, wailed it and recited it until poor ella was unhappy and discontented because she could have no part in the fun. ella had a toy piano kept as an ornament. marian's piano was a chair, her stool was a box and her sheet music, an almanac: but in her soul was joy. "what can you do with such a child?" demanded aunt amelia. "let her alone," counseled uncle george. chapter vi that yellow cucumber one summer day the st. claires were the guests of a farmer who lived a few miles from town. ella stayed in the house with her mother and the farmer's wife, but marian saw the farm; the cows and the sheep and the fields of grain. she asked more questions that day than the hired man ever answered at one time in his life before, and when night came he and marian were tired. "she knows as much about farming as i do," the man said with a laugh as he put the sleepy child on the back seat of the carriage when the family were ready to go home. "i've had a lovely time, mr. hired man," marian roused herself to remark, "and to-morrow i'm going to play farm." "good haying weather," the man suggested with a smile; "better get your barns up quick's you can." "i'm going to," was the response; "it's a lovely game." whatever marian saw or heard that pleased her fancy, she played. stories that were read to the little ella were enacted again and again in marian's room if the day was rainy, out in the orchard or the locust grove if the day was fair. farming promised to be the most interesting game of all. early the next morning marian visited what she called the yarrow jungle ever since uncle george read jungle stories to ella. more than one queer looking creature tried to keep out of sight when her footsteps were heard. the old black beetle scampered away as fast as his six legs would carry him, though it can't be possible he remembered the time when marian captured him for her museum. crickets gathered up their fiddles, seeking safety beyond the fence. perhaps they thought marian wanted them to play in the orchestra at another snail wedding. even the ants hastened to the hills beyond the jungle, leaving only the old toad to wink and blink at the happy one of whom he had no fear. "well, mr. toad," said she, "why don't you hop along? i've come to make my farm out here where the yarrow grows. why don't you live in the garden land? i would if i were you. don't you know about the cool tomato groves and the cabbage tents? i've got to clear away this jungle so the sun may shine upon my farm the way the country man said. you really must go, so hop along and stop winking and blinking at me." the old toad wouldn't stir, so for his sake marian spared the yarrow jungle. "after all, i'll make my farm here on the border-land," said she, while the daisies nodded and the buttercups shone brighter than before. "only, i'll tell you one thing, mr. toad, that maybe you won't like. if you will stay there, you'll have to be an elephant in the jungle. there, now, i s'pose you are sorry. i say--be an elephant and now you are one." the toad didn't mind a bit. he was so used to being changed into all sorts of animals that he never seemed to notice whether he was an elephant or a kangaroo. day after day marian worked upon her farm, enclosing fields and meadows with high stone walls, clearing roads and planting trees. whatever she touched became what she wished it to be. pasteboard match-boxes became houses and barns. sticks became men working upon the farm and spools were wagons bearing loads of hay from place to place. at a word from her, green apples, standing upon four twigs, were instantly changed, becoming pigs, cows, sheep and horses. kernels of yellow corn were chickens. it was a wonderful farm and for many a sunny hour marian was happy. even the old toad, winking and blinking beneath the shadow of the yarrow jungle, must have known it. at last there came a morning when the child went strolling through the garden. suddenly, while singing her usual merry song, the joyous look faded from her face. she no longer saw the butterflies floating about nor cared that the bumble-bee wore his best velvet coat. there were tiny green cucumbers in that garden, just the right size for horses on the little girl's farm. there were a great many cucumbers, so many that marian felt sure no one would ever miss a few. she picked a handful and knew that she was stealing. the sun went under a cloud. a blue jay mocked at her and a wren scolded. though far from happy, marian hurried away to her farm. the old toad saw her sticking twigs in the cucumbers. then she placed them in a row. "now be animals!" she commanded, but the spell was broken--she was no longer a farmer with magic power, but a pink-faced little girl who had done what she knew was wrong. and the cucumbers refused to be anything but cucumbers. again the little girl went to the garden, returning with one big yellow cucumber that had gone to seed. "now i guess i'll have a cucumber animal," she said, in tones so cross the daisies seemed to tremble. "you bad old cucumber, you're no good anyway, nobody could eat you, nor make a pickle of you, so you may just turn yourself into a giant cow right off this minute! there you are, standing on four sticks. now be a cow, i say." the old cucumber wouldn't be a cow. there it stood, big and yellow, spoiling the looks of the farm. "what's the matter with you, old toad?" went on the little girl. "i tell you that's a cow, and if you don't believe it you can just get off my farm quick's you can hop. you're homely anyway, and you turned yourself back into a toad when i said be an elephant." how surprised the toad was when the little girl took a stick and poked him along ahead of her. the poor old fellow had never been treated like that in his life. when he reached the garden he hid beneath the nearest cabbage plant. the little girl went on but came back in a short time with her apron full of cucumbers. "i guess i'll sit down here and put the sticks in them," she said: but instead of touching the cucumbers the child sat on the ground beside the toad forever so long, looking cross, oh, so cross. the toad kept perfectly still and by and by he and the little girl heard a man whistling. in a few minutes there was a long whistle and then no sound in the jungle save the buzzing of flies and the chirping of birds. the little girl was afraid of her uncle who had been her one friend in that land of strangers. soon she heard them calling and with her apron full of cucumbers, marian rose to meet him. it may be that the old toad, as he hopped back to the yarrow jungle, thought that he should never again see the little girl: but the next morning in the midst of brightest sunshine, marian returned, her head drooping. with her little feet she destroyed the farm and then, throwing herself face downward among the ruins, wept bitterly. when she raised her head the old toad was staring solemnly at her, causing fresh tears to overflow upon the round cheeks. "don't look at me, toad, nobody does," she wailed. "i'm dreadfully bad and it doesn't do a bit of good to be sorry. nobody loves me and nobody ever will. aunt amelia says that nanna wouldn't love me now. uncle george doesn't love me, he says he's disappointed in me! oh, dear, oh, dear! nobody in this world loves me, toad, and oh, dear, i've got to eat all alone in the kitchen for two weeks, and even the housemaid doesn't love me and can't talk to me! oh, dear, what made me do it!" what could an old toad do but hide in the yarrow jungle: yet when he turned away marian felt utterly deserted. it was dreadful to be so bad that even a toad wouldn't look at her. chapter vii an undeserving child try as hard as she would, marian could not fit into aunt amelia's home. everywhere within its walls, she was marian the unwanted. saddest of all, the child annoyed uncle george. not at first, to be sure; he liked his little niece in the beginning, but when aunt amelia and the little ella were rendered unhappy by her presence, that made a difference. early in the summer uncle george insisted upon taking marian wherever ella and her mother went, to picnics, to the circus and other places of amusement, but as something disagreeable was sure to happen and trouble seemed to follow little marian, she was finally left at home where her gay talk and merriment could not reach the ears of aunt amelia, who called her talk "clatter" and her laughter "cackle." "it's cucumbers," sobbed marian, the first time she was left with the sympathetic housemaid. "what do you mean, you poor little thing?" asked the girl. the child looked up in astonishment. "don't you remember about the cucumbers?" she asked reproachfully. "cucumbers," sniffed the girl. "never mind, you poor, sweet darling, we'll have a tea-party this afternoon, you and i,--that old pelican!" marian knew no better than to tell about the tea-party, what a jolly time she had and how happy she was, closing her story by asking uncle george if a pelican was a chicken. "because," she added, "we had a little dish of cream chicken and i didn't see any pelican, but annie did say two or three times, 'that old pelican!'" aunt amelia was prejudiced against pelicans and she objected to tea-parties, so annie packed her trunk and left. lala took her place. lala was equally kind but far too wise. she befriended the little girl every way in her power but cautioned her to keep her mouth shut. she went so far as to instruct the child in the art of lying and had there not been deep in marian's nature a love of truth, lala's influence might have been more effective. marian turned from her without knowing why, nor would she accept any favors from the girl unless she believed aunt amelia approved. lala called marian a "little fool," aunt amelia called her an undeserving, ungrateful child who would steal if she were not watched, a saucy, bold "young one" who had disappointed her uncle george, and uncle george plainly didn't love her. what wonder that marian had a small opinion of herself and dreaded the first monday in september, the beginning of her school-days among strangers. the schoolhouse was so far from where aunt amelia lived, marian carried her luncheon in a tin pail. the child left home that monday, a timid, shrinking little mortal, afraid to speak to any one. she returned, happy as a lark, swinging her dinner pail and singing a new song until within sight of the st. claire home. then she walked more slowly and entered the gate like a weary pilgrim. she expected trouble, poor little marian, but there happened to be callers, giving her a chance to escape unnoticed to the locust grove where she made a jumping rope of a wild grape vine and played until the shadows were long and the day was done. that evening uncle george questioned marian about her teacher and how she liked school. "i hope," said he, when he had listened to the account so gladly given, "i hope you will be a credit to your uncle and that you will behave yourself and get to the head of your class and stay there. don't give your uncle george any cause to be ashamed of his niece. i want to be proud of you." "oh, do you!" exclaimed the child. "oh, i'll try so hard to be good and learn my lessons best of anybody. then will you love me?" "good children are always loved," put in aunt amelia. "doesn't your uncle george love ella?" "she's his little girl," ventured marian, longing for a place beside ella in her uncle's lap. he certainly did love ella. "sit down, child," said uncle george, "you're my brother's little girl, aren't you, and you are ella's cousin, aren't you?" "i am sure she ought to be grateful," interrupted aunt amelia, "with all she has done for her and such a home provided for her----" "oh, i am, i am," protested marian earnestly. "i'm so glad i've got a home i don't know what to do, and i'm gratefuller'n anything----" "queer way of showing your gratitude," exclaimed aunt amelia; "a more undeserving child i never saw." uncle george bit his lip. "now don't cry, marian," he cautioned, as the child's eyes filled with tears. "i have a story to read you and ella, so sit down and be quiet." "don't expect her to be quiet," aunt amelia persisted. "if she would listen to stories as ella does, i wouldn't send her to bed. you know as well as i do that she interrupts and asks questions and gets in a perfect fever of excitement. ella behaves like a lady. you never catch her squirming and fidgeting about, acting like a perfect jumping-jack----" "no," remarked uncle george, opening the book in his hand, "she goes to sleep. don't you, pet?" "go to bed, marian," aunt amelia commanded. "not a word. i shall not allow you to add sauciness to disobedience. go!" uncle george frowned, put away the book and reached for his newspaper: then, touched by the pathetic figure in the doorway he called the child back. "that's right," he said, "be a good girl and obey your aunt promptly. she has your interest at heart, child. come, kiss uncle george good-night." marian was surprised because her natural tendency to kiss every one in the family before going to bed had been severely checked and she had been obliged to whisper her good-nights to the cat. if she sometimes kissed its soft fur, what difference did it make, if the cat had no objection. "now kiss little cousin ella," suggested uncle george, but ella covered her face, saying her mother had told her never to let marian touch her. uncle george looked so angry marian didn't know what was going to happen. he put little ella in her mother's lap and then taking marian in his arms, carried her to her room. after the child had said her prayers and was in bed, uncle george sat beside her and talked a long, long while. he told her to try and be a good child and do her best in school. marian dreamed that night of mrs. moore and the little stranger's mother. when she awoke in the starlight she was not afraid as usual. she thought of uncle george and how she would try to please him in school that he might be proud of her and love her as she loved him, and so fell peacefully asleep. when the man was looking over his papers the next morning before breakfast he felt a touch upon his arm. he smiled when he saw marian. "i want to tell you," she said, "i'm awful sorry about the cucumbers." chapter viii in the name of santa claus in november ella and her mother began making plans for christmas. aunt amelia invited seven little girls to tea one night when uncle george was away, and marian ate in the kitchen with lala. the seven were all older than ella and one of them, little ruth higgins, knowing no better, asked for marian. lala overheard the answer and was indignant. "you poor little lamb," she sputtered, upon returning to the kitchen, "i'd run away if i were you." "where would i run to?" questioned marian. "anywhere'd be better than here," the girl replied, "and that woman calls herself a christian!" "she's a awful cross christian," marian admitted in a whisper, brushing away the tears that came when she heard the peals of laughter from the dining-room. "i wouldn't cry if i were you," advised the girl. "you'll only spoil your pretty eyes and it will do them good to see you cry, you poor baby. the idea of having a party and making you stay out here!" "it's a club," corrected marian, "i've heard 'em talking about it. dorothy avery and ruth higgins belong. i've tried so hard to be good so i could be in it. they are going to sew presents for poor children and give them toys and everything they don't want their own selves, and then when christmas day comes they're going to have a sleigh ride and take the things to the poor children. if i was good like ella, i could be in it. i used to be good, lala, truly, i did." "there, there, don't cry," begged lala. "look a-here! did you ever see anybody dance the lame man's jig?" marian shook her head, whereupon lala performed the act to the music of a mournful tune she hummed, while marian laughed until the club was forgotten. there was plenty of fun in the kitchen after that. in the midst of the hilarity ella appeared to tell marian it was her bedtime. "are you ever afraid, lala, when you wake up all alone in the night?" asked marian as she started up the back stairs. "i never wake up," said lala. "do you, marian?" "yes, and i'm lonesome without all the little girls. sometimes i'm so frightened i pretty nearly die when i'm all alone and it's dark." "little girls," echoed lala, "what little girls? where did you live before you came here?" "when i was good i lived in a big city, lala." "tell me about it," the girl insisted. "if you'll promise you won't ever tell, i will," declared marian. "i'll have to whisper it. i lived in a beautiful orphan's home, lala." "oh!" exclaimed lala. "oh, you poor baby." "of course it's dreadful," marian hastened to say, "but i couldn't help it, lala, truly i couldn't; they took me there when i was a baby and it was a lovely place, only, it was a home." "do you know anything about your father and mother?" "oh, i guess they're dead--my mother is anyway, and i'm 'fraid about my father." "what do you mean?" "well, lala, aunt amelia always says, what can you expect when you think what my father was. i guess may be he was a stealer because aunt amelia won't stop talking about the cucumbers and what could you expect. maybe he is in prison." "no, your father is not in prison, marion lee!" lala exclaimed. "listen. it was your father i heard them talking about with some callers the other day. i'm sure of it now, because they said the man was a great deal younger than your uncle----" "oh, tell me, do tell me what you know about my father?" besought marian, walking back into the kitchen on tiptoes. "oh, i don't know much," said the girl, "but he isn't in prison, that's one sure thing. he went away to south america years ago to make his fortune, and they know that all the men who went with him were killed, and as your father never came back they know he must be dead." "what was there bad about that?" questioned the small daughter. "nothing," was the reply, "only he and your uncle george had a quarrel. your uncle didn't want him to go because he said your father had plenty of money anyway, and it all came out as he said it would." at that moment, ella returned. seeing marian, she forgot that she was after a drink of water. "oh, marian lee!" she exclaimed. "i'm going straight back and tell mamma you didn't go to bed when i told you to. you'll be sorry." marian, the guilty, flew up the back stairs, expecting swift punishment. she was sure she deserved it, and what would uncle george say? it was so hard to be good. retribution was left to santa claus. how could a disobedient, ungrateful child expect to be remembered by that friend of good children? how could marian hope for a single gift? aunt amelia didn't know. nevertheless the little girl pinned her faith to santa claus. he had never forgotten her nor the two hundred waifs at the home. teddy daniels once made a face at the superintendent the very day before christmas, yet santa claus gave him a drum. marian wasn't the least surprised christmas morning when she found her stockings hanging by the sitting-room grate filled to the brim, exactly as ella's were. she was delighted beyond expression. "oh, oh, oh!" she cried. "both my stockings are full of things for me. oh, see the packages! oh, i am so happy! just only look at the presents!" uncle george left the room and marian sat upon the rug to examine her treasures. "why don't you look in your stockings, ella?" she suggested. "let's undo our presents together." "no, i'd rather wait and see what you'll say when you know what you've got!" ella replied. "mamma and i know something." "hush!" cautioned aunt amelia. "let's see what santa claus has brought marian. she knows whether she's been a deserving, grateful child or not." why would aunt amelia remind one of disagreeable things on christmas morning? marian's chin quivered before she took a thing from her stocking, whereupon aunt amelia smiled. in the meantime, ella, becoming impatient, emptied one of her stockings in her mother's lap and began a series of squeals as toys, games and dolls tumbled out. "oh, what fun!" cried marian, laughing and clapping her hands as she witnessed ella's delight. a pitiful expression stole over her face as she turned to her own stockings. how she longed for a mother to share her joy. how she wished aunt amelia would smile kindly and be pleased with her gifts. the child quickly removed the paper from a round package. "i've got a ball," she ventured. "i'll let you play with it, ella." "got one of my own," said ella, exhibiting a big rubber ball. an exclamation of dismay burst from marian's lips. "why, why--it's a potato!" she cried. "what did you expect?" inquired aunt amelia in chilling tones. "i guess that was just for a joke." the little girl smiled cheerfully as she said it, at the same time untying a box wrapped in tissue paper. potatoes again. marian shut her lips tight together and tried another package. more potatoes. still she kept the tears back and reached for a long bundle. removing the paper she found switches. aunt amelia and ella watched silently as marian, her eyes blazing and her cheeks growing a deeper red every second, emptied the stocking in which there was nothing but potatoes. then the child rose, straightened her small figure to its full height and made this statement: "that wasn't never santa claus that did that!" "look in the other stocking," ella advised, "there are real presents in that one. i guess you will be a good girl now, won't you, marian? take the other stocking down, quick." "no," declared marian, "i don't want any more potatoes. nobody loves me and i don't care if they don't." then she broke down and cried so hard, ella cried too. "what's all the trouble?" asked uncle george, entering the room at that moment. "marian is making a scene and distressing both ella and me," explained aunt amelia. "she has been highly impertinent and ungrateful. ella, you may have the other stocking yourself." "but i don't want it," sobbed ella. "i want marian to have it." "then we'll take it to the poor children this afternoon," said her mother. "they'll be glad to get it. marian, don't drop what's in your apron. now go to your room and think over how you've spoiled the peace of a family on christmas morning. i'll bring your breakfast to you myself." "i don't want any breakfast," sobbed marian, walking away with her apron full of potatoes. "come back," called uncle george. "you tell your aunt you are sorry you were so naughty, and you may come to breakfast with us. it's christmas morning, child, why can't you behave?" "i wasn't naughty," sobbed marian. "i----" "not another word," put in aunt amelia. "go to your room, stubborn, bad child. i can't have such an example continually before my little ella. we'll have to put her in a reform school, george, if she doesn't improve." this remark fell upon unheeding ears so far as marian was concerned. the minute the door of her little room closed behind her she dropped the potatoes upon the floor and throwing herself beside them cried as if her heart would break. "oh, nanna, nanna, i want you," she sobbed. "oh, where are you, oh, my mrs. moore?" chapter ix at the rich man's table true to her word, aunt amelia carried marian's breakfast to her room. but for the interference of uncle george his little niece would have been given bread and water; it was all an impertinent child deserved. uncle george, however, insisted that the one who was born on christmas day was a friend to sinners great and small. out of respect to his memory, marian should have her breakfast. lala offered to take the tray up-stairs when it was ready, but aunt amelia said it was her duty to take it herself: so there was no one to speak a word of comfort to the little black sheep outside the fold. it had been a dark, cloudy morning, but curiously enough, the moment the door closed behind aunt amelia, the sun came out bright and warm, and shone straight through marian's window. the child raised her head, wiped her eyes and finally sat up. she wouldn't eat any breakfast of course, how could she? no one loved her and what was the use of eating? the tray looked tempting though and the breakfast smelled good. the big orange seemed rolling toward her and uncle george must have poured the cream on her oatmeal. no one else would have given her so much. the omelet was steaming, and even lala never made finer looking rolls. marian moved a little nearer and a little nearer to the tray until the next thing she knew she was sitting in a chair, eating breakfast. everything tasted good, and in a little while marian felt better. out of doors, the icy trees sparkled in the sunshine and all the world looked clean and new. oh, how the little girl longed for a mother that christmas morning. some one who would love her and say "dear little marian," as nanna once did. thinking of mrs. moore brought back to the child's memory that last day in the home. mrs. moore had said, "be brave, be good and never forget the father in heaven." marian had not been brave nor good; and she had forgotten the father in heaven. suddenly the child looked around the room, under the bed everywhere. she was certainly alone. it seemed strange to say one's prayers in the daytime, but marian folded her hands and kneeling in the flood of sunshine beneath the window, confessed her sins. she felt like a new born soul after that. the despairing, rebellious little marian was gone, and in her place was a child at peace with herself and the world. without putting it in words, marian forgave aunt amelia: more than that, she felt positively tender towards her. she would tell her she was sorry for her impertinence and promise to be a good child. it would be so easy to do right. she would set ella a good example. not for anything would marian ever again do what was wrong. in time uncle george and aunt amelia would love her dearly. marian smiled thoughtfully as she gazed down the straight and perfect path her little feet would travel from thenceforth forevermore. the child's meditations were interrupted by a remembrance of the potatoes. there they were, her christmas presents, trying to hide under the bed, under the chairs, beneath the bureau. she stared at them but a moment when a happy smile broke over her face. marian was a saint no longer; only a little girl about to play a new game. "why, it's a circus!" she exclaimed, and straightway seizing the potatoes and breaking the switches into little sticks, she transformed the unwelcome gift into a circus parade. the elephant came first. his trunk was a trifle too stiff as the switches were not limber. the camel came next and if his humps were not exactly in the right place, he was all the more of a curiosity. then followed the giraffe with sloping back and no head worth mentioning because there was nothing to stick on the piece of switch that formed his long neck. marian did wish she had a bit of gum to use for a head. the giraffe would look more finished. the lion and the tiger were perfect. marian could almost hear them roar. nobody could have found any fault with the kangaroo except that he would fall on his front feet. the hippopotamus was a sight worth going to see. so was the rhinoceros. the zebras almost ran away, they were so natural. marian searched eagerly for more potatoes. a peck would have been none too many. "i'll have to play the rest of the animals are in cages," she said with a sigh. "too bad i didn't get more potatoes. wish i had the other stocking." when marian was tired of circus, she played concert. bingen on the rhine came in for its share of attention, but school songs were just as good and had ready-made tunes. lala in the kitchen, heard the operatic singing and laughed. aunt amelia caught a few strains, frowned and closed the hall doors. uncle george smiled behind his newspaper: but ella, tired of her toys, pouted and said she wished she could ever have any fun. marian always had a good time. mrs. st. claire reminded her of the sleigh ride with the seven little girls in the afternoon and ella managed to get through the morning somehow, even if it was dull and christmas joy was nowhere in the house except in the little room off the back hall up-stairs. at one o'clock lala was sent to tell marian she might come down to dinner if she would apologize to aunt amelia for her impertinence. lala was forbidden to say more, but nobody thought to caution her not to laugh, and what did lala do when she saw marian playing the piano beside the circus parade, but laugh until the tears ran down her cheeks. worst of all she waited on table with a broad smile on her face that made aunt amelia quite as uncomfortable as the mention of a pelican. nor was it possible for aunt amelia to understand how a child who had been in disgrace all the forenoon, could be cheerful and ready to laugh on the slightest provocation. she thought it poor taste. after dinner ella thrust a repentant looking stocking in marian's hand. "papa says the things are yours and you must have them," she explained. "what makes the stocking look so floppy?" asked marian. "because," ella went on, "papa made me take all the potatoes out and there wasn't much left. you've got a handkerchief in the stocking from me and one from mamma, and----" "please don't tell me," protested marian. "i want to be s'prised." "like the selfish child you are," put in aunt amelia, "unwilling to give your cousin a bit of pleasure." "and a box of dominoes from papa and a doll's tea set lala gave you," finished ella. "she'll expect a doll next," observed aunt amelia. "i did think santa claus would give me one," admitted the child, "but i had rather have the beautiful tea set. help me set the table on this chair, ella, and we'll play christmas dinner. i'll let you pour the tea and----" "ella has no time to play," her mother interrupted. "come, little one, help mamma finish packing the baskets of presents for the poor children." "but i had rather play with marian's tea set," pouted ella. "you have one of your own, dearest." "it isn't as nice as marian's, though, and i want to stay here and play." "now you see, george," and mrs. st. claire turned to her husband, "now you see why i cannot allow these children to play together. you can see for yourself what an influence marian has over our little ella. come, darling, have you forgotten the sleigh ride? it is time to get ready." "me too?" questioned marian, springing to her feet, "shall i get ready?" the child knew her mistake in less than a minute, but forgetting the uselessness of protest, she begged so earnestly to be taken with the children aunt amelia called her saucy, and as a punishment, the christmas gifts, tea set and all, were put on a high shelf out of sight. marian was allowed to stand in the parlor by the window to see the sleigh-load of noisy children drive away. when they were gone, the parlor seemed bigger than usual and strangely quiet. uncle george, with a frown on his face, was reading in the sitting-room. he didn't look talkative and the clock ticked loud. marian turned again to the parlor window. across the street was the rich man's house, and in the front window of the rich man's house was a poor little girl looking out--a sad little girl with big eyes and a pale face. marian waved her hand and the little girl waved hers--such a tiny, white hand. a new idea flashed into marian's mind. she had often seen the little girl across the way and wondered why she never played with ella. at last she thought she knew. the rich man's wife probably went to a hospital after the little girl, and took her home to get well just as janey clark was taken home, only janey was never thin and delicate and janey never stared quietly at everything as the little girl did who lived in the rich man's house. marian wondered why aunt amelia didn't leave her some of the presents in the baskets. perhaps nobody loved the little girl: maybe her father and mother were dead and santa claus didn't know where to find her. marian wished she had something to take to the poor thing. she would have given away her tea set that minute had it been within reach. just then a long-legged horse went by, a horse that looked so queer it reminded marian of her potato menagerie. the child smiled at the thought. perhaps the little girl in the rich man's house never saw a potato animal and would like to see one. perhaps she would like two or three for a christmas present. why not? it was all marian had to give and the animals were funny enough to make any poor little girl laugh. up-stairs marian flew, returning with the elephant, the rhinoceros, the hippopotamus and two zebras packed in a pasteboard box. "please, uncle george," she asked, "may i go and visit the poor little girl that lives in the rich man's house? i want to say 'wish you a merry christmas' to her, and----" "run along, child," interrupted uncle george, the frown smoothing out as he spoke, "go where you will and have a good time if it is possible--bless your sunny face." uncle george had heard of the rich man's house and he smiled a broad smile of amusement as he watched marian climb the steps and ring the bell. "what next?" he inquired as the door closed behind the child. in a short time he knew "what next." one of the rich man's servants came over with a note from the neighbor's wife, begging uncle george to allow marian to stay and help them enjoy their christmas dinner at six. the permission was gladly given and at eight o'clock marian came home hugging an immense wax doll and fairly bubbling over with excitement. "i never had such a good time at the table in my life," she began, "as i did at the rich man's house. they asked me to talk, just think of it--asked me to, and i did and they did and we all laughed. and the poor little girl isn't poor, only just sick and she belongs to the folks. the rich man is her father and her name is dolly russel and she was gladder to see me than she ever was to see anybody in her life and she wants me to come again, and----" "and i suppose you told all you knew," snapped aunt amelia. "yes, most, 'specially at the table," admitted the child. chapter x a game of sliced birds marian was so happy with her doll and teaset the following day she was blind and deaf to all that happened in the house outside her little room. she didn't know that mrs. russel made her first call upon aunt amelia in the afternoon, nor that company was expected in the evening. ella's mysterious airs were lost upon her. the child was accordingly surprised when she met the company at breakfast. aunt hester, mrs. st. claire's younger sister, was a pleasant surprise because she was good-looking and agreeable. she returned marian's smile of greeting with interest. marian hoped she had found a friend and hovered near the welcome stranger until sent to her room. during the rest of the week she and aunt hester exchanged smiles when they met at the table, and to win a few kind words from her became marian's dream. new year's day brought an opportunity. mrs. russel sent a box of sliced birds to marian and her cousin, and as the gift came while the family were at breakfast, marian knew all about it. at last she and ella owned something in common and might perhaps be allowed to play together. she could hardly wait to finish her breakfast. "what are sliced birds and how do you play with them?" she asked aunt hester, who carried the box into the sitting-room. "well," began aunt hester, "can you read, marian?" "yes, auntie, i can read pretty near anything i try to, but i can't write very good, not a bit good. do you have to write in sliced birds?" "no," was the laughing reply, "if you can spell a little that is all that is necessary. here is a paper with a list of birds on it we can put together. now here is the word jay. a picture of a jay is cut in three pieces, on one piece is 'j,' on another is 'a' and on the third is 'y.' now hunt for 'j.'" "ella knows her letters," marian suggested. "come, ella, hunt for 'j,' that piece would have a blue jay's head on it, i guess." marian waited until ella found the letter and together they finished the blue jay. both children were delighted with the result. "oh, what fun!" cried marian. "we'll make all the birds, ella. i'll read a name and tell you what letters to hunt for." a shadow fell across the bright scene, caused by the entrance of aunt amelia. "go over there and sit down," she said to marian. "i came in to help hester divide the game." "divide the game!" echoed both children. "oh, don't do it, please don't," besought marian, "we want to play with all the birds together." "it seems a pity," began aunt hester, but she gathered ella in her arms and helped form all the birds in two straight lines upon the floor as her sister desired. marian watched with eager interest. she hoped when the birds were divided a few of the pretty ones might be given to her. if she had her choice she couldn't tell whether she would take the peacock or the bird of paradise--they were both gorgeous. the scarlet tanager and the red-headed woodpecker were beautiful but of course it wasn't fair to wish for all the brightest birds. it was aunt hester who suggested a way to divide the game. "let them take turns choosing," she said. "it seems to me that will be perfectly fair. the children might draw cuts for first choice." at that, marian saw her opportunity. "ella may be the first chooser," she declared, and was rewarded by a smile from aunt hester. which would ella take? the bird of paradise or the peacock? either would please marian, so it really made no difference which was left. ella wanted them both and said so. "hush," whispered her mother, "if you keep still marian won't know which birds are the prettiest. aunt hester and i will help you choose." "i guess i'll take that," ella decided, pointing towards the bird of paradise. marian was about to choose the peacock when a whispered word from aunt hester caught her ear. "i hope, ella dear, that she won't take the peacock." marian hesitated a moment. she wanted the peacock with its gay, spreading tail, but if aunt hester wished ella to have it perhaps she would love whoever helped her get it. "i'll take the turkey," said the child, whereupon ella gave a shout. "she don't know much, she took an old brown turkey. i'll have the peacock and i want the red bird and the redhead." aunt amelia laughed. "one at a time, you dear, impulsive child," said she, but aunt hester smiled across at marian. "your turn," she said. "i'll take the owl," marian quietly replied. "oh, ho! an old owl!" laughed ella, clapping her hands for joy. "now i'll have the redhead! goody! and next time----" "hush," warned her mother. "you mustn't let marian know what you want or she'll take it." "i choose the wren," came in low tones from marian. "my turn," ella called. "give me the redhead." "choose the flicker next," advised her mother, so marian, still hoping to be loved, chose the robin. aunt hester smiled again, but the smile was for ella. "take the parrot next," she whispered, so marian chose the crow. "now, ella, darling," whispered her mother, "the oriole, after marian has her turn," and marian, taking the hint, motioned for the jay. it was over at last and marian was told to go to her room. as she was leaving, aunt hester gave ella a rapturous hug and said, "our baby has all the prettiest birds." aunt hester didn't know marian heard the remark until she saw the tears that could not be kept back, wetting the rosy cheeks. "oh, you poor young one!" she exclaimed, and but for the presence of aunt amelia, she would have taken the sad little mortal in her arms. "she's crying 'cause her birds are all homely," said ella. "of course, she always wants the best," remarked mrs. st. claire, but aunt hester and ella both gazed after the retreating figure of little marian, with conscience-stricken faces. they had been three against one, and that one didn't know enough to take the choicest birds when she had the chance. they hadn't played fair. marian, blinded by tears, stumbled over a rug at the door of her room and the sliced birds slipped almost unheeded from her apron. the nearest seat was the box she called her piano stool. she dropped upon it and buried her face in her arms on the piano. the sheet music tumbled forward upon her head, perhaps fearing it might be but an old almanac forever after. bitter thoughts filled the little soul. why would no one love her? why did the sound of her voice annoy every one so she feared to speak? what was the trouble? was she so bad or so homely that no one might love her? she had tried to be good and tried to do right, but what difference had it made? aunt hester thought her stupid because she allowed ella to take what birds she would. surely aunt hester was the stupid one. it was impossible for marian to feel miserable long at a time. in a few minutes she sat up and straightened her sheet music, whereupon the almanac became a hymn-book. she turned the leaves slowly as did the young lady who played the organ prayer-meeting nights. then, addressing the wax doll and the bed posts she announced in solemn tones, "we'll sing nineteen verses of number 'leventy 'leven." "number 'leventy 'leven" happened to be "come ye disconsolate," a hymn marian was familiar with, as it was aunt amelia's favorite. the tune began dismally enough, but the disconsolate one took courage on the third line and sang out triumphantly at last, with a great flourish upon the piano, "'earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.'" "twenty froggies went to school" came next, and marian was herself once more, which is to say, she became at a moment's notice, a famous musician, a school-teacher, a princess, a queen or whatever the occasion required, while the little room was easily changed into anything from the desert of sahara to a palace. the extent of marian's knowledge was the only limit to the games she played. pictures in the family bible had given her many an hour of entertainment in the little room, thanks to the fact that uncle george allowed marian to look at the pictures on an occasional sunday afternoon. the doll almost broke her nose the day before playing "rebecca at the well." the "marriage at cana" was a safer game for a wax doll that could not stand, especially as the doll made a beautiful bride. turning from her piano, marian saw something that made her laugh. the robin's head and the duck's feet had fallen one above the other. "poor robin," she said, "i guess you would rather have your own feet. r-o-b-i-n, i know how to spell you, and i'll put you on your own feet and i'll give the duck his own head so he can quack." when the robin was put together it looked like an old friend. "you're nicer than the bird of paradise, after all," declared marian, "because i know you so well. you and i used to be chums because i didn't have any little girls to play with." it was something of a puzzle to put all of the birds together, but when the work was finished marian was pleased. "you're all so nice and common looking," she said. "i never saw the owl bird, but we used to hear him in the woods at night, didn't we, blue jay? he used to go, 'who--who--whoo--whoo!' we used to see you, old black crow, you always said 'caw--caw--caw,' and you dear little wren, how i would like to hear you sing once more. where are you all now? somewhere way down south, because our teacher says so and when the snow is gone, you'll come flying back. "oh, now we'll play something. it is autumn over here on the rug, the rug's the orchard, and the leaves are falling and all the flowers are fading and winter is coming. you see that sunshiny spot on the floor over there under the windows, birdies? well, that is down south where you are going. i don't remember who goes first but i guess the little wren better fly away now, and we'll have lots of fun." one by one the birds went south, owl and all, and one by one they flew back to the orchard in the spring-time, where the wax doll welcomed them, listened to their songs and scattered strings about for them to use in building their nests. it was a pleasant game and marian was called to the dining-room before she thought of putting the birds away. "i wonder if i didn't get the best half of the game after all," she suggested to the wax doll as she threw it a parting kiss. had marian known that the bird of paradise, the peacock and the other bright ones were laid upon a shelf as birds of no consequence and that ella had complained all the forenoon of having nothing to do, she would have understood why aunt hester not only greeted her with a smile, but said at the same time, "you dear, happy child." it was enough that aunt hester said it and smiled, without puzzling for a reason. surely marian had chosen the better half of the game when such loving tones were meant for her. it was wonderful. chapter xi the way of the transgressor a year passed away, in which time marian was kept more and more outside of the family and more and more apart from all ordinary pleasures of childhood, but in spite of everything she was happy, ever hoping to win the approval of her aunt and uncle. going to school was a never-failing joy because at noon-times and recess there were girls and boys to play with, and the long walks to and from school were always a delight to a child who was interested in everything from a blade of grass to the clouds. ella attended a private school near home and was scarcely allowed to speak to marian. she had many playmates, but all of them put together were not half so attractive from her point of view as the little cousin who played alone. one winter morning ella told marian behind the dining-room door that her grandmother and uncle robert were coming to stay all the spring-time and that uncle robert was a little boy only a few years older than marian. ella was delighted, but marian wished uncle robert was a girl. she had reason for the wish before summer. marian was prejudiced against boys for as much as a year after ella's uncle went away. he believed it was his privilege to tease little girls, though in all his life he never had such a chance to torment any one as he had that spring. it was useless to play tricks on ella, because she ran crying to her mother and that made trouble for robert: but marian could appeal to no one and teasing her was safe and interesting. to hold her doll by the hair while marian begged and screamed, was daily amusement until the child learned to leave the doll in her room. to hide her few books was another pleasure and to frighten her on every possible occasion until her eyes seemed fairly popping out of her head, was a victory. marian was glad to have some one to play with if that some one was a tyrant and often before her tears were dry, she was ready to forgive robert for teasing her and to join in any game he proposed. one day he suggested something that shocked marian. he asked her to steal sugar. he didn't say steal, he said "hook," and at first marian didn't understand. robert told her to sneak into the pantry after lala was through work in the afternoon, take a lump of sugar from the barrel and give it to him. she wouldn't listen in the beginning, but by dint of persuasion and threats, robert succeeded in getting his lump of sugar: not only one, but many, for stealing sugar became easier as the days went by and no one caught the small culprit. robert's ambition was to be a railroad engineer, and soon after the sugar stealing began, he made an engine of boxes and barrels in the locust grove. when it was finished and in running order, he allowed marian to be his fireman. at first the child thought it was fun, but when she had shoveled air with a stick for five minutes without stopping, while robert rang the bell, blew the whistle and ran the engine, she threw down her shovel. "it's my turn to be engineer now," she declared. "girls don't know enough to run engines," was the reply. "i'm not a girl," protested marian, "i'm a fireman." "then tend to your job, why don't you?" was the retort. "i wouldn't ring the bell for my fireman if i didn't think he was a good one. come, coal up, tend to business." somewhat flattered, the fireman smiled, shoveled coal until his arms ached, and then rebelled. "i say," she declared, "you've got to let me be engineer now! i won't be fireman another minute!" "oh, you won't?" taunted the engineer. "we'll see about that! of course you needn't shovel coal for me if you don't want to, but you had better make up your mind pretty quick, because if you won't be my fireman, i'll go and tell my sister amelia that you steal sugar!" marian was too stunned for words until robert laughed. then her face grew scarlet, and her eyes had a look in them the boy had never seen before. "you dare not tell!" she screamed, leaning towards robert, anger and defiance in every line of her slight figure. "i say you dare not!" "i wonder why?" sniffed the boy. "you know why; you told me to take the sugar, and i got it for you and i never tasted a bit of it. you were such an old pig you wouldn't give me back a crumb--old rhinoceros--hippopotamus--i'd call you an elephant too, only elephants are so much nicer'n you." again the boy laughed. "you hooked the sugar, didn't you?" he demanded. "what if i did, didn't i do it 'cause you told me to, and didn't you eat it, you old gorilla?" "what if i did, miss marian spitfire? i'll say it's one of your lies, and no one will believe what you say. you know you can't look my sister in the face and tell her you didn't take the sugar, but i can stand up and cross my heart and hope to die if i ever saw any sugar, and they'll believe me and they won't believe you. now will you shovel coal? toot-toot-toot--chew-chew-chew--ding-a-ling-a-ling--engine's going to start! ha, ha, ha!" "you mean thing, you horrid boy! i hate you!" sputtered marian, but she shoveled coal. in fact the child shoveled coal the rest of the spring whenever robert chose to play engine, until the day his taunts proved too much and she kicked his engine to pieces, threatening to "give it to him," if he didn't keep out of the way. "now tell," she screamed from the midst of the wreck, "tell anything you're a mind to, i don't care what you do." robert walked away whistling "yankee doodle." "i'm tired of playing engine," he called over his shoulder, "and i'm much obliged to you for saving me the trouble of taking it to pieces. i don't wonder nobody likes you. my sister amelia knows what she's talking about when she says you've got the worst temper ever was! i bet you'll die in prison----" "you'll die before you get to prison if you don't get out of my sight," was the retort. robert walked away so fast marian was certain he was going to tell about the sugar and she waited, defiantly at first, then tremblingly. what would become of her? what would they do? for reasons best known to himself, robert didn't mention sugar, and after a few days of suspense, marian breathed easier, although she wasn't thoroughly comfortable until robert and his mother were on their way home. a few weeks later aunt amelia made a jar of cookies for ella's birthday party. she made them herself and put them on a low shelf in the pantry. marian asked for a cookie and was refused. she didn't expect to get it. the more she thought of the cookies, the more she wanted one. she remembered the sugar. no one but robert knew about that sugar, and if she helped herself to a cooky that would be her own secret. marian took a cooky and ate it back of the orchard. her old friends, the chipping sparrows, flew down for the crumbs that fell at her feet. the little birds were surprised when marian frightened them away. she had been so kind to them they had lost all fear of her. the second cooky marian took she ate in the locust grove where she was much annoyed by the curiosity of a chipmunk. he asked her questions with his head on one side and his hand on his heart. his chatter made her angry. what was it to him if she happened to be eating a cooky? she did wish folks would mind their own business. from that day, marian grew reckless. she carried away cookies two or three at a time and talked back to the birds and the squirrels and all the inhabitants of the orchard and the locust grove who were not polite enough to hide their inquisitiveness. for once in her life, marian had all the cookies she wished, although they agreed with neither her stomach nor her conscience. she didn't feel well and she was cross and unhappy. at last marian knew that the day of reckoning was near at hand. she could almost touch the bottom of the cooky jar when she realized that the cookies had been made for ella's party and had not been used upon the table. no one had lifted the cover of the jar but herself since the day they were baked. it was a frightful thought. there was no more peace for marian. awake or dreaming, the cookies were ever before her. in school and at home they haunted her. what should she do, what could she do? quietly the child went about the house. she no longer sang nor laughed. uncle george wondered, aunt amelia rejoiced. she thought marian's usual high spirits unbecoming a child dependent upon charity, as marian had often heard her remark. "she may be working too hard in school," suggested uncle george. "whatever is the cause she has behaved so well lately, i shall allow her in the sitting-room with the children when ella has her party," conceded aunt amelia. even a shadow of kindness touched marian's heart. oh, why had she done wrong? from the depths of her soul, the child repented. why had she been called bad in the days when she tried to be good, and at last when she was so bad, why would aunt amelia declare that there was a great improvement in her behavior, and why would uncle george speak to her almost as pleasantly as he did to ella? if only she had remembered the words of mrs. moore before it was too late; to "be good and to do right." mrs. moore also said, "be brave." it would be brave to go to aunt amelia and tell her the truth about the cookies. marian had not been good, she had not done right and she could not be brave. many and many a time the child studied the grim face of aunt amelia, repeating over and over to herself "be brave." it seemed to marian that if she attempted telling aunt amelia of her sin, she would die on the spot, choke to death, perhaps, trying to get the words out. her throat closed tight together at the very thought. it might, under some circumstances, be possible to tell uncle george, although to confess was to be forever an outcast. neither uncle george nor aunt amelia would ever love her, nor would she ever be allowed to play with ella. all the golden texts marian had ever learned, haunted her memory. "the way of the transgressor is hard." "be sure your sin will find you out." "enter not into the path of the wicked." "evil pursueth sinners." there were many others, so many, the child was sorry she had ever gone to sunday-school. the day of the party was bright and beautiful. all the little girls came who were invited, ruth higgins, dorothy avery and dolly russel among the number. marian went into the sitting-room with drooping head and misery in her soul, until joining in the games and merriment, she forgot the cookies and had a good time. not a thought of trouble disturbed her pleasure even though she heard lala setting the table in the dining-room. her conscience awoke only when aunt amelia appeared to summon her into the kitchen. every bit of color left the child's face. she could hear nothing clearly because of the ringing in her ears. as she followed aunt amelia through the dining-room the floor seemed rising up at every step and the candles on the birthday cake danced before her eyes. on the table in the kitchen was the empty cooky jar, the eloquent witness of her guilt. on a rosebud plate beside it were less than a dozen cookies. marian gazed stupidly at the jar and at the plate of cookies. "what have you to say for yourself, marian lee?" aunt amelia's voice sounded far away. there were such lumps in marian's throat she couldn't speak. "answer me," commanded aunt amelia, "what have you to say?" marian's tongue felt paralyzed. perhaps it was unwilling to do its owner's bidding. it was certainly hard for that truthful little tongue to say the one word "nothing." aunt amelia's face was terrible. "do you mean to tell me that you haven't touched those cookies?" there was no retreat. marian nodded her head. "speak!" continued aunt amelia, "say yes or no? do you dare to tell me that you didn't take the cookies?" it was all marian did dare to do and her reply was "yes." aunt amelia raised a long forefinger as she said, "don't stand there and lie, marian lee, you took those cookies." "i did not." lala grew pale when she heard that answer and saw the terrified eyes of the child. "own up," she whispered as she passed the trembling sinner on her way to the dining-room. marian looked beseechingly at aunt amelia, but her face was hard and pitiless. the child dared not "be brave." "i did not touch the cookies," she repeated again and again. "how do you account for the disappearance of a whole jar of cookies, marian, if you didn't eat them?" asked uncle george upon his arrival. marian had not thought of accounting for the loss of the cookies, but she took a deep breath and made a suggestion. "i s'pose a hungry tramp took 'em." the reply wasn't satisfactory. uncle george frowned and aunt amelia smiled. the smile wasn't the kind she was in the habit of bestowing upon ella. it was the sort that froze the blood in marian's veins. she sank in a miserable little heap upon the floor and cried and cried. "reform school is the place for children who steal and lie," said aunt amelia. uncle george tried to make the child confess, but his efforts were vain. she would not. threats were powerless. the more frightened marian became the more vehemently she denied her guilt. although it was ella's birthday, and shouts of laughter could be heard from the sitting-room, aunt amelia produced a certain strap marian was familiar with through past experience. "spare the rod, spoil the child," was mrs. st. claire's favorite motto so far as her husband's small relative was concerned. "you can whip me till i die," sobbed marian when she saw the strap, "but i can't say i took the cookies, because i didn't. how can i say i did, when i didn't?" nor could aunt amelia nor uncle george compel the child to say anything different. "you can whip me till i die," she insisted over and over, "but i can't say i took those cookies," and they finally believed her. "go to bed," commanded aunt amelia. "i don't want to see a child who could die easier than she could tell the truth. go!" a smothered sob caught marian's ear. lala was crying; and because lala cried and was soon after found in marian's room trying to quiet her, she was sent away the next day. tilly was her successor. before she had been in the house a week, she openly befriended marian. "poor little thing," she said, "if you had stolen a barrel of cookies from a baker you wouldn't have deserved half of the punishment you get. there isn't anything left they can do to you, is there?" "yes, they can send me to the reform school," was the reply, "and, oh, dear, i'm afraid to go. what will become of me?" "if i were you," tilly advised, "and i took the cookies, i would own up. they can't any more than kill you and i guess they'll do that anyway." marian shook her head. the time to own up was long passed. she stayed in her room and ate bread and water a week without protest. on sunday afternoon she listened to the story of ananias and sapphira with teeth and fists tightly closed. she heard long speeches on the fearful consequences of stealing and lying, without a word. only when questioned would she say in low spiritless tones, "i did not touch the cookies." when it was all over, and aunt amelia and uncle george gave up trying to wring a confession from her and the child was simply in disgrace, her own conscience began its work. it gave her no peace. marian had said her prayers every night as mrs. moore had taught her when she was a baby; but she had repeated them quickly with her back turned towards heaven and had made no mention of cookies. at last, troubled by her conscience, and not knowing where to turn for comfort, marian knelt by her bedside one night and tried an experiment. "o lord," she began, "i am not going to lie to you about the cookies. thou knowest i took them. that is why i haven't said any made up prayers for so long. i knew thou knewest how wicked i am and i know what the bible says about lying lips. i am afraid of aunt amelia or i would own up. she says i won't go to heaven when i die because i am too bad to live there. now, o lord, i know i could be good in heaven, but it has been hard work on earth, and after i took the cookies i got wickeder and wickeder, but honest and truth i'll never do anything wrong again and i'll never tell another lie. thou knowest i could be good in heaven. please, o lord, forgive me and take me straight up to heaven when i die. amen." that prayer didn't help marian a bit. she could scarcely get off her knees when she had said "amen." her head seemed bowed down beneath a weight of cookies. "you know what you must do," insisted her conscience, "you must go to your uncle george and your aunt amelia first, first, i say." "but i can't do that, and i'm so unhappy," sobbed marian, but her conscience was pitiless. it would allow no compromise. "oh, if i could see nanna," whispered marian as she crept into bed. no one had ever kissed her good-night but once since she had left the home, and now, no one ever would again. the father in heaven had turned away his face. marian cried herself to sleep as she had many a night before. in the middle of the night she awoke and sat up in bed, cold and trembling. thunder was rolling through the sky and an occasional flash of lightning made the little room bright one minute and inky black the next. perhaps the end of the world was coming when the graves would give up their dead and the terrible judge would descend to deal with the wicked. a crash of thunder shook the house. marian dived beneath the blankets, but a horrible thought caused her to sit bolt upright again. aunt amelia had told her that sinners, on the last day, would call for the rocks and mountains to fall upon them. perhaps hiding beneath blankets meant the same thing. another crash came and a blinding flash of lightning. then another and another. springing from her bed, marian ran down the hall to mrs. st. claire's room. the door was closed but the room was lighted. "oh, let me come in," she cried, knocking frantically at the door and keeping her eye upon the crack of light at the bottom. the response was immediate. aunt amelia stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her. "go back to your room," she said, "and don't you dare leave it again. i should think you would expect the lightning to strike you!" marian shrank back as a flash of lightning illumined the hall. for one moment she saw aunt amelia, tall and terrible in her white night-dress, her voice more fearful than the thunder, and her form seeming to stretch upward and upward, growing thinner and thinner until it vanished in the awful darkness. marian fled, closing the door of her little room and placing a chair against it. kneeling by the window, she closed her eyes to shut out glimpses of the unnatural garden below and the angry sky above. the thought of sudden death filled her with terror. what would become of her soul if she died with her sins unconfessed? "dear father in heaven," she cried, "if you have to kill me with lightning, forgive me and take me to heaven. i'll be good there. i'll never steal anything there nor ever lie again. i was going to own up to aunt amelia, but o lord, i was so afraid of her i didn't dare. if you'll let me live through this night, i'll go and tell her in the morning and then i'll never do wrong again. o lord, i'm so sorry, and i'm awful afraid of lightning. i don't want to die by it, but if i have to, please take me up to heaven. amen." then marian went back to bed. her conscience didn't say a word that time and she went to sleep before the storm was over, long before ella was quieted or ever aunt amelia closed her eyes. marian's first waking thought when she looked out on the fresh brightness of another day was one of thankfulness. it was good to be alive. another second and she groaned. perhaps she would have been dead but for that midnight promise, the promise she must keep. marian dressed quickly and sought aunt amelia before she lost courage. she wasn't gone long. back she flew to the little room where her prayer was short although her sobs were long. "oh, lord, i couldn't, i just couldn't." there were many thunder-storms that summer and for a while every one of them frightened marian. in the night, she would resolve to confess, but daylight took away her courage. "if i should be sick a long time," marian argued, "perhaps then aunt amelia would like me some and just before i died i could shut my eyes and tell her about the cookies. then god would surely forgive me and i would go straight up to heaven and it would be all right. but if i should die suddenly, before i had any time to say any last words, what would become of me?" she asked herself. after thinking of it some time, marian hit upon a plan that brought her peace of mind. she wrote the following confession: "nobody knows how much i have suffered on account of some cookies. i used to like cookies but not now. it began by sugar. i took lumps of sugar out of a barrel for a boy. i thought if i could take sugar i could take cookies, too, and i did, but i said i didn't. i did take the cookies. i hope my folks will forgive me now i am dead. i suffered awful before i died on account of cookies. give my wax doll and all my things to ella. the doll is good if i wasn't. i tried but it is hard for some children on earth. i am awful sorry on account of being so much trouble to everybody. i took those cookies. marian lee." having folded this paper, marian was happier than she had been for weeks. she felt that she had saved her soul. chapter xii marian's diary "june .--it is hard to begin a diary. you don't know what to say first. bernice jones says a diary is a book to put the weather in. she ought to know on account of her grandmother keeping one. leonore whiting, the girl that sits behind me and wears the prettiest ribbons in school, says a diary is to put your feelings in. leonore thinks she ought to know because her sister is a poetry writer. "when i asked uncle george for an empty diary and what you write in it, he laughed and said he would give me all the paper i wanted to write things in and i had better put down everything. he said it would be a good thing for me to write more and talk less, so i guess i will have the fullest diary of any of the diary club. that's our name. maud brown was the one that got up the name. she says everybody belongs to a club. her mother does and her father and her brothers too. maud says she has got to be in a club or she never will be happy. she is only going to keep weather because she doesn't like to write. leonore and a lot of the other girls are just going to keep a few feelings, but i am going to write down weather and feelings and everything. "the weather is all right to-day. "it is too bad about vacation. it is almost here and then i won't have anybody to play with. uncle george says he never saw a little girl like to go to school as well as i do. it really isn't school i like to go to, it is recesses. i guess he had some other boys to play with when he was little or he would know. i would like to play with dolly russel but my aunt never will let me go over there and she tells dolly's mother 'no,' about everything she wants me to do. she did let ella go, only they don't invite ella any more. i wonder if she talked too much, or broke anything, or why? lala works over there now, but my aunt told me not to talk to lala so i don't dare. "i found out something to-day at school. the children that live in houses don't all go to bed in the dark. i cried and cried when i first had to go to bed in the dark because where i used to live, we didn't have to. i wish i could sit up late at night. "another thing about a diary is how nice it will be for your grandchildren to know what you used to think about and what you used to do. i can hardly believe that i am the grandmother of my own grandchildren, but of course it is so. "june .--we took our diaries to school. i had the most written of anybody, but i don't think it is nice to read your diary out loud because they ask questions. the girls wanted to know where i used to live and i wanted to tell them but i didn't dare to, and now i wonder about things. louise fisher said that dolly russel's mother told her mother that my aunt is not good to me, and a good many more things, and they are all sorry for me and they say it is too bad i can't have pretty clothes like ella. i didn't say much because i don't want everybody in school to know how bad i am and that nobody can love me, and about the cookies. i guess i would die if they knew it all. their mothers wouldn't let them play with me at recess. "i wish i had a white dress to wear the last day of school when i sing a song alone and speak my piece. i don't like to sing and speak pieces because i am afraid. i am not going to take my diary to school any more. "june .--i don't know what to think. i heard some more things about me at school to-day. folks wonder who i am and where i came from, and louise fisher says she knows uncle george is not my own uncle and if she was me she would run away. i can't run away because i don't know where to run to and i am afraid. ella knows things about me and if she ever gets a chance i guess she will tell me, but her mother won't let her speak to me if she can help it. i guess her mother doesn't know how hard i try to set ella a good example of being polite and not slamming doors and speak when you're spoken to, and children should be seen and not heard, and if you behave as well as you look you'll be all right. "i know it was bad about the cookies, but ella never can do a cooky sin because her mother always says to her, 'help yourself, darling,' and that's different. besides that, ella thinks a tramp did take the cookies. i will tell her some time because she cried and was sorry i had so much trouble. then she will never speak to me again, but it is better to tell the truth than to do any other way. when i think i am going to die, sure, then i will tell my aunt if it kills me. "i wonder if uncle george is my uncle or what? "june .--it was the last day of school to-day. i sung my song and spoke my piece and dolly russel's mother kissed me. i wish she was my mother. i wish i had a mother. i am glad she kissed me. aunt amelia wasn't there. ella cried because she couldn't go. it didn't rain. you don't think about weather when it is nice. "september .--the queerest thing happened. i thought i would be the one that would write the most in my diary this summer, but i wasn't, and good reason why. it was just a little after daylight the day after the last day of school, that aunt amelia came and called me and told me to get dressed quick, and she gave me all clean clothes to put on and i was frightened. i said what had i done and she said i had done enough. i was scared worse than ever. she told me to go down in the kitchen and i would find some breakfast ready. i thought i couldn't eat, everything was so queer and early, but i did, and then i had to put on my hat and uncle george said, 'are you ready?' i said where am i going, is it reform school, and aunt amelia said it ought to be, and then i got in a carriage with uncle george and the driver put a little new trunk on behind and we drove to the depot. "it was awful early and the grass and the trees looked queer and the birds were singing like everything. uncle george told me to cheer up, i was going to a nice place where i would have a good time, and he told me to write to him every week and he would write to me. he said i mustn't tell the folks where i was going that i was ever bad. he said he thought i was a pretty good little girl, and when he put me on the train and told the conductor where i was going and to take care of me, because i was his little girl, i put my arms around his neck and kissed him good-bye. he is a good man. i hope he is my uncle, but i don't know. "well, i had a nice time in that village where i went and uncle george came after me yesterday. i was glad to see him, but i didn't want to come home. i wanted to stay and go to the country school, but he said that my grandchildren would want their grandmother to know something. "then he told me he found my diary and that he put it away where nobody could see it until i got back. he said he thought he had better tell me to keep my diary out of sight, because that was the style among diary-writing folks. so i will hide my diary now. i wonder if he read it. anyway, i know aunt amelia didn't get a chance, because he told me most particular about how he found it first thing and put it where it wouldn't get dusty. he says he is my uncle george. i was afraid maybe i was just adopted for a niece, and i am not sure yet. he didn't say he wasn't my adopted uncle george, and maybe he thought i was his brother's little girl when i wasn't. the folks i stayed with told uncle george i am a lovely child. he didn't look surprised, only glad. "september .--all the girls had new dresses at school. i am in the fourth grade this term. i am in fractions and on the map of south america. we played london bridge and king william at recess. "september .--too many things to play after school. can't write. aunt amelia makes me get straight to bed after i come to my room at night. it doesn't seem like night, though. i don't like to go to bed in the afternoon very well, but after all, i am glad it doesn't get dark early. i go to sleep in the daytime and wake up in the daytime and the birds are always singing. "september .--nothing happened in school to-day. it rains and i can't go out in the orchard. i was going to play 'landing of the pilgrims,' but i guess i will write in my diary. where i was this summer they had a library, not a big one like the one down-stairs, but the shelves were low so i could reach the books, and the folks let me read all i wanted to. i was pretty glad of it, rainy days and sundays. "the book i liked best was full of stories about the norsemen. they gave me the book to keep. i take it way up in the top of my favorite apple-tree and read and read. sometimes i play i'm odin and sometimes i am thor. i am not so afraid of thunder since i read about thor. when it thunders and lightens i play i am an old norseman and that i really believe thor is pounding with his big hammer and that he is scaring the bad frost giants. i am glad aunt amelia says she never read norse stories. if she had, she would call me loki, so there's somebody that's bad she can't say i am. "what i like best is to sit in the top of the apple-tree and shut the book and think about the rainbow bridge that stretched from earth to heaven. every one couldn't cross, but if my father and my mother were on the other side of the shining bridge, i would look straight towards them and i wouldn't look down and my mother would hold out her arms and i wouldn't be afraid. may be the rainbow bridge is wide. i am sure it is when i stop to think, because the gods used to drive over it when they came to visit the earth. perhaps they would let me cross if they saw me coming because it was only the bad giants they tried to keep out of heaven. oh, dear, i guess i am a bad giant myself, even if i am little, because the book says, 'the giants in old norse times were not easy to conquer: but generally it was when they hid themselves behind lies and appeared to be what they were not that they succeeded for a time.' i hid myself behind lies. "september .--one sure thing, i will always tell the truth as long as i live. i didn't come straight home from school to-night. a lot of us girls went in the old cemetery and read what's on the tombstones, and i didn't get home early. i tried to get through the gate when my aunt wasn't looking, but that would have been what you call good luck. she took me in and said, 'where have you been?' i said, 'in the graveyard.' she said, 'why didn't you stay there?' i didn't know what to answer so i kept still. then my aunt said, 'you can't go out to play,' and that was all. so i am always going to tell the truth and feel comfortable inside, no matter what happens. i was more afraid of how i would feel when it was time to say my prayers if i told a lie, than i was of my aunt. "september .--i didn't get home early to-night because i walked around the pond with louise fisher and maud brown. i owned up when i got home. i am not going to write down what happened, but it was worse than just being sent to your room. i don't want my little grandchildren to read about it. i am coming straight home next monday night. "september .--aunt amelia says i act worse all the time. i don't know what i did that was bad to-day, but i got scolded all the time. "september .--went to church and sunday-school and the boys made fun of my shoes. they couldn't make me cry. i should think i would get used to being made fun of because i have to wear a sunbonnet to school and all the other little girls wear hats. i wear my sunbonnet as far as my aunt can see and then i take it off and swing it by the strings. she would be angry if she knew. i would almost rather be baldheaded than wear a sunbonnet when all the other girls wear hats. i wish i could have pretty shoes for sundays, but i won't let the boys know i care. "september .--i came straight home to-night. i wish school began at daylight and didn't let out till dark, there is so much trouble at home. uncle george says it is all on account of me. "september .--i came straight home and got scolded. "september .--got scolded again. "september .--got scolded some more. "september .--got put to bed without any supper on account of sitting down by the side of the pond to watch a frog. it was a funny frog and when i had to go to bed, i went to sleep thinking about it. when it was almost dark uncle george came and woke me up to give me something to eat. he didn't scold. i am writing this the next morning for yesterday. "september .--it was a beautiful saturday. my aunt had company and i played out in the orchard all day long. ella and my aunt and the company went to drive in the afternoon so there wasn't anybody to scold me. i saw the mole to-day. he came out and walked around a little. i guess he knew my aunt was gone. everything was happy in the orchard. i watched a caterpillar a long time. he went so fast he made me laugh. i guess he was going home from school and wanted to get there in time. "september .--this is sunday. uncle george called me in the parlor to sing for the company and some other folks that came. aunt amelia played on the piano and when she couldn't play any more on account of a cramp in her wrist, they told me to sing without any music and i did. the company wiped away some tears, and she said i could sing just the way my father did when he was a little boy, and then she took me in her lap and said she thought i looked like my mother. i was going to ask some questions, but my aunt said not to talk about some things, and then the company said it was going to rain, she guessed, and would i sing another song. i did and then my aunt sent me to my room, cross. i mean she was cross. i felt pretty bad at first but i got over it. "september .--ella says there is a picture of my father in the album, and she will show it to me first chance she gets. "september .--my aunt was away when i got home from school so ella said, 'now's your chance,' and we went into the parlor and she showed me the picture. i smiled back at the face because it smiled at me. my father is pleasant and kind. "september .--i went in the parlor and looked at the picture again. i was afraid my aunt would come in and find me. "september .--it happened to-day. i was looking at the picture and my aunt came in still and caught me. she said dreadful things, and i cried and i don't know what i did, but she said i was saucy and she didn't know what to do with me. uncle george heard the noise and came in and he scolded, too. i never saw him so cross. i almost thought he was angry with aunt amelia, but of course that was not so. at last he took my father's picture out of the album and gave it to me, and told me to keep it, and he told me not to go in my aunt's parlor because she didn't want me there. i knew that before, because i wanted to take lessons on the piano same as ella, and she wouldn't let me. "i am so glad i have my father's picture. it is like having folks of your own to have a picture of somebody that was yours. i haven't missed a single question in school on the map of south america. i guess that is one map i can't forget. i wish i knew where my father went in south america. i don't dare ask uncle george. he says i am the trial of his life, and he doesn't see why i don't behave like other children. "october .--i am getting so i don't care what happens to me. i don't come straight home from school any more. i always think i will until i get started home, and then i dread to come because nobody loves me and i will get scoldings and things anyway, so i stop and look at toads and frogs and have a good time before i get home, and sometimes nothing happens. my aunt says i tell things, but i don't. what would i tell for? i don't even write sad things in my diary because i don't want to make my grandchildren cry. it would make me feel pretty bad if i found out that nobody loved my grandmother. "october .--had a lovely time playing pocahontas in the grove. "october .--i tried to count the stars last night, but i couldn't. i wonder why we don't fall off the earth when china's on top? aunt amelia says i ought to know better than to ask her questions. i do. "october .--i listened to what the minister said to-day. it was about heaven. i've got to try to be awful good on earth so i can surely go there. then i guess somebody will love me and when i walk in through one of the pearly gates, the angels won't look cross. "october .--you get tired of keeping your diary. i am going to write a book. its name will be 'the little daughter of thor.' i guess thor never had a little girl, but i am going to write it in a book that he did, and one day when the little girl was a baby and she was playing with the golden apples, she fell right through the sky on to the earth. then i am going to write about how the little girl watched for the rainbow bridge. she was a little stray child on earth, and even the giants were kind to her. of course thor's little daughter would know enough to know that the only way home was over the blue and golden rainbow bridge that she couldn't see only sometimes. "at the end of the story, thor himself will find the little girl and will take her in his chariot across the rainbow bridge to the shining bright city in the clouds where her mother will hug her pretty near to pieces. maybe when i get the book done, i will write another about what thor's little daughter did when she got home. about the songs she used to sing with her mother, and the flowers they used to pick and about everything that is happiness. it will be nicer to do than keeping an old diary about real things. "the nicest looking man's picture i ever saw is my father, so i am going to have him for thor. my father looks kind and smiling, but he looks, too, as if he would know how to use thor's big hammer if the bad giants tried to cross the rainbow bridge. i think it is queer that i like the god of thunder so well that i will let him have my father's face in my book. "october .--i am going to put some last words in my diary, just to say that it is a good thing to write a book. something dreadful happened after school to-night. i felt dreadful, nobody knows. i got over it though, and then because i had to stay in my room and have dry bread and water for my supper, i started my book and it was lots of fun. it is the best thing there is to do when you want to forget you are a little girl that nobody loves. if i live here until i am an old lady i presume i will turn into an author. "if it wasn't for the orchard and the locust grove and the way home from school, and recesses and my doll and my books, and the birds and the wild flowers and the lovely blue sky i can see from my window this minute, and a good many other things, i would wish i had died when i was a baby. that makes me laugh. it is a nice world to live in after all. a beautiful world." chapter xiii diphtheria early in the winter, diphtheria broke out in the schools. marian said little about it at home, fearing she might not be allowed to go, though the daily paper told the whole story. why the schools were not closed was a question even in the long ago days when marian was a child. uncle george was indignant, but influenced by his wife's arguments, he allowed marian to have her way. mrs. st. claire said marian was better off in school than at home, and in no more danger of catching diphtheria than she would be hanging over the fence talking to passing children. marian didn't tell her uncle george that she was never allowed to speak to passing children. he might have kept her home. weeks passed and many little ones died. the schoolroom became a solemn place to marian. it seemed strange to look at empty seats and know that the ones who used to sit in them would never come to school again. even the boys were quieter than ever before. there were no longer paper wads flying the minute the teacher's back was turned, perhaps because the chief mischief maker's curly head was missing. he was tommy jewel, and he made things lively at the beginning of the term. marian felt that it was something to have known so many girls and boys who died. at recess in the basement she used to ask children from the other rooms how many of their number were missing. marian felt so well and full of life it never entered her head that she might be taken ill herself, and the thought of death was impossible, although she often closed her eyes and folded her hands, trying to imagine her school-days were over. at home the children met but seldom after the outbreak of diphtheria. marian ate her breakfast alone and ella had hers when the little cousin had gone to school. it was easily possible for mrs. st. claire to keep the children entirely separate. to guard ella from all danger of contagion was her daily care and the smell of burning sulphur was ever present in the house. one morning marian's throat was sore and she felt ill. the child dressed quickly and went down to tell uncle george. tilly the maid was at her home on a short visit, and uncle george was building the kitchen fire. "i've got the diphtheria," announced marian, and there was terror in her face. "let me look in your throat," said uncle george. "why it looks all right, marian, just a little red." "i don't care, i feel sick all over," insisted the child, "and i tell you now and then, i know i've got it." when aunt amelia was called she said marian imagined that her throat was sore and as marian ate breakfast, she was sent to school. the child went away crying. she didn't swing her little dinner pail around and around that morning just to show that she could do it and keep the cover on. uncle george was inclined to call her back, but aunt amelia laughed at him. "any child," argued mrs. st. claire, "that could eat the breakfast she did, isn't at death's door, now you mark my words. she has let her imagination run away with her. our darling ella is far more apt to have diphtheria than that child. she would be willing to have the disease to get a little sympathy." marian felt better out in the fresh air and as she met ellen day soon after leaving home, the way to school seemed short. the chief ambition of marian's school life was to sit on a back seat, yet from the beginning, it had been her lot to belong to the front row. the teachers had a way of putting her there and marian knew the reason. it wasn't because she was the smallest child in the room, although that was the truth. tommy jewel used to sit on a front seat, too, and once marian had to share the platform with him. the teacher said they were a good pair and the other children laughed. possibly the memory of tommy's mischievous face caused the teacher to notice how quiet marian was the morning her throat was sore. the child sat with her elbows on her desk, her face in her hands, staring solemnly into space. "are you ill, marian?" asked the teacher. "no, miss beck," the child answered, recalling her aunt's remarks. at last, conscious of pathetic eyes following her about the room and having heard of aunt amelia, the teacher again questioned marian. "what is the trouble, little girl? is there anything you would like to do? would you like to write on the blackboard?" marian's face lighted. "i wish i could sit in that empty back seat all day," she eagerly suggested. the teacher smiled. "you may pack your books, marian, and sit there until i miss you so much i shall need you down here again." marian knew what that meant. "i'll be awful good," she promised. "i mean, i'll be ever so good." so marian sat in a back seat that last day and in spite of her sore throat and headache, she was happy. it was triumph to sit in a back seat. she was glad the children looked around and smiled. they might get bad marks for turning their heads, to be sure, but what of it? at recess marian walked across the schoolroom once or twice, then returned to her seat. at noon she refused to go to the basement with the children to eat her luncheon. in fact, she couldn't eat. marian wondered why time seemed so long. when the history class was called to the recitation seat early in the afternoon, one little girl was motionless when the signals were given. "marian lee's asleep," volunteered the child who sat in front of her. at that, marian raised her head and stumbled to her class. "don't you feel well?" asked the teacher. marian shook her head. her cheeks were crimson. she had never felt so wretched. "don't you think you had better go home?" continued miss beck. "oh, no," answered the child in tones of alarm. "oh, she wouldn't let me come home before school is out." "there, there, don't cry," begged the teacher. "you may go back to your seat if you wish." marian did so and was soon asleep again. at recess she awoke to find herself alone in the room with miss beck. "you had better go home, dear," the teacher urged. "i am sure you are ill. let me help you put on your coat and hood." "i can't go home until school is out," and marian began to cry. "why not?" "because on account of my aunt. she wouldn't let me come home." "but you are ill, marian." "she won't let me be sick," was the sobbing reply, "and i don't dare go home. you don't know my aunt. i guess i feel better. i want to go where it isn't so hot." the teacher was young and hopeful. "perhaps you will feel better if you go out to play," was her reply. instead of going out of doors, marian went into the basement and joined in a game of blind man's buff. only a few minutes and she fell upon the floor in a dead faint. when the child opened her eyes she found herself the centre of attraction. the basement was quiet as though the command had been given to "form lines." a strange teacher was holding marian and miss beck was bathing her face with a damp handkerchief. her playmates stood about in little groups, whispering the dread word "diphtheria." miss beck came to her senses and ordered the children into the fresh air. how to send marian home was the next question. the child listened to the various suggestions and then, struggling to her feet declared that she would walk home alone. she couldn't imagine what her aunt might say if she did anything else. the child had her way. through the gate and down the road she went alone. the journey was long and the wind was cold. the little feet were never so weary as that december day. it seemed to marian that she could never reach home. finally she passed the church. seven more houses after that, then a turn to the right and two more houses. if she dared sit down on the edge of the sidewalk and rest by the way, but that wouldn't do. "i could never stir again," she thought and plodded on. at last she reached her own gate and saw ella at the window. would aunt amelia scold? it would be good to get in where it was warm, anyway. oh, if aunt amelia would open the front door and say, "come in this way, marian," but she didn't and the child stumbled along a few more steps to the back entrance. she was feeling her way through the house when aunt amelia stopped her in the dining-room. "don't come any further," said she. "i have callers in the parlor. what are you home in the middle of the afternoon for?" "i've got the diphtheria," the child replied, and her voice was thick. aunt amelia made no reply but returned immediately through the sitting-room to the parlor. "i guess she knows i'm sick now," marian whispered as she sank into a chair by the table and pushed her dinner pail back to make room for her aching head. the callers left. marian heard the front door open and close. then aunt amelia hastily entered the dining-room, threw a quantity of sulphur upon the stove and went back, closing the door behind her. another door closed and marian knew that her aunt was in the parlor with ella. the child choked and strangled and called to her aunt. she tried to walk and couldn't stand. the fumes of burning sulphur grew stronger and stronger. the air was blue. marian became terrified as no one replied to her calls, but in time a merciful feeling of rest and quiet stole over her and her head fell forward upon the table. for a long time she knew nothing. then came dreams and visions. part of the time marian recalled that she was home from school early and that she had not taken off her hood and coat. again she wondered where she was and why it was so still. then came an awful dread of death. where was everybody and what would become of her? the thought of death aroused marian as nothing else had done. would she be left to die alone? she remembered that some of her schoolmates were ill with diphtheria but a few hours before the end came. where was aunt amelia? had she gone away from the house? marian could not lift her head and when she tried to call her aunt her voice was a smothered whisper. what she suffered before her uncle came was a story long untold. things happened when uncle george walked into the house. he aired the room and there was wrath in his voice as he demanded explanations. "have patience a minute more, little girl, and it will be all right," he said to marian, as he brought a cot into the room and quickly made a bed. then he undressed her, put her in bed and grabbed his hat. "oh, don't leave me," begged marian, "please don't, uncle george, i'm awful sick and i'm afraid when i'm alone." "i'm going for the doctor," was the reply; "lie still and trust uncle george." the man was gone but a moment and soon after he returned, the doctor came. it was no easy matter to look in marian's throat. it needed more than the handle of a spoon to hold down the poor little tongue. "am i going to die right off?" demanded the child. "oh, if i can only live i'll be so good. i'll never do anything bad again. tell me quick, have i got to die to-night?" for a time it seemed useless to try to quiet the little girl. "oh, i'm afraid to die," she moaned, "i don't dare to die. aunt amelia says i won't go to heaven and i'm afraid. i don't want to tell what she does say. oh, uncle george, don't let me die. tell the doctor you want me to get well. tell him i'll be good." uncle george sat down and covered his face with his hands when marian told him she couldn't hear what he said, that it was dark and she wanted more light so she could see his face that she might know if he was angry. then she called for aunt amelia, and aunt amelia would not come; she was afraid of the diphtheria. "but if i'm going to die, i've got to tell her," cried the child, clutching at the air, and it was some time before uncle george understood. "child, child, don't speak of cookies," he begged, "that was all right long ago;" but the assurance fell upon unheeding ears. the nurse came and went up-stairs to prepare a room for marian. the woman's appearance convinced the child that there was no hope--she was surely going to die. uncle george groaned as he listened to her ravings. at last the doctor put down his medicine case and drew a chair close beside the cot. he was a big man with a face that little children trusted. he took both of marian's small, burning hands in one of his and told her she must look at him and listen to what he had to tell her. uncle george moved uneasily. he thought the doctor was about to explain to marian that unless she kept more quiet, nothing would save her, she would have to die. the man was surprised when he heard what the kind physician said. he talked to marian of the friend of little children and of the beautiful home beyond the skies. nor would he allow her to interrupt, but patiently and quietly told her over and over that the one who took little children up in his arms and blessed them, didn't ask whether they were good or bad. he loved them all. the sins of little children were surely forgiven. the troubled brain of the child grasped the meaning at last. there was nothing to fear. she closed her eyes and was quiet for a few moments. when she began to talk again, it was of summer mornings and apple-blossoms, of the wild birds and the chipmunk that lived in the locust grove. many days passed before marian realized anything more: then she knew that uncle george took care of her nights and the nurse came every morning. "where is my aunt?" asked the child. "doesn't she come up here?" "your aunt and little cousin," replied the nurse, "stay by themselves in the front part of the house down-stairs. they are afraid of the diphtheria." marian stared at the wall. she was glad to know there was no danger that aunt amelia might walk in, but somehow it seemed better not to tell the nurse. "am i going to die?" she asked. the question came so suddenly the nurse was taken by surprise. "why--why we hope not," was the reply. something in the tones of the woman's voice impressed the truth upon marian's mind. she was far more likely to die than to live. "i only wanted to know," she remarked, "i'm not afraid any more. i only hope i won't be a grown up angel the first thing. i should like to be a little girl with a mother and live in one of the many mansions for a while, like other children. i'd pick flowers in the front yard." soon after, the child fell asleep. when she awoke she was delirious, talking continually about the rainbow bridge. the doctor came, but it was hours before the rainbow bridge faded away and marian was quiet. that was the day the little pilgrim seemed near the journey's end. until sunset, uncle george watched each fluttering breath. in the silent room below, ella wept bitterly and aunt amelia waited to hear that the little soul was gone. she waited calmly, declaring that she had done her duty by the child up-stairs. marian lived. a few weeks more and aunt amelia heard her ringing laugh and knew that she was happy. at last marian was well enough to leave her room but it was days and days after the house was fumigated before she was allowed to see ella or sit at the table with the family. everything seemed changed. the rooms were brighter and more cheerful. the pictures on the walls had a different meaning. the very chairs looked new. nothing appeared just as marian left it. even aunt amelia was better looking and spoke more kindly to the child. nothing was ever the same after marian had diphtheria. she never returned to the little back room where she was away from all the family at night, nor did she ever again doubt that uncle george was her own uncle. many bright days crowded one upon another during the remaining weeks of winter. the neighbors invited marian to their homes and took her driving with them. dolly russel's mother gave a house party for her, inviting little girls from the country for a week in town. that was the time marian was so happy she almost believed herself a princess in a fairy tale. when she was home again, the child added a line to her diary. "february .--i had diphtheria this winter and it was a good thing. i got well and now i am having the best time that ever was written down in a diary. i have changed my mind about being an author. i won't have time to write books. there is too much fun in the world." chapter xiv musical conversations once in a great while marian and ella had a chance to play together. these rare occasions were times of joy. mrs. st. claire usually took ella with her wherever she went, but sometimes she was compelled to leave the child at home with her father or tilly, and there was merriment in the house. the little cousins had gay times and their only regret was that such hours of happiness were few. at last marian thought of a plan. her new room was opposite ella's. as aunt amelia insisted upon sending marian to bed at seven, uncle george declared that early hours were necessary for ella's welfare. accordingly, both children went to their rooms at the same time with instructions not to talk. no one cautioned them not to sing and singing was one of marian's habits. after listening to the solos a few nights, ella tried a song of her own and that gave marian an idea. she listened until ella stopped for breath and then expressed a few thoughts to the tune of "home, sweet home." "o-oh, i know what will be great fun and i'll tell you what it is, we will play go to gay old concerts, and take our children too. "first the other lady can sing a good long song, and then it will be my turn next, and i'll sing a song myself. "fun fu-un-fun, fun-fun, i guess it will be fun-fun, i guess it will be fun." it was fun. the other lady took the hint quickly. she and her children went to the concert without waiting to get ready. furthermore she left herself sitting beside her children in the best seat in the hall and at the same time took her place on the stage. she even went so far as to become a colored man while she sang "way down upon the suwanee river." ella's mother came up-stairs for something as the gentleman was rendering this selection with deep feeling, but she had no idea that her little daughter was singing on the stage, nor did she know that the greatest soprano in america was the next performer, although she did hear marian begin in tragic tones, "'there is a happy land, far, far away.'" "far, far away" was tremulous with emotion. from that hour dated many a concert, and after the concerts, the ladies continued to sing everything they had wished to talk over during the day. often the musical conversations were cut short by an admonition from the hall below, but even tilly never learned the nature of those evening songs. as the children disturbed nobody and were put to bed long before they were sleepy, uncle george said, "let them sing." in this way marian and ella became well acquainted. one night marian asked ella if she knew anything about how she happened to be taken to the little pilgrim's home when she was a baby. "no-o-o," replied ella in shrill soprano, "they won't tell-ell me-e a thing now-ow days but a long time ago-go they used to talk about everything right before me-e, only the trouble is-s, i was such a little goo-oose i didn't think much about it." "do you know anything about my mother-other-other?" chanted the musician across the hall. "no-o-o," was the response, "i only know-o that my mother-other didn't know your mother-other, ever in her li-ife, but i do-oo remember-ember that the folks at that ho-o-me had some things that used to belong-long to your mother-other. and they are packed away-way somewhere in the house. i guess they are in the attic-attic, but of course i don't know-o. "once i saw-aw a picture of your mother-other but i don't remember-ember what she looked like, looked like-looked like. don't you wi-ish your mother wasn't dead? if you had a mother-other i could go to your hou-ouse and your mother-other would let us play together-ether." "yes, yes, she would," marian's voice chimed in, "she would let us play-ay all the day-ay. and sometimes i thi-ink my mother is ali-ive, and if she is, won't i be gla-ad. if i do find my mother-other and i go to live with her-er, why, may be your mother-other will die-i and then you can come and live with u-us and won't that be gay-ay. you never know what's going to happen in this world." "what kind of a song are you singing?" called aunt amelia. "opera house music," replied marian, who feared that concerts were over for the season when she heard the question. "i thought," responded aunt amelia, "that a lunatic asylum was turned loose. don't let me hear another sound to-night." the musicians laughed softly, and there were no more solos that evening. the following day ella and aunt amelia went visiting and in the middle of the forenoon, when tilly was busily working in the kitchen, marian climbed the attic stairs with determination in her eye. an old portrait of george washington on the wall at the landing seemed to question her motives. "don't worry, mr. washington," remarked the child, "i'm not going to tell a lie, but sir, i'm looking for my mother and i'm going to find her if she's here." marian gazed steadily at the face in the old oaken frame, and meeting with no disapproval there, passed on, leaving the father of her country to guard the stairway. there were numerous trunks, boxes, barrels and an old sea-chest in the attic. marian hesitated a moment before deciding to try the yellow chest. her knees shook as she lifted the cover. at first she was disappointed; there seemed to be nothing but blankets in the chest. then a bit of blue silk peeping from beneath the blankets caught her eye and marian knew she was searching in the right place. from the depths of the chest she drew forth a bundle, unfolded it and beheld a beautiful gown of pale blue silk, trimmed with exquisite lace. tears filled her eyes as she touched the shimmering wonder. she had never seen anything like it. "this was my mother's," she whispered, and kissed the round neck as she held the waist close in her arms. "she wore it once, my mother." marian would gladly have looked at the dress longer but time was precious and there was much to see. embroidered gowns of purest white, bright sashes and ribbons were there, and many another dainty belonging of the woman whose name was never mentioned in the presence of her child. in a carved ivory box, were jewels. marian closed it quickly, attracted by a bundle at the bottom of the chest. she had found it at last. the picture of her mother. it was in an oval frame, wrapped in a shawl of white wool. "oh, if i had her, if she could only come to me," cried marian, as the lovely face became her own. though the child might never again see the picture, yet would it be ever before her. when she dared stay in the attic no longer, marian kissed the picture, wrapped it in the white shawl and laid it tenderly away. as she did so she noticed for the first time a folded newspaper on the bottom of the chest. inside the paper was a small photograph. marian tiptoed to the attic stairs and listened a moment before she looked at the photograph. then she uttered a low exclamation of delight. there was no doubt that the face in the oval frame was her mother's, for the small picture was a photograph of marian's father and a beautiful woman. "it's the same head," whispered the child, "and oh, how pretty she is. i am so glad she is my mother! "i wonder what they saved an old newspaper so carefully for?" continued marian. "maybe i had better look at it. what does this mean? 'claimed by relatives,' who was claimed, i wonder? oh! i was! now i'll find out all i want to know because, only see how much it tells!" marian laid the photograph down and read the article from beginning to end. she didn't see george washington when she passed him on the landing on the way down-stairs and for the rest of the day the child was so quiet every one in the house marveled. there were no concerts that evening. the leading soprano had too much on her mind. the following morning marian sharpened her lead pencil and opened her diary. after looking for a moment at the white page she closed the book. "no use writing down what you are sure to remember," she remarked, "and besides that, it is all too sad and finished. i am going outdoors and have some fun." marian was in the back yard watching a cricket, when ella sauntered down the path singing, "good-morning, merry sunshine." "where are you going, sweetheart?" called her mother from the kitchen window. "just down here by the fence to get some myrtle leaves," ella replied and went on singing. marian bent over the cricket nor did she look up although ella gave her surprising information as she passed. "if i were you, miss marian lee, i'll tell you what i'd do, i'd pack my doll and everything i wanted to take with me, because in the very early morning, you're surely going away to a country town where you will stay until school begins again. "i knew they were going to send you somewhere, but i didn't know just when, until i just now heard my father and mother both talking all about it. i know you'll have a pretty good time, i wish i were going too, but maybe you'll find some girls to play with, i'm sure i hope you do." marian smiled but dared not reply, especially as the singer broke down and laughed and aunt amelia knew there were no funny lines in "good-morning, merry sunshine." the hint was enough. marian straightened her affairs for a journey and a long absence from home. chapter xv little sister to the dandelion marian asked no questions the following morning until she was on her way to the station with uncle george. "where am i going?" she finally ventured. "where you passed the summer last year," was the reply. "how does that suit you?" "suit me," repeated marian, "nothing ever suited me better. i'm pretty glad i'm going there. why didn't you send me back to school, uncle george? school won't be out for two months. i'm glad you didn't, but why?" "well, sis, you told me you wanted to go to the country school." "yes, but----" "now's your chance," interrupted the man, "learn all you can and try to do some one thing better than any one else in school, will you?" "well, but uncle george, big boys and big girls go to country schools." "what of it, marian? you do some one thing better than any one else in school, and when you come home this fall you may choose any book you wish at the book store, and i will buy it for you." "but, uncle george, how will you know whether i really do something better than any one else or not?" "i'll take your word for it, marian." "my word is true," the child remarked with dignity. "no doubt about it," added uncle george, turning away to hide a smile. just as the train pulled into the station, marian caught a glimpse of a small blue butter-fly. it fluttered away out of sight as uncle george said "good-bye." "oh, i hate to leave that butter-fly," exclaimed marian, and those were the last words uncle george heard as he left her. the passengers smiled, but uncle george looked thoughtful. there was so much to be seen from the car windows and so many folks to wonder about within the car, the journey seemed short. two young ladies welcomed marian at the train, hugging and kissing her the minute the small feet touched the platform. "i guess folks will think you're some relation to me," laughed the child. "so we are," replied miss ruth golding. "we are your cousins." "certainly," agreed miss kate, "your uncle george knew us when we were little girls, so of course we are your cousins." "of course!" echoed marian, "and i know my summer of happiness has begun this day in april." "your troubles have begun, you mean," warned miss ruth; "the school-teacher boards with us and you'll have to toe the mark." "oh, goody!" exclaimed marian. "i can walk to school with her." "you won't say 'goody' when you see the lady," predicted miss kate. "she's as sober as a judge, very quiet, and keeps to herself." "what's the matter with her?" asked marian. "she's lived in the city all her life and eaten books," explained ruth. "she eats them, marian, covers, binding, pictures and everything. too bad, but maybe you'll get used to it. here is mother coming to meet you, and here comes carlo." marian ran ahead to throw her arms around mrs. golding's neck. "i am so glad they sent me back to you," she cried. "i didn't say anything about it to my aunt because she would have sent me somewhere else. it doesn't do to let her know when you're too happy. she isn't a bit like you, not a bit." "no, i think not," was the response. "you see, dear, your neighbor, mrs. russel, is one of my old friends, and she has told me so much about your aunt i feel as if i know her. i am sure we are not alike." "why, i should say not!" laughed marian. "why she's as thin as--as knitting needles, and you're as plump as new pin cushions. won't we have fun this summer, though? well, carlo, old fellow. didn't forget marian, did he? nice old doggie." "down, sir!" mrs. golding commanded. "he is so glad to see you, marian, he can't express his feelings without trying to knock you over." "i wish uncle george owned a dog," commented marian; "there'd always be some one glad to see you when you got home. i like dogs. does the teacher come home at noon, mrs. golding?" "no, sometimes we don't see her until supper time. she won't be such jolly company for you as my girls. she's too quiet." "is she cross, mrs. golding?" "no, oh, no indeed." "then i shall like her," was the quick reply. there were callers in the late afternoon, so marian wandered out alone. she had gone but a short distance down the lane when she saw dandelions ahead. she gathered a handful of the short-stemmed blooms and walked on. in the distance she heard a bluebird singing. marian ran to find it and was rewarded by a flash of glorious blue as the bird sought a tree across the river. marian followed it as far as she could, being obliged to stop at the river's bank. as she stood gazing after the bird, she was startled by a woman's voice. "what have you in your hand, little girl?" turning, marian saw a young lady sitting on a log near by. "just dandelions," the child replied, and would have hidden the bunch behind her if the young lady had not forbidden it. "we all love dandelions, little girl," she said; "come and show them to me." marian wonderingly obeyed. "did you ever look at a dandelion through a microscope?" continued the young lady. "no, i never did." the stranger passed marian a microscope and asked her to tell what she saw. "oh, i never knew a dandelion was like this," said marian; "why there are a thousand little blossoms in it all crowded together, and they are the goldenest golden ever was! oh, oh, oh! wasn't it lucky you were here so i could see through your microscope? what if i had never seen that dandelion!" "would you like to borrow the microscope often?" asked the young lady, smiling so pleasantly marian straightway decided that she was pretty. "well, i should say yes, miss--miss--you see i don't know what your name is?" "oh, that's so, i am miss smith, miss virginia smith. who are you?" "my name," was the reply, "is marian lee, but who i am i don't really know." miss smith repressed her curiosity, believing that marian was the little girl the goldings were to meet that day. "it's everything to have a name," said she. "yes, but i'd like some relatives," marian explained, "some real sisters and cousins and aunts of my own." "why don't you do as hiawatha did?" miss smith suggested. "you mean play all the birds and squirrels are my brothers and sisters? i think i will. i'll be little sister to the dandelion." miss smith laughed with marian. "i'll do the same thing," said she, "and if we are sisters to the dandelion, you must be my little sister and i'm your big sister and all the wild flowers belong to our family." "it's a game," agreed marian. "i suppose little indian children picked dandelions in the spring-time before columbus discovered america." "there were no dandelions then to pick," miss smith remonstrated. "the plant was brought here by white men. its name is from the french, meaning lion's tooth." "i don't see anything about a dandelion to mean lion's tooth," objected marian; "do you?" "no, i don't, marian, nor does any one know exactly how it came by its name. some believe it was given to the plant because its root is so white; then again, in the old days lions were pictured with teeth yellow as dandelion blossoms. the explanation i like best is that the dandelion was named after the lion because the lion is the animal that used to represent the sun, and all flowers named after him are flowers of the sun." "do you know anything more about dandelions?" questioned marian. "if i don't," said miss virginia smith, smiling as she spoke, "it isn't because there is nothing more to learn. did you ever hear the dandelion called the shepherd's clock?" "no, miss smith, never. why should they call it that?" "because the dandelion is said to open at five and close at eight." "well!" exclaimed marian, "i guess you could write a composition about dandelions." "possibly," was the laughing response. "as far as that goes, marian, there isn't a thing that grows that hasn't a history if you take the time and trouble to hunt it up." "skunk cabbages?" suggested marian. "yes, 'skunk cabbages,'" was the reply. "what flowers do you suppose are related to it?" "i don't know, unless jack-in-the-pulpit, maybe, is it?" "that's right, guess again." "i'll have to give up, miss smith. i never saw anything except jack-in-the-pulpit that looks a bit like old skunk cabbage." "the calla lily, marian, what do you think of that?" "i don't know, miss smith, but such things happen, of course, because winnie raymond has a horrible looking old uncle pete, and winnie's awful pretty herself. but how do you know so much about plants?" "by reading and observation, marian." "are there many books about wild flowers, miss smith?" "more than we can ever read, little girl. better than that the country around this village is a garden of wild flowers. down by the old mill and on the hills, in the fields and woods and along the river bank, we shall find treasures from now on every time we take the shortest walk." "oh, dear," grumbled marian, "isn't it too bad i've got to go to school?" "why don't you like to go to school, child?" "at home i do, on account of recesses. i don't like the school part of it much, but here it would be recess all the time if i could go in the woods with you, besides having a good time with the golding girls and playing all day long where i don't get scolded. dear! i wish i didn't have to go to school, or else i wish they'd have lessons about birds and flowers and butterflies and little animals, instead of old arithmetic. i hate arithmetic." "do you?" sympathized miss smith. "that's too bad, because we all need to understand arithmetic." "i don't," protested marian. "i don't even think arithmetic thoughts." "some day, marian, you will wish you understood arithmetic," said miss smith. "now if you and i went for a walk and we saw ten crows, three song sparrows, five bluebirds, seven chipping sparrows and twenty-seven robins, and mrs. golding asked us when we got home how many birds we saw, i wonder how you would feel if you couldn't add?" "well, but don't you see," interrupted marian, "i could add birds, yes and subtract and multiply and divide them. that's different. what i don't like is just figures and silly arithmetic things." "well, marian, i may as well tell you now that i'm the school-teacher and we'll have arithmetic stories about birds and flowers and little animals." "oh, are you the teacher?" exclaimed marian. "i thought she was--was--different, you know." "different, how?" "well, they told me the teacher was--was quiet." "so she is, usually," agreed miss smith, "but this afternoon she met one of her own folks. this little sister to the dandelion." "won't we have fun!" was marian's comment. chapter xvi professor lee, botanist miss virginia smith knew how to teach arithmetic. fractions lost their terror for marian, even the mysteries of cube root were eagerly anticipated. history became more than ever a living story to the child, and geography was a never failing joy. on rainy days every stream and puddle between mrs. golding's home and the schoolhouse was named, and if several mississippi rivers emptied into gulfs of mexico, and if half a dozen niles overflowed their banks over the country road, what difference did it make? when the sun shone bright and only dew-drops glistened in the shade, marian saw deserts and plains, mountains and volcanoes along the dusty way. for a time the game of geography became so absorbing marian played it at the table, forming snowy peaks of mashed potatoes and sprinkling salt upon the summits until the drifts were so deep, only the valleys below were fit to be eaten. brown gravy was always the missouri river winding its way across marian's plate between banks of vegetables. ice cream meant mammoth cave. a piece of pie was south africa from which the cape of good hope quickly disappeared. however hungry marian might be, there was a time when she ate nothing but continents and islands. whatever miss virginia smith tried to teach the country children, marian lee appropriated for herself. she listened to all recitations whether of the chart class or the big boys and girls. perhaps if marian had attended more strictly to her own lessons, she might have made the kind of a record she thought would please uncle george. as it was, jimmie black "left off head" in the spelling class more times than she did, the first month. belle newman had higher standings in arithmetic and geography, and some one carried off all the other honors. marian, however, knew something about botany before the end of may, and she gloried in the fact that she could name all the bones in her body. mr. golding was proud of her accomplishment and once when she went with him to see old bess newly shod, he asked her to name the bones for the blacksmith: and the blacksmith thought it wonderful that a little girl knew so much. "yes, but that's nothing," remarked the child, "all the big boys and girls in the fifth reader class know their bones." "ain't you in the fifth reader?" asked the blacksmith. "no," was the reply, "i can read the whole reader through, but i'm not in that reader class. that's the highest class in the country. i suppose being in the fifth reader here is like being in the high school at home just before you graduate. i won't have to learn bones when i get up to the high school." "and still you say that ain't nothing," protested the blacksmith. marian shook her head. "i haven't done one thing in school better'n anybody else," she said, "and to do something better'n anybody else is all that counts. don't you try to be the best blacksmither in the country?" old bess flourished her tail in the blacksmith's face and the man spoke to her next instead of to marian. he wasn't the best blacksmith and he knew it. some years afterwards when he had won an enviable reputation, he told mr. golding that the first time he thought of trying to do unusually good work was when the little lee girl asked him if he tried to be the best blacksmith in the country. concerning botany, miss smith knew that marian was interested in the wild flowers and had told her many a legend of wayside blooms when walking with her through the fields and across the hills: but she had no idea how much the child had learned from listening to the recitations of the botany class, until the saturday morning when the wax doll went to school. miss smith happened to pass the corn-crib unnoticed by teacher or pupil. the doll was propped in an attitude of attention among the ears of corn. "now, little girl," the instructor was saying, "if you ever expect to amount to anything in this world, you've got to use your eyes and ears. i'm the professor of botany your mother was reading about last night, who knew nothing about botany until she began to study it. next winter when we can't get outdoors, i am going to give you lessons on seeds and roots and things and stems and leaves. the professor of botany has got to learn the names of the shapes of leaves and how to spell them. she really ought to own a book but she doesn't, and that can't be helped. you're sure to get what you want some time though, if you only try hard enough, and the botany professor will get a book. you just wait. "don't think, little girl, because we are skipping straight over to flowers this morning that you are going to get out of learning beginnings. we're taking flowers because it is summer. of course you know this is a strawberry blossom i hold in my hand. well, if it wasn't for strawberry blossoms you couldn't have strawberry shortcake, remember that. that's the principal thing about strawberries. this little circle of white leaves is called the corolla. now don't get the calyx mixed with the corolla as some children do. i tell you it makes me feel squirmy to hear some big girls recite. you ought to see this flower under a microscope. i guess i'll go and ask professor smith for hers." marian turned around so quickly professor smith was unable to get out of sight. the doll's instructor felt pretty foolish for a moment, but only for a moment. "marian lee," said miss smith, "you shall join the botany class next monday morning and i'll give you a book of mine to study." "what will the big girls say?" gasped marian. "about as much as your doll in there," laughed miss smith, adding seriously, "i won't expect too much of you, marian, but you may as well be in the class and learn all you can." on monday morning, although the big girls smiled and the little girls stared, professor lee became a member of the botany class and learned to press the wild flowers. "i won't have the most perfect lessons of anybody in the class," marian confided to her doll, "because the big girls know so much; but i'll try and have the best specimens in my herbarium. i can do that, i am sure. i have just got to do something better than any one else in school before i go home." the following saturday the doll listened with unchanging face to a confession. "every one of the big girls can press specimens better than i can. their violet plants look like pictures but mine look like hay. i guess uncle george will be discouraged. i don't do anything best. a robin is building a nest just outside the window where my seat is in school and i forgot to study my spelling lesson. of course i missed half the words. it was the robin's fault. she ought to keep away from school children." chapter xvii the composition on wild flowers all the children in marian's class were writing in their copy-books "knowledge is power." the pens squeaked and scratched and labored across pages lighted by june sunshine. the little girls' fingers were sticky and boy hands were cramped. it was monotonous work. the "k" was hard to make and the capital "p" was all flourishes. marian sighed, then raised her hand. "what is it?" asked miss smith. "will you tell which one of us has the best looking page when we get through with 'knowledge is power'?" miss smith consented and marian, determined to conquer, grasped her pen firmly and bent to the task. two days later the page was finished and seven copy-books were piled upon miss smith's desk for inspection. at first miss smith smiled as she examined the various assertions that "knowledge is power," then she grew serious. "did you try your best, children?" she asked, whereupon five girls and two boys looked surprised and hurt. "well, then, i wonder what is the trouble?" continued miss smith. "i am ashamed of your work, children, it seems as if you could do better." "which is best?" demanded marian. it made no difference how poor her copy was if only it was better than the others. the child was sorry she had asked the question when she knew the truth. "i think it is pretty discouraging," she said, "when you try your best and do the worst." "we will begin something new," miss smith suggested. "next week we will write compositions on wild flowers and to the one who does the neatest looking work, i will give the little copy of 'evangeline' i have been reading to you. it will make no difference whether the compositions are long or short, but the penmanship must be good. every one of you knows the spring flowers for we have had them here in school and have talked about them every day." "will we have to write in our copy-books just the same?" asked tommy perkins. "no," was the reply; "you may work on your compositions all the time we usually write in the copy-books, and remember, it doesn't make a bit of difference how short your compositions are." that was exactly what marian did not remember. at first she wrote: "no flower is so pretty as the anemone that blooms on the windy hill." at recess she consulted miss smith. "is that long enough?" she asked. "yes, that will do," was the reply. "is it fair if i copy off her composition?" asked tommy perkins, "and practice writing it? i can't make up one." "that sentence will do as well as any other," agreed miss smith. "i simply wish you to write something you choose to do." marian beamed upon tommy. "i'll copy it for you," she said. "i don't really think anemones are the prettiest flowers, tommy, but they are easy to write; no ups or downs in the word if the flowers themselves do dance like fairies all the day long." "i wish't you'd write me a composition," put in frankie bean. "i will," assented marian, "after school calls, but now, come on out and play." after recess, marian passed frankie a piece of paper upon which was written this: "clover loves a sunny home." "that's easy, frankie, because 'y' is the only letter below the line. you can say sun-kissed if you would rather keep it all above the line. if i don't get the book, may be you will. i hope you won't be disappointed, though. i would try if i were you. something may happen to me before next week, you never can tell." monday and tuesday marian wrote compositions for the four girls to copy. they were more particular than the boys had been and their compositions were longer. by the time marian was ready to settle down to her sentence on the anemone, she was tired of it and determined to write something new. soon she forgot all about penmanship and friday afternoon found her with a long composition to copy in an hour. even then, after the first moment of dismay, she forgot that neatness of work alone, would count. miss virginia smith read the composition aloud. "_wild flowers, by marian lee._ "when you shut your eyes and think of wild flowers, you always want to open them and fly to the hills and the woods. you wish you had wings like the birds. "in an old flower legend book that tells about things most folks don't know, i found out what you were always sure of before you knew it. the anemones are fairy blossoms. the pink on the petals was painted by the fairies and on rainy nights elves hide in the dainty blooms. "tulips are not wild, but how can i leave them out when the fairies used them for cradles to rock their babies in. "some folks laugh at you when you hunt for four-leaved clover, but you can never see the fairies without one nor go to the fairy kingdom. "the old book says, too, that the bluebells ring at midnight to call the fairies together. i believe it because i have seen bluebells and have almost heard the music. i don't believe they ever were witches' thimbles. "you most always get your feet wet when you go after marsh marigolds, but it can't be helped. they are yellow flowers and live where they can hear the frogs all the time. i wonder if they ever get tired of frog concerts. i never do, only i think it is mournful music after the sun goes down. it makes you glad you are safe in the house. "there is one lovely thing about another yellow flower. it is the cinquefoil and you find it before the violets come if you know where to look. on rainy days and in damp weather, the green leaves bend over and cover the little yellow blossom. the cinquefoil plant must be afraid its little darling will catch cold. "if you ever feel cross, the best thing you can do is to go out where the wild flowers grow. you will be sure to hear birds sing and you may see a rabbit or a squirrel. anyway, you will think thoughts that are not cross." "evangeline" was given to tommy perkins. he had practiced writing the anemone sentence until his perfectly written words astonished miss virginia smith. "i know my writing isn't good," admitted a little girl named marian. "only see how it goes up-hill and down-hill and how funny the letters are." chapter xviii marian's letter home marian's letters to her uncle george were written on sunday afternoons. she wrote pages and pages about miss smith and the country school and begged him not to come for her in august. "i haven't done anything better than any one else in school yet," she wrote, "but i am learning all kinds of things and having the best time ever was. i want to go to the country school until i graduate. i'll be ready for college before you know it if you will only let me stay. "i am good all the time because mrs. golding says so and miss ruth and miss kate take me almost everywhere they go--when they drive to town, circuses and things and i have lovely times every day. "i would tell you who i play with only you would forget the names of so many children. when i can't find any one else i go to the mill to see the miller's boy. that isn't much fun because the miller's boy is half foolish. his clothes are always covered with flour and he looks like a little old miller himself. he jumps out at you when you don't know where he is and says 'boo!' and scares you almost out of your wits, and that makes his father laugh. i tried to teach him to read but i didn't have good luck. he read 'i see the cat' out of almanacs and everything. "the old miser died last night, uncle george, and i saw him in the afternoon. only think of it, i saw a man that died. after dinner i went to see the miller's boy and he wasn't there. his father said he was wandering along the river bank somewhere, so i stayed and talked to the miller. pretty soon the boy came back making crazy motions with his arms and telling his father the old miser wanted to see him quick. "i went outside and watched the big wheel of the mill when the boy and his father went away, but it wasn't any time before the boy came back and said the old miser wanted to see me. of course i went as fast as i could go, and when i got to the hut, the miller asked me if i could say any bible verses, and if i could to say them quick because the old miser wanted somebody to read the bible quick--quick. i thought it was queer, uncle george, but i was glad i had learned so much out of the bible. "the old miser was all in rags and i guess he didn't feel well then, because he was lying down on a queer old couch and he didn't stir, but i tell you he watched me. i didn't want to go in the hut, so i stood in the doorway where i could feel the sunshine all around me. some way i thought that wasn't any time to ask questions, so i began the twenty-third psalm right straight off. when i got to the end of that i was going to say the first fourteen verses of john, but the old miser raised one hand and said, 'again--again,' but before i got any further than 'the valley of the shadow,' he went to sleep looking at me and i never saw his face so happy. it smoothed all out and looked different. poor old miser, the boys used to plague him. the miller motioned to his boy and me to go away. i guess he was afraid jakey would wake the old miser. of course i knew enough to keep still when a tired looking old man dropped to sleep. "i don't know just when the old miser died, uncle george, nobody talks about it where i can hear a word. mrs. golding says when i grow up i will be glad that i could repeat the twenty-third psalm to a poor old man who hadn't any friends. she says it isn't true that he was a miser, he was just an unfortunate old man. i wonder if he was anybody's grandfather? you never can tell. "i am well acquainted with all the folks in the village, uncle george, and lots of times i go calling. there are some old folks here who never step outside of their houses and they are glad to have callers. one old blind woman knits all the time. she likes to be read to, real well. and there is one woman, the shoemaker's wife, that has six children that bother her so when she tries to work; she says it does her good to see me coming. "only think, uncle george, how lonesome i will be when i get home where i am not acquainted. the only sad thing that has happened here all summer is that the miser died, and of course you know that might be worse. "i would like to be with miss smith more than i am but she studies almost all the time. i don't see what for because she knows everything, even about the stars. she likes me a great deal but i guess nobody knows it. you mustn't have favorites when you are a school-teacher, she told me so. "you don't know how hard it is, uncle george, to do something better than anybody else. you might think it would be easy, but somebody always gets ahead of you in everything, you can't even keep your desk the cleanest. some girls never bring in anything from the woods, so of course they can keep dusted. "i'm afraid you'll be disappointed in "your loving niece, "marian lee." chapter xix the most truthful child in school in the early morning the schoolhouse was a quiet place, and there miss virginia smith went to study. no one knew why she worked so hard, though marian often wondered. it was her delight to please miss smith, and when the teacher waited several mornings until a certain mail train passed and the letters were distributed, marian offered to stop at the post-office and get the mail. "are you sure you won't lose anything?" asked miss smith. "sure," promised marian. "you go to school early as you used to do and i'll bring your letters when i come." usually the postmaster gave marian something to carry to miss smith, and all went well until a few days before school closed. elizabeth gray called for marian that morning and together they went to the post-office where they waited on tiptoe for the postmaster to distribute the mail. there was one letter for miss smith, a thin, insignificant looking letter. "that's nothing but an old advertisement," declared elizabeth; "it wasn't worth waiting for." "i guess you're right," agreed marian, "see what it says in the corner. what's a seminary, anyway? do you know?--'young ladies' seminary.' some kind of a new fashioned place to buy hats, may be, come on." "yes, let's get started before the prior kids and the perkinses catch up with us. i can't bear that tommy perkins." "we could play de soto if we had a crowd," suggested marian. "you and i could be the head leaders and the priors and the perkins could be common soldiers." "how do you play de soto?" asked elizabeth. "i never heard of it." "you've heard of de soto, the man that discovered the mississippi river, i hope." "of course, he's in the history." "well, elizabeth, i've been reading about him in one of mr. golding's books about early explorations and i knew in a minute that it would be fun to play de soto on our way to school. now, i'm de soto." "no, i'm going to be de soto," insisted elizabeth. "you don't know how, elizabeth jane gray, and you didn't think of it first. all right, though, you be de soto if you want to. what are you going to do? begin." "you always want to be the head one in everything, marian lee. you needn't think i'm tommy perkins!" "i don't, elizabeth, i think you're that brave spaniard moscoso who was leader of the soldiers after de soto died and was buried in the mississippi river where the indians couldn't find him. but if you want to be de soto, go on, only i don't believe you know a thing about him except what the history says. well, you're de soto." "you'll have to tell me what to do, marian." "i guess not, miss elizabeth, if you're de soto you ought to know." elizabeth walked on in silence for a few moments until seized by an inspiration. "i'll be de soto to-morrow morning," she remarked; "it's your turn first, of course, because you thought of the game. i'm--who did you say i am, marian?" "you're moscoso, one of my officers, elizabeth. well, i'm de soto and i have had wonderful adventures in my life. i was with pizarro in the conquest of peru and i went back to spain rich, rich, rich. now i am the governor of cuba and florida and not long ago i had orders from spain to explore florida. of course, moscoso, you remember all about it, how we left cuba with nine ships and landed at tampa?" "i remember it, soty, just as well as if it was yesterday," and moscoso, laughing merrily, swung his dinner pail in a perfect circle. "don't laugh, moscoso, at serious things," continued de soto; "and i think you really should call me governor and i'll call you general. well, general, we sent most of our ships back to cuba, and now we're searching for gold in florida, not in our little state of florida, but the big, wide, long florida that used to be. now, elizabeth, we'll play wander around for three years, living in indian villages winters and camping out summers and having fights and discovering new birds to write to spain about and having all kinds of adventures, until we get to that big ditch at the four corners and that will have to be the mississippi river, and we'll cross it. we can tie our handkerchiefs to sticks for banners. "let's play all the trees are indians and all the little low bushes are wild beasts. the fences will do for mountains and i guess we'll think of other things to play as we go along. we'll have trouble with our soldiers, of course, they always do when they are hunting for gold. all these fields and woods, no, not woods, forests, i mean, are what you call the interior. dandelions and buttercups will be gold that we steal from the indians. we'll be awfully disappointed because this isn't a gold country like peru, but we will take all there is, and i think we had better talk some about going home to spain. of course i don't know i'm going to die of fever beyond the mississippi and you don't know you'll have to go back to the coast without me. i wish we could talk a little bit of real spanish, don't you, elizabeth?" "hush," warned the general from spain. "i hear indians. let's play the wind in the trees is indian talk, marian." "sure enough, elizabeth, we must advance cautiously, general moscoso, they always 'advance cautiously' in the books, or else 'beat a hasty retreat.' we won't dare play retreat or we'll never get to school. oh, they're friendly indians, general, how fortunate." de soto had crossed the mississippi when he grew pale as death and suddenly deserted his followers. the banners of spain trailed in the dust. "elizabeth jane gray, where's that letter?" two little girls gazed at each other in dismay. "have you lost it?" gasped elizabeth. "if i haven't, where is it?" asked marian. "can't you remember anything about it?" elizabeth went on, "when you had it last, or anything?" "no, i can't. let's go straight back over the road and hunt. i must have dropped it and perhaps we may find it if we look. i can't believe it is really lost. oh, elizabeth, what shall i do if it is? i adore miss smith and what will she think?" "she won't think anything if you keep still, marian; the letter was only an old advertisement, anyway." "oh, dear, dear, dear!" wailed marian. "this is dreadful. i don't see a thing that looks like a letter anywhere. i am going to climb a tree and look way off over the fields." although the children searched faithfully, they could not find the letter. "we'll hunt at noon," suggested elizabeth, deeply touched by marian's distress, "and if i were you i wouldn't say a word about it." "but elizabeth, what if she asks me if there was a letter?" "fib," was the response. "it's enough to make anybody, elizabeth." "you'll be a goose, marian, if you own up. i won't tell on you and the letter didn't amount to anything, anyway. let's run for all we're worth and get there before school calls if we can. sure's we're late she'll ask questions." just as the bell was ringing, two breathless little girls joined their schoolmates. their faces were flushed and their hair was tumbled. miss smith smiled when she saw them, but asked no questions. noticing marian's empty hands, she said evidently to herself, "no letter yet!" "you're going to get out of this as easy's pie, just keep your mouth shut," whispered elizabeth. "i shall have to tell," groaned marian. "don't be silly," elizabeth advised. during the morning exercises marian determined to confess no matter what happened. when the chart class was called to the recitation seat she raised her hand and was given permission to speak to miss smith. marian didn't glance towards elizabeth gray as she walked to the desk. elizabeth had never stolen cookies. "miss smith," said marian, "you had a letter this morning and i lost it." "you dear child, i am so glad you told me," and miss smith who had so often insisted that a school-teacher must never have favorites, put her arms around the little girl and kissed the soft, brown hair. "now tell me what was printed on the envelope if you can remember." word for word marian described the letter. "it is the one i was expecting," said miss smith, and while the chart class waited, their teacher wrote a letter, stamped it and sent it to the post-office by tommy perkins. two days later, marian carried miss smith a letter exactly like the one she had lost. miss smith read it, smiled and asked marian to stay after school. "you're going to get your scolding at last," predicted elizabeth. "i told you not to tell." at four o'clock the children trooped out and flew down the road like wild birds escaped from a cage, leaving marian uneasily twisting her handkerchief while she waited for miss smith to speak. nothing was said until the sound of childish voices came from a distance. then miss smith looked up and laughed. "can you keep a secret for a few days, marian?" she asked. "come here, dear, and read the letter you brought me this morning." marian read the short letter three times before she asked, "are you going?" "going," echoed miss smith; "that is the position i have long wished for, marian. only think how i shall enjoy teaching botany and english in a boarding-school. you see what they say, marian, they want an immediate reply or it will be too late. if you hadn't told me about the letter you received the other day, i should have lost the position. i imagined what the letter was and sent for a copy. if you hadn't told me the truth, marian, only think what a difference it would have made!" "i just have to tell the truth," said the little girl. "i believe you, dear, i never saw a more truthful child in my life." "would you dare say i am the most honest child in school?" asked marian, a sudden light making her face beautiful. "will you write it down and sign your name?" "well, you are the queerest mortal," exclaimed miss smith, but reaching for a piece of paper and a pen, she wrote this: "marian lee is the most truthful pupil in my school. "virginia smith, teacher." "it's for uncle george," marian explained. "he told me to try to do something better than anybody else and i haven't done it. he's coming for me saturday and please do ask him to send me to your boarding-school. he has often talked about sending me away to school, but i used to be afraid to go and made a dreadful fuss, and then i had diphtheria." uncle george arrived on friday in time to have a long talk with miss smith before she left on the evening train. had marian known the nature of their conversation, she might not have cried so bitterly when the hour of parting came. chapter xx more changes marian had been home a month when uncle george decided to send her to boarding-school. "it is a curious thing," he remarked to the child, "that other people find it so easy to get along with you, and here at home there is no peace in the house while you are in it." the man's tones were savage and marian cried. tears always angered uncle george, and when uncle george was angry with marian, aunt amelia generally sighed and straightway did her duty: and aunt amelia's duty towards marian consisted in giving a detailed account of the child's faults and a history of her sins. she never failed to mention cookies. when marian was wise, she kept still. if she ventured a remonstrance serious trouble was sure to follow. out in the fresh air and sunshine, the child managed to be happy in spite of everything: but within the four walls of aunt amelia's home it took courage to face life. she didn't know that her uncle had written to miss virginia smith. "they're going to do something with you, i don't know what," confided ella. "i'll let you know as soon's i find out." ella was as good as her word. "they're going to send you to boarding-school," was her next secret announcement, "but when or where, i don't know." one morning marian went to her room after breakfast and sat long by the open window, wondering what would become of her and why she had been taken from the little pilgrim's home by an aunt who didn't want her. tears splashed upon the window sill. marian wiped her eyes quickly. young as she was, the child realized how dangerous it is to be sorry for oneself. without a backward glance, marian walked from the room and closed the door she was never to open again. when she came home from school that night, the child played in the orchard until supper-time. then she wondered why aunt amelia didn't send her to her room. an hour passed before the woman looked at the clock and spoke. instead of the words marian expected to hear, aunt amelia said calmly: "your trunk is packed and the carriage is waiting to take you to the station. get your coat and hat." "where am i going and who is going with me?" demanded the child, beginning to tremble so she could scarcely stand. "i shall accompany you," replied aunt amelia, "and it makes no difference where you are going. you will know soon enough." marian shot a grateful look towards ella, who was sobbing in a corner. but for the little cousin's assurance, marian would have believed she was about to start for the long dreaded reform school. nevertheless it was a shocking thing to be suddenly torn from every familiar sight and to be going so blindly into the unknown. marian looked appealingly at aunt amelia and uncle george before she broke down and cried. aunt amelia's face was stony, uncle george looked cross and annoyed. marian's grief became wild and despairing. "i wish i could have my mother's picture to take with me," she sobbed, "i wish i could." "that's a reasonable request and you shall have it," said uncle george. "it will be time enough when she is older," aunt amelia put in, while marian held her breath. would she get the picture or not? a word might ruin her chances, so she kept still, trying hard to smother her sobs. "are you going for the picture or shall i?" demanded uncle george. aunt amelia went. marian was disappointed when she saw the small photograph of her father and mother. she wished for the face in the oval frame. she would have been more disappointed had she never seen the photograph, because instead of giving it to the child or allowing her to look at the picture, aunt amelia wrapped it in a piece of paper and put it in her own satchel. outside in the cool, silent night, marian stopped crying. there was comfort in the steadily shining stars. during the first long hours on the sleeping car, marian tossed, tumbled and wondered where she was going. asleep she dreamed of reform school: awake she feared dreams might come true. when trains rushed by in the darkness the child was frightened and shivered at the thought of wrecks. at last she raised her curtain and watched the stars. repeating over and over one verse of the poem she had recited the last day of school in the country, she fell peacefully asleep. there were no more troubled dreams nor startled awakenings. when marian opened her eyes in the morning, the verse still haunted her memory. "i know not where his islands lift their fronded palms in air, i only know i cannot drift beyond his love and care." chapter xxi marian remembers her diary "october .--you might as well keep a diary, especially in a school where they have a silent hour. it is the queerest thing i ever heard of but every night between seven and eight it is so still in this building you don't dare sneeze. it isn't so bad when you have a roommate because then you have to divide the hour with her. you stay alone half and then you go to the reading-room or the library and read something and try not to whisper to any of the girls, while your roommate stays alone her half of the hour. "perhaps the reason i don't like silent hour is because i used to have so many of them at home and now because i haven't any roommate i have to stay alone the whole hour. i don't know what to do with myself and that is why i am going to keep a diary again. "there is a good reason why i haven't any roommate. when my aunt brought me here the principal said they were expecting a little girl just my age and they were going to put her in this room with me. it isn't much fun to be a new girl in this kind of a school, especially when most everybody is older than you are. when the girls saw my aunt they stared, and they stared at me, too. it wasn't very nice and i felt uncomfortable. as long as my aunt stayed i didn't get acquainted. i didn't even dare say much to miss smith. i just moped around and wished i was out in the country with the happy goldings. they said here, 'poor little thing, she's homesick,' but i am sure i wasn't if that means i wanted to go back home. my aunt stayed two days and one night. she said she was waiting to see my roommate but at last she gave up and went home and then i felt different. i began to wonder what kind of a girl my roommate would be and when she came i was so happy i could scarcely breathe because she was dolly russel. we thought we were going to have such a good time, and we did for a few days until i was a big goose. i wrote home and told my aunt who my roommate was and that ended it. aunt amelia wrote to the principal and she wrote to me, and then dolly went to room with an old girl eighteen years old, from kansas. "dolly says her new roommate is nice, but she's too old and besides that she's engaged. dolly told me all about it. "my aunt wouldn't let me room with dolly because she said we would play all the time instead of studying our lessons. i guess she was afraid we would have a little fun. she told me in a letter that if she had known dolly russel was coming to this school she would have sent me somewhere else or kept me at home, no matter what uncle george and miss smith said. i know why. dolly has told the kansas girl and some others about my aunt already, how cross she is and such things. i don't mind now what anybody says about aunt amelia since i have found out that she isn't any relation to me. she is just my aunt by marriage and you can't expect aunts by marriage to love you, and if your aunt doesn't love you, what's the use of loving your aunt. "if i hadn't passed the entrance examinations here i couldn't have stayed. dolly and a girl whose name is janey somebody and i are the only little girls here. janey is tall and wears her hair in a long, black braid. mine's dutch cut. dolly russel's is dutch cut too. janey calls us little kids and she tags around after the big girls. we don't care. "october .--there's another girl coming from way out west. her folks are going to be in chicago this winter and they want her in this school. the kansas girl told dolly and me. "october .--the new girl has come and they have put her with me. she's homesick. her father brought her and then went right away. i didn't see him. i think i shall like the new girl. her name is florence weston and she has more clothes than the queen of sheba. miss smith helped her unpack and i felt as if i would sink through to china when the new girl looked in our closet. it is a big closet and the hooks were nearly all empty because i haven't anything much to hang up. i'll never forget how i felt when the new girl said to me, 'where are your dresses?' before i could think of anything to say, miss smith sent me for the tack hammer and i didn't have to answer. "my room looked pretty lonesome after dolly moved out, but now it is the nicest room in school because florence weston has so many beautiful things. she says this is horrid and i just ought to see her room at home. she can't talk about her home without crying. i know i'd cry if i had to go back to mine. "october .--that janey is a queer girl. she won't look at me and i really think it is because i haven't any pretty dresses. she is in our room half the time, too, visiting with florence. they are great chums and they lock arms and tell secrets and laugh and talk about what they are going to do next summer and where they are going christmas and everything. i wish more than ever that i had dolly for my roommate. i wouldn't be surprised if her father is richer'n florence weston's father. "that janey puts on airs. her last name is hopkins. she signs her name 'janey c. hopkins.' she never leaves out the 'c,' i wonder why. "october .--i like florence weston. she is not a bit like that proud janey. "november .--sometimes i wish i had never come here to school. once in a while i feel more lonesome, almost--than i ever did at home. it is on account of that janey c. hopkins. she wants to room with florence and she tried to get me to say i would move in with laura jones, the girl she rooms with. janey says she's going to the principal. let her go. miss smith told me not to worry, they won't let chums like florence and janey room together because they won't study. "november .--what did i tell you? i knew she'd be sorry. they won't let janey room with florence. florence says she's glad of it. i suppose it is on account of hooks. janey couldn't let her have more than half the hooks in the closet. "november .--it wasn't on account of hooks. florence told me one of janey's secrets and i know now what the 'c' means in janey's name and i know who janey c. hopkins is, and i should think she would remember me, but she doesn't. janey told florence that she is adopted and that her new mother took her from the little pilgrims' home before they moved out to minnesota. i was so surprised i almost told florence i came from that same home, but i am glad i didn't. "the only reason florence doesn't want to room with janey is because she lived in an orphan's home. she says you never can tell about adopted children and that maybe janey's folks weren't nice, and anyway, that if she ever lived in an orphan's home she would keep still about it. "i think i shall keep still, but i could tell miss florence weston one thing, my folks were nice if they did die. i could tell her what i read in that newspaper in the sea-chest, how my father just would go to south america with some men to make his fortune and how after a while my mother thought he was dead and then she died suddenly and all about how i happened to be taken to the little pilgrims' home in the strange city where my mother and i didn't know anybody and nobody knew us. "i could tell florence weston i guess that my father left my mother plenty of money and she wasn't poor, and after she died the folks she boarded with stole it all and pretty near everything she had and then packed up and went away and left me crying in the flat, and it just happened that some folks on the next floor knew what my name was and a few little things my mother told them. "i won't speak of the little pilgrims' home, though, because i can't forget how uncle george acted about it. it was a pleasant, happy home just the same, and when i grow up and can do what i want to i am going back and hunt for mrs. moore and i won't stop until i find her. i have missed her all my life. you can't help wondering why some mothers live and some mothers die, and why some children grow up in their own homes and other children don't have anybody to love them. "november .--sunday. the queer things don't all happen in books. i am glad i have a diary to put things in that i don't want to tell miss smith nor dolly. just before dark i was in the back parlor with a lot of girls singing. when we were tired of singing we told stories about our first troubles. i kept still for once, i really couldn't think what my first one was anyway. two or three girls said that when their mothers died, that was their first sorrow, but florence weston said that her first one was funny. she couldn't remember when her own father died so she can't count that. the father she has now is a step one. "florence says she was a little bit of a girl when her mother took her one day to visit an orphan's home and she cried because she couldn't stay and have dinner with the little orphans. she says she remembers that one of the little girls wanted to go home with her and her mother and when she cried that little orphan girl cried too. they all laughed when florence told her story, all but me. i knew then what my first sorrow was. what would florence think if she knew i was that little orphan? i must never tell her though or she wouldn't room with me. i should think florence would be the happiest girl in the world. i should be if i had her mother. i can see her now if i shut my eyes. her hair was shining gold and her eyes were like the sky when the orchard is full of apple blossoms. "november .--florence has gone to chicago to stay until monday morning because to-morrow is thanksgiving day and her folks wanted to see her. florence has two baby brothers and one little sister. "dolly russel's father and mother have come here to be with dolly to-morrow and they have invited me to have dinner with them down town. i wonder what aunt amelia would say if she knew i am going to be with the russels all day to-morrow. miss smith got permission for me to go, she knew what to say to the principal, and she kissed me too, right before mrs. russel. i am already beginning to dread going home next june. "janey c. hopkins is going home this afternoon and the kansas girl is going with her. there will be ten girls all alone in the big dining-room here to-morrow. i guess they will feel queer. i know one thing, i would rather stay here with nobody but the matron christmas, than to go home, and i am glad aunt amelia says it would be foolish for any one to take such a long journey so i could be home for the holidays. "mrs. russel is going to dress me all up to-morrow in one of dolly's prettiest dresses. i do have some streaks of luck." chapter xxii florence weston's mother marian was studying monday morning when florence returned from chicago. she burst into the room like a wind blown rose, even forgetting to close the door until she had hugged marian and hugged her again. "now shut your eyes tight," she commanded, "and don't you open them until i tell you to. you remember when you asked me if i had a picture of my mother and i said i hadn't anything only common photographs? well, you just wait." marian closed her eyes while florence dived into her satchel for a small package. "i have something in a little red leather case that will make you stare, marian dear, you just wait." "well, i am waiting," was the retort, "with my eyes shut so tight i can see purple and crimson spots by the million. hurry up, why don't you? is it a watch with your mother's picture in it?" "no, guess again." "a locket?" "dear me, no. it is something--three somethings that cost forty times as much as a watch or locket. now open your eyes and look on the bureau." "why don't you say something?" questioned florence, as marian stood speechless before three miniatures in gold frames. "that's my mother and our baby in the middle frame, and the girl on this side is my little sister and the boy in the other frame we call brother, just brother, since the baby came. why marian lee! i never thought of it before, but you look like brother just as sure as the world! "why, marian! what's the matter, what makes you cry when you look at mamma's picture?" "nothing, florence, only i want a mother myself, i always wanted one." "you poor young one!" exclaimed florence, "it must be dreadful not to have a mother." "it's like the desert of sahara!" marian declared, dashing the tears from her eyes and making an attempt to smile. "you will see your mother again soon." "i know it, marian, only think, three weeks more and then the holidays. are you going home wednesday night or thursday morning?" "i am not going home until june," was the reply. "can you stand it as long as that, marian?" the mere thought of feeling badly about not being home for the holidays made the child laugh. "you are the queerest girl," exclaimed florence, "you cry when i don't see anything to cry about and you laugh when i should think you would cry." marian checked an impulse to explain. how could florence understand? florence, whose beautiful mother smiled from the round, gold frame, the girl whose sister and brothers waited to welcome her home. "if they were mine," said marian, gazing wistfully at the miniatures, "i would never leave them. i would rather be a dunce than go away to school." "then my father wouldn't own you," said florence, laughing. "mamma says she's afraid he wouldn't have any patience if i disgraced him in school. you ought to belong to him, marian, he would be proud of you. you know your lessons almost without studying and you have higher standings than the big girls. you've been highest in all your classes so far, haven't you?" "yes," was the reply, "except in geometry, but what of it? nobody cares." "don't your folks at home? aren't they proud of you?" "i used to hope they would be, florence; but i tell you, nobody cares." "well, haven't you any grandfathers or grandmothers or other aunts or uncles?" "i am not acquainted with them," said marian. "my uncle hasn't any folks, only distant cousins." "that's just like my father," florence interrupted. "his folks are all dead, though i have heard him mention one half brother with whom he wasn't friends. mamma won't let me ask any questions about him. but, marian, where are your mother's folks?" where were they, indeed? marian had never thought of them. "well, you see," the child hastily suggested, "they don't live near us." the next time florence saw dolly russel, she asked some questions that were gladly answered. "go home!" exclaimed dolly, "i shouldn't think she would want to go home! you see the st. claires live right across the street from us and i have seen things with my own eyes that would astonish you. besides that, a girl that used to work for the st. claires, her name is lala, works for us now, and if she didn't tell things that would make your eyes pop out of your head! shall i tell you how they used to treat that poor little marian? she's the dearest young one, too--lala says so--only mamma has always told me that it's wretched taste to listen to folks like lala." "yes, do tell me," insisted florence, and by the time dolly russel had told all she knew, florence weston was in a high state of indignation. "oh, her uncle and her little cousin are all right," remonstrated dolly; "they are not like the aunt." "i know what i shall do," cried florence. "oh, i know! i shall tell mamma all about marian and ask if i may invite her to chicago for the holidays. she would have one good time, i tell you. i like marian anyway, she is just as sweet as she can be. i should be miserable if i were in her place, but she sings all the day long. my little sister would love her and so would brother and the baby. i am going straight to my room and write the letter this minute." "mrs. st. claire won't let marian go," warned dolly; "you just wait and see. she doesn't want marian to have one speck of fun." nevertheless florence weston wrote the letter to her mother and in due time came the expected invitation. at first marian was too overjoyed for words: then she thought of aunt amelia and hope left her countenance. "i know what i will do," she said at last, "i will ask miss smith to write to uncle george. maybe then he will let me go. nobody knows how much i want to see your mother." florence laughed. "i think i do," she said. "i have told my mother how you worship her miniature. i shouldn't be surprised to come in some day and find you on your knees before it. my mother is pretty and she is lovely and kind, but i don't see how anybody could care so much for her picture. most of the girls just rave over brother, but you don't look at him. just wait until you see him, marian. i'll teach him to call you sister. he says 'ta' for sister." "oh, i wish you would," said marian, "i love babies and i never was anybody's sister of course. he is just as cunning as he can be. i am going now to ask miss smith to write to uncle george. she can get him to say yes if anybody can." miss smith wrote and rewrote the letter, then waited for an answer with even less patience than marian. at last it came, in aunt amelia's handwriting. marian's heart sank when she saw the envelope. her fears were well founded. aunt amelia was surprised to find that marian knew no better than to trouble miss smith as she had. she might have known that uncle george would not approve of her going to a city the size of chicago to pass the holidays with strangers. miss smith, dolly and florence were indignant. even janey did some unselfish sputtering. "anything's better than going home," marian reasoned at last, "and what's the use of crying about what you can't help. i ought to be glad it isn't june." as a matter of fact, the holidays passed pleasantly for marian in the big deserted house. the matron and the teachers who were left did everything in their power to please the child, and on christmas day the postman left her more gifts than she had ever received before. there were no potatoes in her stocking that year. during the holidays, marian kept the photograph of her own mother beside the miniatures, and as the days went by she became convinced that her mother and florence weston's mother looked much alike. "my mother is prettier," she said aloud the last day of the old year, "but she is dead and as long as i live i never can see her. perhaps i may see this other mother and perhaps she may love me. i shall have to put my picture away because it will get faded and spoiled, and i think i will pretend that florence weston's mother is my mother. then i won't feel so lonesome. i never thought of pretending to have a mother before." when florence returned after the holidays, she was unable to account for the change in marian. the child was radiantly happy. tears no longer filled her eyes when she gazed too intently upon the miniatures. instead, she smiled back at the faces and sometimes waved her hand to them when she left the room. how could florence dream that marian had taken the little brothers, the sister and the mother for her own. chapter xxiii how marian crossed the rainbow bridge june sent her messengers early. every blade of grass that pushed its way through the brown earth, every bursting lilac bud or ambitious maple, spoke to marian of june. returning birds warbled the story and the world rejoiced. teachers and pupils alike talked of june until it seemed to marian that all nature and educational institutions had but one object, and that was to welcome june. she dreaded it. june meant aunt amelia and the end of all happiness. yet marian was only one. ninety-nine other girls were looking eagerly forward to the close of school. they talked of it everywhere and at all hours. it was the one subject of conversation in which marian had no share, one joy beyond her grasp. try hard as she would, marian couldn't pretend to be glad she was going home. that was a game for which she felt no enthusiasm. the mother, the little sister and the baby brothers in the golden frames would soon be gone, and gone forever. "we're all going back west just as soon as school closes," florence had told her. "next winter we will be home." nor was that all that florence told marian. she pictured the beautiful home in the west in the midst of her father's broad lands. she described her room, all sunshine and comfort, and the great house echoing with music and laughter. she told marian of the gardens and the stables, of the horses, ponies and many pets. she described the river and the hills and the mountain peaks beyond. florence almost forgot the presence of her wide eyed roommate in telling of the holiday celebrations at home and of the wondrous glory of the annual christmas tree. best of all, florence spoke tenderly of her mother and her voice grew tender in speaking of the woman who never scolded but was always gentle and kind; the beautiful mother with the bright, gold hair. florence had so much to say about the little sister, brother and the baby, that marian felt as if she knew them all. thus it was that florence weston was going home and marian lee was returning to aunt amelia. miss smith understood all about it and it grieved her. she had seen aunt amelia and that was enough. she didn't wonder that marian's eyes grew sad and wistful as the days lengthened. at last miss virginia smith thought of a way to win smiles from marian. the botany class had been offered a prize. a railroad president, interested in the school had promised ten dollars in gold to the member of the botany class who made the best herbarium. marian might not win the prize, but it would give her pleasure to try. she would have something more agreeable to think of than aunt amelia. it was with some difficulty that miss smith obtained permission from the principal for marian to enter the class, and but for the experience in the country school, the objection that marian was too young would have barred her out. miss smith was right. marian was delighted and for hours at a time aunt amelia vanished from her thoughts. the members of the botany class were surprised that such a little girl learned hard lessons so easily, but miss smith only laughed. in the beginning when the spring flowers came and every wayside bloom suggested a specimen, fully half the class intended to win the prize, marian among the number. one by one the contestants dropped out as the weeks passed, leaving marian with perhaps half a dozen rivals. at that early day, miss virginia smith, who had no favorites, rejoiced secretly in the belief that marian would win the prize. the commonest weed became beautiful beneath her hands and the number of specimens she found on the school grounds alone, exceeded all previous records. there was never so much as a leaf carelessly pressed among marian's specimens. at last the child began to believe the prize would be hers and for the first time, going home lost its terrors. if she won the prize, uncle george would be proud of her and she would be happy. finally marian wrote to her uncle, telling him of the glories of commencement week. she was to recite "the witch's daughter" at the entertainment, to take part in the operetta and to sing commencement morning with three other little girls. more than that, she was sure to win the prize, even her rivals admitted it. "now uncle george," the letter proceeded, "please be sure and come because i want somebody that is my relation to be here. florence weston says her father would come from honolulu to see her win a prize, so please come, uncle george, or maybe florence will think nobody cares for me." marian was scarcely prepared to receive the answer that came to her letter from aunt amelia. uncle george was too busy a man to take so long a journey for nothing. aunt amelia would come the day after commencement and pack marian's trunk. so far as winning the prize was concerned, uncle george expected marian to win a prize if one were offered. that was a small way to show her gratitude for all that had been done for her. the child lost the letter. janey c. hopkins found and read it. before sunset every one of the ninety-nine knew the contents. when night settled down upon the school, one hundred girls were thinking of aunt amelia, one in tears, the ninety-nine with indignation. the following morning marian replied to her aunt's letter, begging to be allowed to go home with dolly russel and her mother, and assuring aunt amelia that she could pack her own trunk. even that request was denied. aunt amelia would call for marian the day after commencement and she wished to hear nothing further on the subject. she might have heard more had she not been beyond sound of the ninety-nine voices. marian was too crushed for words. that is, she was crushed for a day. her spirits revived as commencement week drew near and miss smith and the ninety-nine did so much to make her forget everything unpleasant. marian couldn't understand why the girls were so kind nor why janey c. hopkins took a sudden interest in her happiness. the sunday before commencement marian wore janey's prettiest gown to church. it was rather large for marian but neither she nor janey found that an objection. miss smith approved and sunday was a bright day for aunt amelia's little niece. monday, dolly russel's mother came and thanks to her, marian appeared in no more garments that had disgraced the hooks in her closet. she danced through the halls in the daintiest of dolly's belongings, and was happy as mrs. russel wished her to be. every hour brought new guests and in the excitement of meeting nearly all the friends of the ninety-nine and being kissed and petted by ever so many mothers, marian forgot aunt amelia. tuesday evening at the entertainment she did her part well and was so enthusiastically applauded, her cheeks grew red as the sash she wore, and that is saying a great deal, as dolly's sash was a bright scarlet, the envy of the ninety-nine. florence weston's father and mother were present at the entertainment, but marian looked for them in vain. "they saw you just the same," florence insisted when she and marian were undressing that night, "and mamma said if it hadn't been so late she would have come up to our room to-night, but she thought they had better get back to the hotel and you and i must settle down as quickly as we can. i can hardly keep my eyes open." florence fell asleep with a smile upon her face. marian's pillow was wet with tears before she drifted into troubled dreams of aunt amelia. "isn't it too bad!" exclaimed florence the next morning. "they are going to present the prize in the dining-room at breakfast and my father and mother won't be up here until time for the exercises in the chapel. i wanted them to see you get the prize. i'm so disappointed. never mind, though, you will see mamma all the afternoon, because she is going to pack my things. we leave to-morrow. i am going down-town with papa and mamma when we get through packing and stay all night. you will have the room all to yourself. what? are you crying, marian? why, i'll come back in the morning and see you before i go. i wouldn't cry if i were you!" it was easy enough for a girl who had every earthly blessing to talk cheerfully to a weary little pilgrim. marian experienced the bitterest moment of her life when the prize was presented in the dining-room. there were many fathers and mothers there, and other relatives of the ninety-nine who joined in cheering the little victor. yet marian wept and would not be comforted. even miss smith had no influence. in spite of the sympathetic arms that gathered her in, marian felt utterly forsaken. she had won the prize, but what could it mean to a motherless, fatherless, almost homeless child? after breakfast, marian, slipping away from miss smith and the friendly strangers, sought a deserted music room on the fourth floor where she cried until her courage returned: until hope banished tears. perhaps uncle george would be pleased after all. "where have you been?" demanded florence when marian returned to her room. "i have hunted for you everywhere. what a little goose you were to cry in the dining-room. why, your eyes are red yet." the only answer was a laugh as marian bathed her tear-stained face. "i want you to look pretty when mamma sees you," continued florence, "so don't you dare be silly again." in spite of the warning, marian was obliged to seek the obscurity of the fourth floor music room later in the day, before she thought of another refuge--miss smith's room. the sight of so many happy girls with their mothers was more than she could endure and miss smith understood. even the thought of seeing florence weston's mother was a troubled one, for alas! she couldn't beg to go with the woman as she once did in the little pilgrims' home. when the child was sure that florence and her mother were gone and while miss smith was busy in the office, she returned to her room. "the trunks are here yet," observed marian, "but may be they won't send for them until morning," and utterly worn out by the day's excitement, the child threw herself upon the bed and sobbed in an abandonment of grief. half an hour later the door was opened by a woman who closed it softly when she saw marian. "poor little dear," she whispered, and bending over the sleeping child, kissed her. marian was dreaming of her mother. "poor little dear," repeated the woman, and kissed her again. that kiss roused the child. opening her eyes, she threw her arms around the woman's neck, exclaiming wildly, "my mother, oh, my mother!" "but i am not your mother, dear," remonstrated the woman, trying to release herself from the clinging arms. "i am florence weston's mother. i have come for her little satchel that we forgot. cuddle down, dear, and go to sleep again." at that, marian seemed to realize her mistake and cried so pitifully, florence weston's mother took her in her arms and sitting in a low rocker held marian and tried to quiet her. the door opened and florence entered. "why mamma, what is the matter?" she began, but without waiting for a reply, she was gone, returning in a moment with her father. "now what is the matter with poor marian?" she repeated. "nothing," explained marian, "only everything." "she thought i was her mother, florence, the poor little girl; there, there, dear, don't cry. she was only half awake and she says i look like her mother's picture." "you do, you look just like the picture," sobbed marian. "what picture?" asked the man; "this child is the image of brother. what picture, i say?" "oh, she means mamma's miniature," said florence. "i don't mean the miniature," marian interrupted, "i mean my own mother's picture," and the child, kneeling before her small trunk quickly found the photograph of her father and mother. "there! doesn't she look like my mother?" there was a moment of breathless silence as florence weston's father and mother gazed at the small card. the woman was the first to speak. "why, richard lee!" she exclaimed. "that must be a photograph of you!" "it is," was the reply, "it is a picture of me and of my dead wife, but the baby died too." "well, i didn't die," cried marian. "i was two months old when my father went away, and when my mother died, the folks wrote to the place where my father was the last time they knew anything about him, and i s'pose they told him i was dead, but i wasn't, and that's my mother. uncle george knows it----" "uncle george, my brother george," for a moment it was the man who seemed to be dreaming. then a light broke over his face as he snatched marian and said, "why, little girl, you are my child." "and my mother will be your mother," florence put in, "so what are you and mamma crying about now?" "didn't you ever hear," said marian, smiling through her tears, "that sometimes folks cry for joy?" it was unnecessary for aunt amelia to take the long journey. marian's father telegraphed for uncle george who arrived the next day with papers marian knew nothing about, proving beyond question the identity of the child. the little girl couldn't understand the silent greeting between the brothers, nor why uncle george was so deeply affected when she talked of his kindness to her and the many happy days she thanked him for since he found her in the little pilgrims' home. neither could she understand what her father meant when he spoke of a debt of gratitude too deep for words. marian only knew that unpleasant memories slipped away like a dream when uncle george left her with her father and mother: when he smiled and told her he was glad she was going home. * * * * * transcriber notes tags that surround the words: _fish_ indicate italics. =gladys= indicate bold. words in small capitals are shown in uppercase. retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. free use of quotes, typical of the time, is retained. +------------------------------------------------------------+ generously made available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/happyisles king_ the happy isles [illustration] * * * * * * _books by basil king_ _the happy isles_ _the dust flower_ _the thread of flame_ _the city of comrades_ _abraham's bosom_ _the empty sack_ _going west_ _the side of the angels_ _harper & brothers publishers_ * * * * * * [illustration: "they'll say i stole him. it'll be twenty years for me"] the happy isles by basil king author of "the empty sack," "the inner shrine," "the dust flower," etc. with illustrations by john alonzo williams [illustration] publishers harper & brothers new york and london mcmxxiii the happy isles copyright, by harper & brothers printed in the u.s.a. first edition k-x illustrations "they'll say i stole him. it'll be twenty years for me" _frontispiece_ "that's a terr'ble big wad for a boy like you to wear" _facing p._ "get up, i tell you" " mrs. ansley took him as an affliction " the happy isles the happy isles many a green isle needs must be in the deep wide sea of misery, or the mariner, worn and wan, never thus could voyage on, day and night, and night and day.... --shelley. i at eight months of age his only experience of life had been one of well-being. he was fed when hungry; he slept when sleepy; he woke when he had slept enough. when bored or annoyed or uneasy he could cry. if crying brought him attentions it was that much to the good; if the effort was thrown away it did no one any harm. even when least fertile of results it was a change from the crowing and gurgling which were all he had to distract him when left to his own company. though his mind worked in co-operation with the subconscious more than with the conscious, it worked actively. in waking minutes there was everything to observe and register. his intimate needs being met, there were the phenomena of light and darkness. he knew not only the difference between them, but in a general way when to expect the turn of each. he knew that light brought certain formalities, chiefly connected with his person, and that darkness brought certain others. the reasons remained obscure, but the variety was pleasing. then there was the room, or rather the spectacular surroundings of his universe. the nursery was his earth, his atmosphere, his firmament, the ether in which his heavenly bodies went rolling away into the infinite. and, just as with grown-up people, the nearness and distance of mars or sirius or betelgueuse have gone through experimental stages of guesswork first and calculation afterwards, so the exact location of the wardrobe, the table, or the mantelpiece, was a subject for endless wonderment. at times they were apparently so close that he would put out his hand to touch them from his crib; but at once they receded, fixing themselves against the light-blue walls, home of a menagerie of birds and animals, with something between him and them which he was learning to recognize as space. there was also motion. certain things remained in place; other things could move. he himself could move, but that was so near the fundamental necessities as hardly to call for notice. true, there were discoveries even here. the day when he learned that once his legs were freed he could lie on his back and kick was one of emancipation. in finding that he could catch his foot with his hands and put it in his mouth he made his first advance in skill. but there was motion superior to this. there were beings who walked about the room, who entered it and left it. merely to watch their goings and comings sent spasms through his feet. little by little he had come to discern in these creatures a difference in function and personality. enormous in size, irresistible in strength, they were nevertheless his satellites. one of them supplied his wants; another worshipped him; the third lifted him up, carried him about, tickled him deliciously with his mustache or his bushy outstanding eyebrows, and otherwise entertained him. for the first his tongue essayed the syllables, na-na; for the second his lips rose and fell with an explosive ma-ma; the last sent his tongue clicking toward the roof of his mouth in the harsher sound of da-da; and yet between these efforts and the accomplishment there was still some lack of correspondence. of his many enthralling interests speech was the most magical. in his analysis of life it came to him early that these coughings and barkings and gruntings were meant to express thought. he himself had thoughts. what he lacked was the connection of the sounds with the ideas, and of this he was not unaware. they supposed him a little animal who could only eat and sleep, when all the while he was listening, recording, distinguishing, defining, correlating the syllable with the thing that was evidently meant, so that later he should astonish his circle by uttering a word. it was a stimulating game and in it his daily progress was not far short of marvelous. if the nursery was his universe, his crib was his private domain, cushioned and soft, and as spotless as an ermine's nest. it was a joy to wake up in it, and equally a joy to go to sleep. joy, tenderness, and comfort, were the only elements in life with which he was acquainted. thriving on them as he throve on the carefully prepared formulas of his food, he grew in the spirit without obstacles to struggle with, as his body grew in the sunlight and the air. by the time he had reached the may morning on which his story begins he had come to take comfort, tenderness, and joy, as life's essentials. never having known anything else, he had no suspicion that anything else would lurk within the possible. the ritual that attended his going out was as much a matter of course to him as a red carpet to tread on is to a queen. he took it for granted that, when he had been renewed by bottle and bath, she for whom he tried to say na-na would be in a flutter of preparation, while she whose sweet smile forced the ma-ma to his lips would put a little coat on his back, a little cap on his head, little mittens on his hands, and smother him with adoration all the time she was doing it. on this particular morning these things had been done. nestled into a canopied crib on wheels, he was ready for the two gigantic ministrants whom he could not yet distinguish as the first and second footmen. these colossi lifted his vehicle down the steps, to set it on the pavement of fifth avenue, where for the time being dramatic episodes were at an end. the town didn't interest him. moreover, a filmy curtain, to protect him against flies as well as against too much sun, having shut him in from the vastness of the scene, he had nothing to do but let himself be lulled to his customary slumber. ii miss nash, the baby carriage in front of her, furrowed a way through the traffic of the avenue, relatively scant in those days, and reaching the safety of the other side passed within the park. she was a trained child's-nurse, and wore a uniform. england being at that time the only source of this specialty, examples in new york were limited to the heirs-apparent of the noble families. between a nursemaid and a trained child's-nurse you will notice the same distinction as between a lady's maid and a princess's lady-in-waiting. having entered the park, miss nash stopped the carriage to lift the veil protecting her charge. he was already beyond the noises and distractions of the planet in his rosy, heavenly sleep. miss nash smiled wistfully, because it was the only way in which she could smile at all. a superior woman by nature, she clung to that refinement which best expresses itself in something melancholic. daughter of a solicitor's clerk and niece to a curate, she felt her status as a lady most fittingly preserved in an atmosphere delicate, subdued, and rather sad. and yet when she looked on her little boy asleep she was no longer superior, and scarcely so much as a lady. she was only a woman enraptured before one of those babies so compact of sweetness, affection, and intelligence that they tug at the heartstrings. she was on her guard as to loving her children overmuch, since it made it so hard to give them up when the minute for doing so arrived; but with this little fellow no guard had been effective. whether he crowed, or cried, or kicked, or snuggled in her arms to croon with her in baby tunelessness, she found him adorable. but when he was asleep, chubby, seraphic, so awesomely undefiled, she was sure that his spirit had withdrawn from her for a little while to commune with the angels. "no," she confessed one day to her friend, miss etta messenger, the only other uniformed child's nurse among her acquaintance in new york, "it won't do. i must break myself. i shall have to leave him some day. but i do envy the mother who will have him always." "it don't pay you," miss messenger declared, as one who has had experience. "anyone, i always say, can hire my services; but my affections remain my own. now this little girl i'm with while i'm in new york, i could leave her to-morrow without a pang if--but then i've got something to leave her _for_." "and what does he say to things now?" miss nash inquired, with selfless interest in her friend's drama. miss messenger answered, judicially, "i've put it to him straight. i've told him he must simply fix a date to marry me, or give me up. as i know he simply won't give me up--you never knew a fellow so wild about a girl as he is about me...." the fortnight which had intervened between that conversation and the morning when our little boy's story opens had given time for miss messenger's affairs to take another turn. in the hope of learning the details of this turn miss nash sought a corner of the park, not much frequented by nursemaids, where she and miss messenger often met, but etta was not there. drawing the carriage within the shade of a miniature grove of lilacs in perfumed flower, miss nash once more lifted the veil, wiped the precious mouth, and adjusted the coverlet outside which lay the mittened baby hands. since there was no more to be done, she sat down on a convenient bench to her reading of _juliet allingham's sin_. in the scene where the lover drowns she became so absorbed as not to notice that on a bench on the other side of a lilac bush miss messenger came and installed herself and her baby carriage in the shade of a near-by fan-shaped elm, bronze-green in its young leafage. miss nash looked up only when, her emotions having grown so poignant, she could read no more. she was drying her eyes when, through the branches of the lilac, the flutter of a nurse's cape told her that her friend must have arrived. "why, etta!" on going round the barrier she found herself greeted by what she had come to call etta's fighting eyes. they were fine flashing black eyes, set in a face which miss nash was further accustomed to describe as "high-complexioned." miss messenger spoke listlessly, and yet as one who knew her mind. "i saw you. i thought i wouldn't interrupt. i haven't very good news." miss nash glided to a seat beside her friend, seizing both her hands. "oh, my dear, he hasn't----?" "that's just what he has." etta nodded, drily. "bring your baby round here and i'll tell you." but miss nash couldn't wait. "he's all right there. he's sound asleep. i'll hear him if he stirs. do tell me what's happened." "well, he simply says that if that's the way i feel perhaps we'd better call it off." "and are you going to?" etta's eyes blazed with their black flames. "call it off? me? not much, i won't." "still if he won't fix a date...." "he'll jolly well fix a date--or meet me in the court." "oh, but, etta, you wouldn't...." "i don't say i would for choice. there are two or three other things i could do, and i think i'll try them first." "what sort of things?" in the answer to that question miss nash was even more absorbed than in juliet allingham's sin. juliet allingham was after all but a creature of the brain; whereas etta messenger's adventures might conceivably be her own. it was not merely some one else's love story that held her imagination in thrall; it was the possibility that one of these days she, milly nash, might have a man playing fast and loose with her heart's purest offering.... iii anyone closely watching the strange woman would have said that her first care was not to seem distraught; but then, no one was closely watching her. on a rapturous may morning, with the lilac scenting the air, and the tulip beds in only the passing of their glory, there were so many things better worth doing than observing a respectably dressed young woman, probably the wife of an artisan, that she went unobserved. as there were at that very minute some two or three hundred more or less like her also pushing babies in the park, the eye that singled her out for attention would have had more than the gift of sight. what she did that was noticeable--again had there been anyone to notice her--was to approach first one little group and then another, quickly sheering away. one would have said that she sheered away from some queer motive of strategy. her movements might have been called erratic, not because they were aimless, but because she didn't know or didn't find the object of her search. even if that were so, she neither advanced nor receded, nor drifted hither or yon, more like a lost thing than many another nursemaid giving her charge the air or killing time. there was nothing sinister about her, unless it was sinister to have moments of seeming dazed or of muttering to herself. she muttered to herself only when sure that there was no one to overhear, and with similar self-command she indulged in looking dazed only when she knew that no eye could light on her. as if aware of abnormality, she schooled herself to a semblance of sanity. otherwise she was some thirty years of age, neatly if cheaply clad, and too commonplace and unimportant for the most observant to remember her a second after she had passed. at sight of a little hooded vehicle, standing unguarded where the lilac bushes made a shrine for it, she paused. again, the pause was natural. she might have been tired. pushing a baby carriage in a park is always futile work, with futile starts and stops and turnings in this direction or in that. if she stood to reconnoiter or to make her plans there was no power in the land to interfere with her. her further methods were simple. behind the bench on which miss nash and miss messenger were by this time entering on an orgy of romantic confidence there rose a gentle eminence. to the top of this hill the strange woman made her way. she made it with precautions, sauntering, dawdling, simulating all the movements of the perfect nurse. when two women, wheeling young laddies strapped into go-carts, crossed her path she walked slowly till they were out of sight. when a park attendant with a lawnmower clicked his machine along to cut a distant portion of the greensward, she waited till he too had disappeared. a few pedestrians were scattered here and there, but so distant as not to count. a few riders galloped up or down the bridle-path near fifth avenue, but these too she could disregard. except for miss nash and miss messenger, turned towards each other, and with their backs to her, she had the world to herself. softly she crept down the hill; softly she stole in among the lilacs. "my little gracie! my little gracie!" she kept muttering, but only between closed lips. "my little gracie!" * * * * * "oh, don't think, milly," miss messenger was saying, "that i shan't give him the chance to come across honorable. i shall. you say that an action for breach doesn't seem to you delicate, and i don't say but what i shrink from it. but when you've a trunkful of letters simply burning with passion, simply _burning_ with it, what good are they to you if you don't?... and he's worth fifty thousand dollars if he's worth a penny. don't talk to me! a fishmonger, right in the heart of east eighty-eighth street, the very best district.... if i sue for twenty-five thousand dollars i'd be pretty sure of getting five ... and with a sympathetic jury, possibly six or eight ... and with all that money i could set up a little nursing home in london ... say in the portland place neighborhood ... with a specialty in children's diseases ... and put you in charge of it as matron. you and me together...." "oh, but, etta, i couldn't leave my little boy, not till he's able to do without me. by that time there may be other children for me to take care of, so that i could keep near him. i've thought of that. he being the first, and his father and mother such a fine healthy young couple, with everything to support a big family...." during the minutes which marked his transfer from one destiny to another, miss nash's little boy remained in the sweet, blest country to which little babies go in dreams. when a swift hand raised the veil, lifting him with deft gentleness, he knew nothing of what was happening. while the cap was peeled from his head and pulled over that of a big, featureless rag doll shaped to the outlines of a baby's limbs, he was still on the lap of miss nash's angels. on the lap of these angels he stayed during the rest of the exchange. the strange woman's hand was tender. lightly it drew over the little boy's head the soiled, cheap bonnet worn by the big rag doll; lightly it laid the little warm body into its new bed. where he had nestled the big rag doll with his cap on its head gave a fair imitation of his form, unless inspected closely. by the time the veils were lowered on the two little carriages there was nothing for the most suspicious eye to wonder at. a respectable woman of the humbler classes was trundling her baby back to its home. the infant rested quietly. the rag doll, too, rested quietly when miss nash returned to her charge, as miss messenger to hers. miss nash had heard so much within an hour that she was not quite mistress of herself. nothing was so rare with her as to neglect the due examination of her child, but this time she neglected it. etta had given her so much to think of that for the minute her mind was over-taxed. because the love theme had become involved with the compelling dictates of self-interest, which even a sweet creature like miss nash couldn't overlook, she laid her hands absently on the push-bar, beginning to make her way homeward. there was no question as to etta's worldly wisdom. the choice lay between worldly wisdom and the warm, glowing, human thing we call affection. in milly nash's experience it was the first time such a choice had been put up to her. "don't talk to me!" miss etta pursued, as they sauntered along side by side. "i simply love my children up to every penny i'm paid for it, not a farthing more; and if you'll take my advice, milly nash, you'll follow my example." miss nash felt humble, rebuked. through fear of disturbing her little boy, she pushed as gently as a zephyr blows. "i'm not sure that i could measure it out, not with this little fellow." "this little fellow, fiddlesticks! he's just like any other little fellow." "oh, no, he isn't. there's character in babies just as there is in grown-up people. this child's got it strong, all sweetness and loveliness, and so much sense--you'd never believe it! why, he knows--there's nothing that he doesn't know, in his own dear little way. i tell you, etta, that if you had him you'd feel just like me." "just like you and be out of your heart's job--your heart's job, mind you--as soon as he's four years old, and they want to put him with a french girl to learn french. oh, i know them, these aristocrats! when i get my alimony, or whatever it is, i'm simply going to provide for the future, and you'll be a goose, milly nash, if you simply don't come with me, and do the same." while miss nash was shaking her head with her gentle perplexed smile, the strange woman was crossing fifth avenue. having accomplished this feat, she entered one of the streets running from that great thoroughfare toward the east river. squalor being so much the rule in new york, the wealthier classes find it hard to pre-empt to themselves more than a long thin streak, relatively trim, bearing to the general disorder the proportion of a brook to the meadow through which it runs. the strange woman had left fifth avenue but a few hundred yards away before she and her baby were swallowed up in that kind of human swarm in which individuals lose their identity. afraid of betraying some frenzy she knew to be within her by mumbling to herself, she kept her lips shut with a fierce, determined tightness. she was a little woman, and when you looked at her closely you saw that she had once possessed a wild dark prettiness. even now, as she pushed her way between uncouth men and women, or screaming children at play, her wild dark eyes blazed with sudden anger or swam with unshed tears by fits and turns. the house at which she stopped was hardly to be distinguished from thousands of others in which a brief brownstone dignity had fallen, first to the boarding-house stage, and then to that of tenements. from the top of a flight of brownstone steps a frowzy, buxom, motherly woman came lumbering down to lend a hand with the baby carriage. "so you've brought your baby, mrs. coburn. now you'll be able to get settled." the reply came as if it had been learned by rote. "yes, now i'll be able to get settled. i've got her crib ready, though all my other things is strewed about just as when i moved in. still, the crib's ready, which is the main thing. she's a fretful baby by nature, so you mustn't think it funny if you hear her cry. some people thought i'd never raise her, so that if you ever hear say that my little girl died...." "i'll know it's not true," the buxom woman laughed. "she couldn't die, and you have her here, now could she? do let me have a peep." by this time they had lifted the carriage over the steps and into the little passageway. seeing that there was no help for this inspection, the strange woman trembled but resigned herself. the neighbor lifted the veil, and peered under it. "my, what a love! and she don't look sick, not a little mite." "not her face, she don't. her poor little body's some wasted, but then so long as i've got her...." "i believe as it'd be too much lime-water in her milk. she's bottle-fed, ain't she? well, them bottle-fed babies--i've had two of 'em out of my five--you got to try and try, and ten to one you'll find as it's that nasty lime-water that upsets 'em." having unlocked her door, which was on the left of the passageway, the strange woman pulled her treasure into a room stuffy with closed windows, and dim with drawn blinds. turning the key behind her, she was alone at last. she fell on her knees, throwing the veil back with a fierceness that almost tore it off. she strained forward. her breath came in racking, panting sobs. "my gracie! my gracie! god didn't take you! god wouldn't be so mean! i just dreamed it, and now i've waked up." suddenly she changed. drawing backward, she put her hands to her brow and pressed them down the whole length of her face. her eyes filled with horror. her face turned sallow. her lips fell apart. "i'll get twenty years for this. perhaps it'll be more. i don't think they hang for it, but it'll be twenty years anyhow, if they find it out." she sprang up, still muttering in broken, only partly articulated phrases. "but they'll never find it out. what's there to find? it's my baby! my precious only baby!" she was on her knees again, dragging herself forward by the sides of the little carriage, her eyes strained toward the infant face. "my little gracie! i've missed you all the time you've been away. my heart was near broke. now you've come back to me. you're mine--mine--mine!" he opened his eyes. it was his usual hour for waking up. for the first time in his history amazement gave an expression to his face which it was often to wear afterward. instead of being in his own nest, downy, clean, and scentless, he was in a humpy little hole unpleasant to his senses. instead of the na-na with her tender smile, or the ma-ma with her love, he saw this terrifying woman's stormy eyes, rousing the sensation he was later to know as fear. instead of his nursery, spotless and gay, he was dumped amid the forlorn disarray of furniture that has just been moved into an empty tenement. without getting these impressions in detail, he got them at once. he got them not as separate facts, but as facts in a single quintessence, distilled and distilled again, till no one element can be told from any other element, and held to his lips in a poisoned draught. all he could do was to wail, but he wailed with a note of anguish which was new to him. it was anguish the more bitter because of the lack of explanation. his only awareness hitherto had been that of power. he had been a baby sovereign, obeyed without having to command. now he had been born again as a baby serf, into conditions against which his will, imperious in its baby way, would beat in vain. once more, he knew this, not by reasoned argument, of course, but by heartbroken instinct. it was not merely the distress of the present that was in his cry, but dread of the future. there was something else in the world besides comfort, tenderness, and joy, and he had touched it. without knowing what it was he shrank back from the contact and sobbed. and yet such is the need for love in any young thing's heart, that when the strange woman had lifted him up, and cradled him on her bosom, he was partly soothed. he was not soothed easily. though she held him closely, and sang to him softly, seated in the low rocking-chair in which she had rocked her baby-girl, he went on sobbing. he sobbed, not as he had sobbed in his old nursery, for the sport or the mischief of the thing, but because his inner being had been bruised. but his capacity for sobbing wore itself out. little by little the convulsions grew calmer, the agony less desperate. love held him. it was not the love of the ma-ma or the na-na, but it was love. it had love's embrace, love's lullaby. arms were about him, he was on a breast. the shipwrecked sailor may be only on a raft, but he is not sinking. little by little he turned his face into this only available refuge. a dangling embroidery adorned it, and in his struggle not to go down his little hands clutched at that. iv his first conscious recollection was of sitting on a high chair drawn up to a table at which he was having a meal. he could never recall whether this was in harlem, hoboken, brooklyn, jersey city, or the bronx. because they moved so often he had little more memory of places than he had of clouds. tenements, streets, and suburbs of new york melted into one big sense of squalor. it was not squalor to him because he was used to it. it only obscured the difference between one dwelling and another, as monotony always obscures remembrance. wherever their wanderings carried them, the background was the same, crowded, dirty, seething, a breeding place rather than a home. what marked this occasion was a question he asked and the answer he got back. "mudda, id my name gracie, or id it tom?" the mother spoke sharply, as she whisked about the kitchen. "what do you want to know for?" the question was difficult. he knew what he wanted to know for, and yet it wasn't easy to explain. the nearest he could get to it in language was to say: "i'm a little boy, ain't i?" "yes, you're a little boy, but you should have been a little girl. it was a little girl i wanted." "but you want me, don't you, mudda?" she dropped whatever she was doing to press his head fiercely against her side. "yes, i want _you_! i want _you_! i want _you_!" he remembered this paroxysm of affection not because it was special but because it was connected with his gropings after his identity. paroxysms were what he lived on. they were of love or of anger or of something which frightened him and yet was nameless. he thrummed to himself, beating time on the table with his spoon, while he worked on to another point. "wadn't there never no gracie, mudda?" she wheeled round from the gas-stove. "for goodness' sake, what's putting this into your head? of course there was a gracie. you're her. you don't suppose i stole you, do you?" he ceased his thrumming; he ceased to beat on the table with his spoon. the mystery of being grew still more baffling. "mudda!" "what's it now?" "if i wad gracie i'd be a little girl, wouldn't i?" she stamped her foot. "stop it! if you ask me another thing i'll slap you." he stopped it, not because he was afraid of being slapped. accustomed to that he had learned to discount its ferocity. a sharp stinging smart, it passed if you grinned and bore it, and grinning and bearing had already entered his life as part of its philosophy. if for the minute he asked no more questions it was in order not to vex his mudda. she was easily vexed; she easily lost her self-control; she was easily repentant. it was her repentance that he feared. it was so violent, so overwhelming. he loved love; he loved caressing; he loved to sit in her lap and sing with her; but her tempests of self-reproach alarmed him. as she washed the dishes or switched about the kitchen, he watched her with that trepidation which makes the children of the poor sharp-witted. though under five years of age, he was already developing a sense of responsibility. you could see it in the gravity of a wholly straightforward little face, which had the even tan of a healthy fairness, in keeping with his crisp ashen hair. he knew when the moment had come to clamber down from his perch, and snuggle himself against her petticoats. "mudda, sing!" "i can't sing now. don't you see i'm busy! look out, or this hot dish-water'll scald you." nevertheless, a few minutes later they were settled in the rocking chair, he on her knee, with his cheek against her shoulder. she was not as ungracious as her words would have made her seem, a fact of which he was aware. "what'll i sing, troublesome?" "sing 'three cups of cold poison.'" so she sang in a sweet, true voice, the sort of childish voice which children love, her little boy joining in with her whenever he knew the words, but with only a hit-or-miss venture at the tune. "where have you been dining, lord ronald, my son? where have you been dining, my handsome young man?" "i've been dining with my true love, mither, make my bed soon, there's a pain in my heart, and i fain would lie doon." "and what did she give you, lord ronald, my son? and what did she give you, my handsome young man?" "three cups of cold poison, mither, make my bed soon, there's a pain in my heart, and i fain would lie doon." "what'll you will to your mither, lord ronald, my son? what'll you will to your mither, my handsome young man?" "my gowd and my silver, mither, make my bed soon, there's a pain in my heart, and i fain would lie doon." "what'll you will to your brither, lord ronald, my son? what'll you will to your brither, my handsome young man?" "my coach and six horses, mither, make my bed soon, there's a pain in my heart, and i fain would lie doon." "what'll you will to your truelove, lord ronald, my son? what'll you will to your truelove, my handsome young man?" "a rope for to hang her, mither, make my bed soon, there's a pain in my heart, and i fain would lie doon." his next conscious memory was more dramatic. he had been playing in the street, in what town he could never remember. they had recently moved, but they had always recently moved. a month in one set of rooms, and his mother was eager to be off. rarely did they ever stay anywhere for more than the time of moving in, giving the necessary notice, and moving out again. when they stayed long enough for him to know a few children he sometimes played with them. in this way the thing happened. the boy's name was frankie bell, a detail which remained long after the larger facts had escaped him. frankie bell and he had been engaged in scraping the dust and offal of the street into neat little piles, with the object of building what they called a "dirt-house." the task was engrossing, and to it little tom coburn gave himself with good will. suddenly, as each bent over his pile, frankie bell threw off the observation, casually uttered: "my mother says your mother's crazy." tom coburn raised himself from his stooping posture, standing straight, and looking straight. the expression in his dark blue eyes, over which the eyebrows even now stood out bushily, was of pain, and yet of pain that left him the more dauntless. though knowing but vaguely what the word crazy meant, he knew it was insulting. "she ain't." frankie bell, a stout young man, lifted himself slowly. "yes, she is. my mother says so." "well, your mudda id a liar." one rush and frankie bell lay sprawling with his head in the cushioned softness of his own dirt-heap. the attack had taken him so much by surprise that he went down before he could bellow. before he could bellow his enemy was upon him, filling his mouth with the materials collected for architectural purposes. victor in the fray, tom coburn ran homeward blinded with his tears. he found his mother at the stove, stirring something with a tablespoon. "mudda, you're _not_ crazy, _are_ you?" his reply was a blow on the head with the spoon. the woman was beside herself. "who said that?" rubbing his head, he told her. "don't you ever let them say no such thing again. if you do i'll kill you." she threw back her head, her arms outstretched, the spoon in her right hand. "god! god! what'll they say next? they'll say i stole him. it'll be twenty years for me; it'll be forty; it may be life. i won't live to begin it. i know what'll end it before they can...." he was terrified now, terrified as he had never been in all his terrifying moments. throwing himself upon her, he clutched at her skirts. "don't, mudda, don't! i'm your little boy! you didn't steal me. don't cry, mudda! oh, don't cry! don't cry!" when, in one of her sudden reactions, she sank sobbing to the floor, he sank with her, petting her, coaxing her, wiping away her tears, forcing himself to laugh so that she should laugh with him; but a few days afterward they moved. v "mudda, can i have a book and learn to read?" the ambition had been inspired in the street, where he had seen a little boy who actually had a book, and was spelling out the words. tom coburn was now nominally six years old, though it was in the nature of things that of his age no exact record could be kept. his mother had changed his birthday so many times that he observed it whenever she said it had come round. bursting into the room with his eager question, he found her sitting by a window looking out at a blank wall. given her feverish restlessness, the attitude called attention to itself. the apartment was poorer and dingier than any they had lived in hitherto, while it had not escaped his observation that she was living on the ragged edge of her nerves. this made him the more sorry for her, and the more loving. he put his hand on her shoulder, tenderly. "what's the matter, mudda?" it was one of the minutes when a touch made her frantic. "get away!" he got away, not through fear, but because she pushed him. he didn't mind that, though the rejection hurt him inside. he stood in the middle of the floor, pity in his young countenance, wondering what he could do for her, when she spoke again. "i've got hardly any money left. i don't know what to do." it was the first time his attention had been called to finance. he knew there was such a thing as money; he knew it had purchasing value; but he had not known its relation to himself. "why don't you get money where you got it before?" "because i ain't got a husband to die and leave me another five thousand dollars of insurance." "and did you have, mudda?" "of course i had. what did you think?" the question voiced his inner difficulty. he had not known what to think. having observed that a fundamental social unit was formed of husbands and wives, he had also understood that husbands and wives could, in the terms which were the last to hang over from the lingo of his babyhood, be translated into faddas and muddas. they in turn implied children. the methods were mysterious, but the unit was so composed. the exception to this rule seemed to be himself. though he had a mudda, he could not remember ever to have heard of a fadda. he had pondered on this deficiency more times than anyone suspected. the effort to link himself up with the human family was far more important to him now than the ways and means of getting cash. standing pensive, he peered into the blinding light, or the unfathomable darkness, whichever it may be, out of which comes human life. "mudda, did gracie have a fadda?" she snapped peevishly, her gaze again turned outward to the stone wall. "of course she did." he came nearer to his point. "did i?" "i--i suppose so." he approached still nearer. "did i have the same fadda what gracie had?" "no, you hadn't." she caught herself up hurriedly, rounding on him in one of her fits of wrath. "yes, you had." the inconsistency was evident. "well, which was it, mudda?" she jumped to her feet, threateningly. "now you quit! the next thing you'll be saying is that your name is whitelaw, and that i stole you. take that, you nasty little brat!" a smack on the cheek brought the color to his face, and the tears to his eyes. "no, i won't, mudda. i won't say you stole me, or that my name is--" oddly enough he had caught it--"or that my name is whitelaw. my name is tom coburn, and i'm your little boy." rushing at her in the big outpouring of his love, he threw his arms about her and cried against her waist. he cried so seldom that his grief drove her to one of her paroxysms of repentance. her self-reproaches abating, all she could do to comfort him was to promise him a book, and begin to teach him to read. the book was procured two days later, and by a method new to him. doubtless some other means could have been adopted, but the necessity for sparing pennies had become imperative. moreover, she had never willingly looked at print since the day when she opened a paper to find that, without knowing who she was, all the forces of the country had been organized against her. they went out together. after traversing a series of streets he had never been in before they stopped in front of a little shop, in the window of which stationery, ink, wallpaper, rubber bands, and books were arranged in artistic confusion. the impression on the fancy of a little boy already groping toward the treasures of the mind was like that made on the tourist in dresden by the heaped up riches of the grüne gewölbe. the geography of the shop was explained to him before entering. the stationery counter was on the right as soon as you passed the door. the children's books were opposite, on the left. books forming a cheap circulating library were back of that, and opposite these, where the shop was dark, were the wallpapers, in small, tight rolls on shelves. she was going to inspect wallpapers. the woman in the shop would exhibit them. he would remain alone in the front part of the shop, and close to the counter with the children's books. he was to keep alert and attentive, waiting for a sign which she would give him. when she turned round in the dark part of the shop, and called out, "are you all right, darling?" he was to understand it as permissible to slip from the counter any small work on which he could lay his hands, and button it up inside his overcoat. he was to do it quickly, keeping his booty out of sight, and above all saying nothing about it. the plan was exciting, with a savor of adventure and manly incentive to skill. if in the grüne gewölbe you were told you could take anything you pleased you would have some of tom coburn's sense of enchantment as he stood by the book counter, waiting for the sign. he could see his mother dimly. more dimly still he could follow the movements of the shop-woman eager for a sale. sample after sample, the wallpapers were unrolled, and hung on an easel where their flowers lighted the obscurity. even at a distance he could do justice to their beauty, but more captivating than their glories were the wonders at his hand. pages in which children and animals disported in colors far beyond those of nature were piled in neat little rows, and so tempting that he ached for the signal. he couldn't choose; there was too much to choose from. he would put out his hand without looking, guided by fate. "are you all right, darling?" curiously to the little boy, the question came just when he himself could perceive that the shop-woman had dived beneath the counter for another example of her wares. all the conditions were propitious. no one was entering the shop; no one was looking through the window. without knowing the moralities of his act, he understood the need for secrecy. he stretched forth his arm. his fingers touched paper. in the fraction of a fraction of a second the object was within his overcoat, and pressed to his pounding heart. a few minutes later his mother came smiling and chatting down toward the exit, giving her address, which the shop-woman jotted in a notebook. "i think it will have to be the pale-green background with the roses. the room is darkish, and it would light it up. but i'll decide by to-morrow, and let you know. yes, that's right. mrs. f.h. grover, blaisdel avenue. so much obliged to you. good morning." having bowed themselves out they went some yards up the street before the little boy dared to express his new wonderment. "mudda, what did you say you was mrs. f.h. grover for? and we don't live on blaisdel avenue. we live on orange street." "you mind your own business. did you get your book? well, that's what we went for, isn't it?" the expedition having proved successful, it was tried on other planes. now it was in the line of groceries; now in that of hardware; now in that of drygoods; now in that of fruit. needed things could be used; useless things could be sold, especially after they had moved to distant neighborhoods. while the procedure didn't supply an income, it eked out very helpfully such income as remained. it furnished, moreover, a motive in life, which was what they had lacked hitherto. there was something to which to give themselves. it was like devotion to an art, or even a religion. they could pursue it for its own sake. for her especially this outside interest appeased the wild something which wasted her within. she grew calmer, more reasonable. she slept and ate better. she had fewer fits of frenzy. with but faint pangs of misgiving the little boy enjoyed himself. he enjoyed his finesse; he enjoyed the pride his mother took in him. in proportion as they grew more expert they enlarged their field, often reversing their rôles. there were times when he created the distraction, while she secreted any object within reach. they did this the more frequently after she became recognized as his superior in selection. for a superior in selection the great department stores naturally offered the widest field for operation. they approached them, however, cautiously, going in and out and out and in for a good many days before they ventured on anything. when they did this at last it was amid the crowding and pushing of a bargain day. the system evolved had the masterly note of simplicity. the little boy carried a satchel, of the kind in which school-boys sometimes carry books. he stood near his mudda, or farther away, according to the dictates of the moment's strategy. on the first occasion he kept close to her, sincerely admiring a display of colored silk scarves conspicuously marked down to the price at which it was intended, even before their importation, that they should be sold. women thronged about the counter, the little boy and his mudda having much ado to edge themselves into the front to where these products of the loom could be handled. the picking and choosing done, the mother still showed some indecision. "i'll just ask my sister to step over here," she confided to the saleswoman. "her judgment is so much better than mine. run over, dear, to your aunt mary," she begged of the boy, "and ask her to come and speak to me." holding the scarf noticeably in her hands, she smiled at the saleswoman affably. "i'll just make room for this lady, who seems to be in a hurry." she did not step back; she merely allowed herself to be crowded out. from the front row she receded to the second, from the second to the third. keeping in sight of the saleswoman, she looked this way and that, plainly for aunt mary to appear. at times she made little dashes, as aunt mary seemed to come within sight. from these she did not fail to return, but on each occasion to a point more distant from that of her departure. with sufficient time the poor saleswoman, who had fifty other customers to attend to, would be likely to forget her, for a few minutes if no more. the moment seemed to have come. with the scarf thrown jauntily over her arm where anyone could see it, the mother forced her way amid the crowds in search of her little boy. if intercepted she had her explanation. he had gone on an errand, and had not come back. when she had found him she would return and pay for the scarf, or decide not to take it. her story couldn't help being plausible. "aunt mary" was a spot agreed upon near one of the side doors, and far from the center of interest in silk scarves. agreed upon was also a little bit of comedy, for the benefit of possible lookers-on. "oh, my dear, i've kept you waiting so long. i'm so sorry. tell your mother this is the best i could do for her. i knew you were waiting, so i didn't let the lady wrap it up. open your bag, and i'll put it in." the bag closed, the little boy went out through one door, and his mother through another. the point where she was to rejoin him was not so far away but that he could walk to it alone. vi "it's all right, mudda, isn't it?" he asked this after their campaign had been carried on for a good part of a year, and when they were nearing christmas. he was now supposed to be seven. for reasons he could not explain the great game lost its zest. in as far as he understood himself he hated the sneaking and the secrecy. he hated the lying too, but lying was so much a part of their everyday life that he might as well have hated bread. "of course it's all right," his mother snapped. "haven't i said so time and again? we get away with it, don't we? and if it wasn't all right we shouldn't be able to do that." silenced by this reasoning, even if something in his heart was not convinced by it, he prepared for the harvest of the festival. christmas was an exciting time, even to tom coburn. perhaps it was more exciting to him than to other boys, since he had so much to do with shops. as long ago as the middle of november he had noted the first stirrings of new energy. after that he had watched the degrees through which they had ripened to a splendor in which toys, books, skis, skates, sleds, and all the paraphernalia of young joyousness, made a bright thing of the world. where there was so much, the profusion went beyond desire. one of these objects at a time, or two, or three, might have found him envious; but he couldn't cope with such abundance. he could concentrate, therefore, all the more on the pair of fur-lined mittens which his mother promised him, if, as she expressed it, they could haul it off. by christmas eve they had not done so. they had hauled off other things--a purse, a lady's shopping bag, several towels, a selection of pen-trays, some pairs of stockings, a bottle of shoe-polish, a baby's collapsible rubber bathtub, a hair-brush, an electric toaster, with other articles of no great interest to a little boy. moreover, only some of these things were for personal use; the rest would be sold discreetly after the next moving. it was in the nature of the case that such grist as came to their mill should be more or less as it happened. they could pick, but they couldn't choose, at least to no more than a limited degree. fur-lined mittens didn't come their way. the little boy's heart began to ache with a great fear. perhaps he shouldn't get them. unless he got them by christmas day the spell of the occasion would be gone. to get them a week later wouldn't be the same thing. it would not be christmas. he couldn't remember having kept a christmas hitherto. he couldn't remember ever having longed for what might be called an article of luxury. the yearning was new to him, and because new, it consumed him. whenever he thought that the happiness might after all elude him he had to grind his teeth to keep back a sob, but he could not prevent the filling of his eyes with tears. it was not only christmas eve but late in the day before the mother found her opportunity. at half-past five the counter where fur-lined mittens were displayed was crowded with poor women who hadn't had the money or the time to make their purchases earlier. in among them pressed tom coburn's mother, making her selection, and asking the price. "now where's that boy? his hands grow so quick that i can't be sure of anything without trying them on." with a despairing smile at the saleswoman, she followed her usual tactics of being elbowed from the counter, while she looked about vainly for the boy. at the right moment she slipped into the pushing, struggling mass of tired women, where she could count on being no more remarked than a single crow in a flock. the mittens were in the muff which was the prize of an earlier expedition. at a side door the boy was waiting where she had left him. without pausing for words she whispered commandingly. "come along quick." he went along quick, but also happily, projecting himself into the "surprise" to which he would wake on christmas morning. they had reached the sidewalk when a hand was laid on the mother's shoulder. "will you come back a minute, please?" the words were so polite that for the first few seconds the boy was not alarmed. a lady was speaking, a lady like any other lady, unless it was that her manner was quieter, more forceful, more sure of itself, than he was accustomed to among women. but what he never forgot during all the rest of his life was the look on his mother's face. as he came to analyze it later it was one of inner surrender. she had come to the point which she had long foreseen as her objective. she had reached the end. but in spite of surrender, and though she grew bloodlessly pale, she was still determined to show fight. "what do you want me for?" "if you'll step this way i'll tell you." "i don't know that i care to do that. i'm going home." "you'd better come quietly. you won't gain anything by making a fuss." a second lady, also forceful and sure of herself, having joined them they pushed their way back through the throng. at the glove counter a place was made for them. the saleswoman was beckoned to. the woman who had stopped them at the door continued to take the lead. "now, will you show us what you've got in your muff?" she produced the mittens. "yes, i have got these. i bought and paid for them." the saleswoman gave her account of the incident. women shoppers gathered round. floorwalkers came up. "it's a lie; it's a lie!" the boy heard his mother cry out, as the girl behind the counter told her tale. "if i didn't pay for them it was because i forgot. here's the money. i'll pay for them now. what do you take me for?" "no; you won't pay for them now. that's not the way we do business. just come along this way." "i'm not going nowheres else. if you won't take the money you can go without it. leave me alone, and let me take my little boy home." her voice had the screaming helplessness of women in the grasp of forces without pity. a floorwalker laid his hand on her shoulder, compelling her to turn round. "don't you touch me," she shouted. "if i've got to go anywheres i can go without your tearing the clothes off my back, can't i?" for the little boy it was the last touch of humiliation. rushing at the floorwalker, he kicked him in the shins. "don't you hit my mudda. i won't let you." a second floorwalker held the youngster back. some of the crowd laughed. others declared it a monstrous thing that women of the sort should have such fine-looking children. presently they were surging through the crowd again, toward a back region of the premises. the boy, not crying but panting as if spent by a long race, held his mother by the skirt; on the other side one of the forceful women had her by the arm. he saw that his mother's hat had been knocked to one side, and that a mesh of her dark hair had broken loose. he remembered this picture, and how the shoppers, wherever they passed, made a lane for them, shocked by the sight of their disgrace. they came to an office, where their party, his mother, himself, the two forceful women, and two floorwalkers, were shut in with an elderly man who sat behind a desk. it was still the first of the forceful women who took the lead. "mr. corning, we've caught this woman shop-lifting." "i haven't been," the boy heard his mother deny. "honest to god, i haven't been." "we've been watching her for some time past," the forceful woman continued, "but we never managed before to get her with the goods." the elderly man was gray, pale-eyed, and mild-mannered. he listened while the story was given him in detail. "i'm afraid we must give you in charge," he said, gently, when the facts were in. "no, don't do that, don't do that," she implored, tearfully. "i've got my little boy. he can't do without me." "he hasn't done very well with you, has he?" the elderly man reasoned. "a woman who's taught a boy of that age to steal...." he was interrupted by the coming in of a policeman, summoned by telephone. at sight of him the unhappy woman gave a loud inarticulate gasp of terror. all that for seven years she had dreaded seemed now about to come true. the boy felt terror too, but the knowledge that his mother needed him nerved him to be a man. "don't you be afraid, mudda. if they put you in jail i'll go to jail too. i won't let them take me away from you." "you'd better come with me, missus," the policeman said, with gruff kindliness, when the situation was explained to him. "the kid can come too. 'twon't be so bad. lots of these cases. you'll live through it all right, and it'll learn you to keep straight. one of these days you may be glad that it happened." they went out through a dimly lighted passageway, clogged with parcels and packing-cases which men were loading into drays. it was dark by this time, the streets being lighted as at night. the police-station was not far away, and to it they were led through a series of byways in which there were few foot-passengers. the policeman allowed them to walk in front of him, so that the connection was not too obvious. the boy held his mother's hand, which clutched at his with a nervous loosening and tightening of the fingers. as the situation was beyond words they made no attempt to speak. "this way." within the police-station the officer turned them to the right, where they entered a small bare room. brilliantly lighted with unshaded electrics, its glare was fierce upon the eyes. at a plain oak desk a man in uniform was seated with a ledger in front of him. another man in uniform standing near the door picked his teeth to kill time. "shoplifting case," was the simple introduction of the party. they stood before the man at the desk, who dipped his pen in the ink, and barely glanced at them. what to the boy and his mother was as the end of the world was to him all in the day's work. "name?" she gave her name distinctly, and less to the lad's surprise than if she hadn't often used pseudonyms. "mrs. theodore whitelaw." "address?" she gave the address correctly. "boy's name?" she spoke carefully, as one who had prepared her statements. "he's been known as thomas coburn. he's really thomas whitelaw. his father was my second husband." "if he's your second husband's child why is he called by your first husband's name?" she was prepared here too. "because i'd given up using my second husband's name. i was unhappily married." "is he dead?" "yes, he is." never having heard before so much of his private history, the boy registered it all. it was exactly the sort of detail for which he had been eager. it explained too that name of whitelaw, allusions to which had puzzled him. he was so engrossed by the fact that he was not tom coburn but tom whitelaw as hardly to listen while it was explained to his mother that she would spend the night in the female house of detention, and be brought before the magistrate in the morning. if the boy had no friends to whom to send him he would be well taken care of elsewhere. the phlegm to which she had for a few minutes schooled herself broke down. "oh, can't i keep him with me? he'll cry his eyes out without me." she was given to understand that no child above the nursing age could be put in prison even for its mother's sake. from his reverie as to tom whitelaw he waked to what was passing. "but i won't leave my mudda," he wailed, loudly. "i want to go to jail." the kindly policeman put his arm about the boy's shoulder. "you'll go to jail, sonny, when your time comes, if you set the right way to work. your momma's only going to spend the night, and i'll see to it that you----" in a side of the room a door opened noiselessly. a woman, wearing a uniform, with a bunch of keys hanging at her side, stood there like a fate. she was a grave woman, strongly built, and with something inexorable in her eyes. even the boy guessed who she was, throwing himself against her, and crying out, "go 'way! go 'way! you won't take my mudda away from me." but the folly of resistance became evident. the mother herself understood it so. walking up to the woman with the keys, she said in an undertone: "for god's sake get me out of this. i can't look on while he breaks his little heart. he's always been an angel." that was all. she gave no backward look. before the boy knew what was about to happen, she had passed into a corridor, and the door had closed behind her. she was gone. he was left with these strange men. the need for being brave was not unknown to him. not unknown to him was the power of calling to his aid a secret strength which had already carried him through tight places. he could only express it to himself in the words that he mustn't cry. crying had come to stand for everything cowardly and babyish. he was so prone to do it that the struggle against it was the hardest he had to make. he struggled against it now; but he struggled vainly. he was all alone. even the three policemen were talking together, while he stood deserted, and futile. his lips quivered in spite of himself. the tears gathered. disgraced as he was anyhow, this weakness disgraced him more. the room had an empty corner. straight into it he walked, and turned his back, his face within the angle. the head with an old cap on it was bowed. the sturdy shoulders, muffled in a cheap top-coat, heaved up and down. but the legs in their knickerbockers were both straight and strong, and the feet firmly planted on the floor. except for an occasional strangled sound which he couldn't control, he betrayed himself by nothing audible. the three policemen, all of them fathers, glanced at him, but forbore to glance at one another. one of them tried to say, "poor kid!" but the words stuck in his throat. it was the kindly fellow who had brought the lad and the woman there who recovered himself first. "all right, then, boys. the swindon street home. one of you can 'phone that we're on the way." he went over and laid his hand on the child's shoulder. "say, sonny, i'm goin' to take you out to see the christmas tree." the thought was a happy one. tom coburn had never seen any christmas trees, though he had often heard of them. he had specially heard of the community christmas tree which was new that year in that particular city. it was to be a splendid sight, and against the fascination of splendor even grief was not wholly proof. he looked shyly round, an incredible wonder in his tear-stained, upturned face. in the street they walked hand in hand, pausing now and then to admire some brightly lighted window. the boy was in fairyland, but in spite of fairyland long deep sighs welled up from the springs of his loneliness and sorrow. to distract him the policeman took him into a druggist's and bought him a cone of ice-cream. the boy licked it gratefully, as they made their way to the open space consecrated to the tree. the night was brisk and frosty; the sky clear. in the streets there was movement, light, gayety. at a spot on a bit of pavement a vendor was showing a dancing toy, round which some scores of idlers were gathered. the dancing was so droll that the little boy laughed. the policeman bought him one. when they came to the christmas tree the lad was in ecstasy. nothing he had ever dreamed of equalled these fruits of many-colored fires. a band was playing, and suddenly the multitude broke into song. o come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant, o come ye, o come ye, to bethlehem! even the policeman joined in, humming the refrain in latin. venite, adoremus; venite, adoremus; venite, adoremus, dominum. passing thus through marvels they came to the swindon street home. the night-nurse, warned by telephone, was expecting them. she was a motherly woman who had once had a child, and knew well this precise situation. "oh, come in, you poor little boy! have you had your supper?" he hadn't had his supper, though the cone of ice-cream had stilled the worst pangs of hunger. "then you shall have some; and after that i'll put you in a nice comfy bed." "he's a fine kid," the policeman commended, before going away, "and won't give you no trouble, will you, sonny?" the boy caught him by the hand, looking up pleadingly into his face, as if he would have kept him. but the policeman had children of his own, and this was christmas eve. "see you again, sonny," he said, cheerily, as he went out, "and a merry christmas!" the night matron knew by experience all the sufferings of little boys homesick for mothers who have got into trouble. she had dealt with them by the hundred. "now, dear, while mrs. lamson is getting your supper we'll go to the washroom and you'll wash your face and hands. then you'll feel more like eating, won't you?" deprived of his policeman, despair would have settled on him again, had it not been for the night matron's hearty voice. the deeper his woe, and it was very deep, the less he could resist friendliness. just as in that first agony, when he was only eight months old, he had turned to the only love available, so now he yielded again. he was not reconciled; he was not even comforted; he was only responsive and grateful, thus getting the strength to go on. going on was only in letting the night matron scrub his face and hands, and submitting patiently. as they went from the washroom to the dining room he held her by the hand. he did this first because he couldn't let her go, and then because the halls were big and bare and dark. never had he been in any place so vast, or so impersonal. he was used to strangeness, as they moved so often, but not to strangeness on so immense a scale. it was a relief to him, because it brought in a note of hominess, to hear from an upper floor a forlorn little baby cry. his supper toned him up. he could speak of his great sorrow. while the night matron sat with him and helped him to porridge he asked, suddenly: "will they let me go to jail and stay with my mudda to-morrow?" "you see, dear, your mother may not be in jail to-morrow. perhaps she'll be let out, and then you can go home with her." "they didn't ought to put her in. i'm big. i could work for her, and then she wouldn't have to take things no more." "but bless you, darling, you'll be able to work for her as it is. they won't keep her very long--not so very long--and i'll look after you till she comes out. after that...." "what's your name?" he asked, solemnly, as if he wished to nail her to the bargain. "mrs. crewdson's my name. i'm a widow. i like little boys. i like you especially. i think we're going to be friends." as a proof of this she took him to her own room, instead of to a dormitory, where she gave him a bath, found a clean night-shirt which, being too big, descended to his feet, and put him to sleep in a cot she kept on purpose for homeless little children in danger of being too lonely. "you see, dear," she explained to him, "i don't go to bed all night. i stay up to look after all the little children--there are a lot of them in this house--who may want something. so you needn't be afraid. i'll leave a light burning, and i'll be in and out all the time. if you wake up and hear a noise, you'll know that that'll be me going about in the rooms, but mostly i'll be in this room. now, don't you want to say your prayers?" he didn't want to say his prayers because he had never said any. she suggested, therefore, that he should kneel on the bed, put his hands together, and repeat the words she told him to say, as she sat on the edge of the cot. "dear god"--"dear god"--"take care of me to-night"--"take care of me to-night"--"and take care of my dear mother"--"and take care of my dear mudda"--"and make us happy again"--"and make us happy again"--"for jesus christ's sake"--"for jesus christ's sake"--"amen"--"amen." "god's up in the sky, isn't he?" he asked, as he hugged his dancing toy to him and let her cover him up. "god's everywhere where there's love, it seems to me, dear. i bring a little bit of god to you, and you bring a little bit of god to me; and so we have him right here. that's a good thought to go to sleep on, isn't it? so good-night, dear." she kissed him as she supposed his mother would have done. he threw his arms about her neck, drawing her face close to his. "good night, dear," he whispered back, and almost before she rose from the bedside she knew he was asleep. somewhere toward morning she came into the room and found him sitting up in his cot. "will it soon be daytime, mrs. crewdson?" "yes, dear; not so very long now." "and when daytime comes could i go to the jail?" "not too early, dear. they wouldn't let you in." "oh, but i don't want to go in. i only want to stand outside. then if my mudda looks out of the window, she'll see her little boy." throwing herself on her knees, she clasped him in her arms. "oh, you darling! how i wish god had given me a little son like you! i did have one--he would have been just your age--only i--i lost him." touched by this tribute to himself, as well as by his friend's bereavement, he brought out a fine manly phrase he had long been saving for an adequate occasion. "the hell you did, mrs. crewdson!" having thus expressed his sympathy, he nestled down to sleep again, hugging his dancing toy. vii he woke to his first christmas. that is, he woke to find a chair drawn up beside his cot and stocked with little presents. he had never had presents before. it had not been his mother's custom to make them. since she gave him what she could afford, and they shared everything in common, presents would have seemed to her superfluous. but here were half a dozen parcels done up in white paper and tied with red ribbon, and on them he could read his name. at least, he could read tom, while he guessed from the length of the word and initial _w_ that the other name was whitelaw. so he was to be tom whitelaw now! the fact seemed to make a change in his identity. he stowed it away in the back of his mind for later meditation, in order to feast his soul on the mystic bounty of santa claus. he knew who santa claus was. he had often seen him in the windows of the big stores, surrounded by tempting packages, and driving reindeer harnessed to a sleigh. he knew that he drove over the roofs of houses, down chimneys, and out through grates. somewhere, too, he harbored the suspicion that this was only childish talk, and that the real santa claus must be a father or a mother, or in this case mrs. crewdson; only both childish talk and fact simmered without conflict in his brain. it was easier to think that a supernatural goodwill had brought him this profusion than that commonplace hands, which had never done much for him hitherto, should all of a sudden be busy on his behalf. raising himself on his elbow, his first thought came with the bubbling of a sob. "my mudda is in jail!" his second was in the nature of a corollary, "but she'll like it when i tell her that santa claus took care of her little boy." the deduction gave him permission to enjoy himself. at first he only gazed in a rapture that hardly guessed at what was beneath these snowy coverings. what he was to get was secondary to the fact that he was getting something. for the first time in his life he was taken into that vast family of boys and girls for whom christmas has significance. up to this morning he had stood outside of it wistfully--yearning, hoping, and yet condemned to stand aloof. now, if his mudda hadn't been in jail.... the parcels were larger and smaller. beginning with the smallest, he arranged them according to size. merely to touch them sent a thrill through his frame. the smallest was round like an orange and yet yielded to pressure. he was almost sure it was a rubber ball. he could have been quite sure, only that he preferred the condition of suspense. it was long before he could bring himself to untie the first red ribbon bow, his surprise on finding a rubber ball being no less keen than if he hadn't known it was a rubber ball on first taking it between his fingers. a handkerchief laid out flat, making the second parcel seem bigger than it was, sent him up in the scale of social promotion. by way of candies, nuts, a toothbrush with tooth paste, he came to the largest of all, a history of mankind, written in words of one syllable, and garnished with highly-colored pictures of various racial types. if only his mother hadn't been in jail.... that his mother was no longer in jail was a fact he learned later in the day. it was a day of extremes, of quick rushes of rapture out of which he would fall suddenly, to go away somewhere and moan. when he begged, as he begged every hour or two, to be taken to the jail, he could be distracted by rompings with the other children, most of them in some such case as his own, or by some novelty in the life. to eat turkey and plum pudding at the head of one of three long tables, each seating twelve or fourteen, was to be raised to a point of social eminence beyond which it seemed there could be nothing more to reach. but in the midst of this pride the hard facts would recur to him, and turkey and plum pudding choke him. that something had happened he began to infer when his beloved policeman appeared at the home in the afternoon. having seen him enter, the boy ran up to him. "oh, mister, are you going to take me to the jail?" mister patted him on the head, though he answered, absently, "not just now, sonny. you know you're goin' to have a christmas tree. i've come to see miss honiton." miss honiton, one of the day matrons, having appeared at the end of the hall, the policeman turned him about by the shoulders. "now be off with you and play. this has got to be private." he took himself off but only to the end of the hall, where they didn't notice that he lingered. he lingered because he knew that, whatever the mystery, it had something to do with him. he caught, however, no more than words which he couldn't understand. cyanide of potassium! only his quick ear and retentive memory enabled him to lay hold of syllables so difficult. his mother had taken something or hadn't taken something, he couldn't make out which. all he saw was that both of his friends looked grave, miss honiton summing up their consultation, "i'll let him enjoy the christmas tree before saying anything about it." the policeman answered, regretfully: "do you think you must?" "i know i must. he ought to be told. he has a right to know. he might resent it later if we didn't tell him now." "very well, sister. i leave it to you." the door having closed on this friend, tom whitelaw, so to call him henceforth, made his way into the room where the christmas tree was presently to be lighted up. but he had no heart for the spectacle. there was something new. in the grip of the forces which controlled his life he felt helpless, small. even his companions in misfortune, as all these children were, could be relatively light-hearted. they could clap their hands when the tree began to burn with magic fires, and take pleasure in the presents handed out to them. he could not. he was waiting for something to be told to him--something he had a right to know. one by one, the presents were cut from the tree; one by one the children went up to receive this addition to what santa claus had brought them in the morning. his own name was among the last. when it was called he went forward perfunctorily at first, and then with a sudden inspiration. his package was handed him, not by one of the matrons but by a beaming young lady from outside. as she bent to deliver it he had his question ready. "please, miss, what's cyanide of potassium?" he had repeated the words to himself so often during the half hour since first hearing them that he pronounced them distinctly. the young lady laughed. "why, i think it's a deadly poison." she turned to the matron nearest her. "what is cyanide of potassium? this dear little boy wants to know." but the dear little boy had already walked soberly back to his seat. while the other children made merry with their presents he sat with his on his lap, and reflected. poison was something that killed people. he knew that. in one of the houses where they had lived a woman had taken poison, and two days later he had seen her carried out in a long black box. the impression had remained with him poignantly. he had no inclination to cry. tears could bring little relief in this kind of cosmic catastrophe. if his mother had taken poison and was to be carried out in a long black box, everything that had made up his world would have collapsed. he could only wait submissively till the thing he ought to know was told to him. it was told when the giving of the presents was over, and the children flocked out of the room to get ready for their christmas supper. miss honiton was waiting near the door. "come into my office, dear. i want to ask you a few questions." miss honiton's office was a mixture of office and sitting room, in that it had business furniture offset by photographs and knicknacks. sitting at her desk, she turned to the lad, who stood as if to attention, a long thin sympathetic face, stamped with practical acumen. "i wanted to ask you if besides your mother you have any relations." his dark blue eyes, deep set beneath his bushy brows, she thought the most serious and earnest she had ever seen in any of the hundreds of homeless little boys she had had to deal with. "no, miss." "no brothers or sisters, no uncles or aunts?" "no, miss." "didn't your mother ever take you to see anyone?" "no, miss." "well, then, didn't anyone ever come to see her?" "no, miss." to the point she was trying to reach she went round by another way. where did they live? how long had they lived there? where had they lived before that? how long had they lived in that place? he answered to the best of his recollection, but when it came to their flittings from tenement to tenement, and from town to town, his recollection didn't take him very far. miss honiton soon understood that she might as well question a bird as to its migrations. for a minute she said nothing, turning over in her mind the various ways of breaking her painful news, when he himself asked, suddenly: "is my mudda dead?" the question was so direct that she felt it deserved a direct answer. "yes, dear." "did she"--he pulled himself together for the big words--"did she take cyanide of potassium?" "yes, dear; so i understand." "will they take her away in a long black box?" "she'll be buried, dear, of course. there'll have to be a funeral somewhere." "can i go to it?" "yes, dear, certainly. i'll go with you myself." he said nothing more, and miss honiton felt the futility of trying to comfort him. there was no opening for comfort in that stony little face. all she could suggest to break the tension was to ask if he wouldn't like his supper. he went to his supper and ate it. he ate it ruminantly, speechlessly. what had happened to him he could not measure; what was before him he could not probe. all he knew of himself was that he had become a clod of misery, with almost nothing to temper his desolation. two big tears rolled down his cheeks without his being aware of it. they did not, however, escape the eyes of a little girl who sat near him. "who's a cry-baby?" she shrieked, to the entertainment of the lookers-on. she pointed at him with her spoon. "a grea' big boy like that cryin' for his momma!" he accepted the scorn as a tonic. "a grea' big boy like that cryin' for his momma," were the words with which he kept many a pang during the next few days from being more than a tearless anguish. miss honiton was as good as her word as to going with him to the rooms which housed the long black box. this he understood to be all that now represented his mudda. she had tried to explain the place as an "undertaker's parlor," but the words were outside his vocabulary. in the same way the why and the wherefore of the ceremony were outside his intelligence. he and miss honiton went into the dim room, and stood near the thing he heard mentioned as "the body." after some mumbled reading they went out again, and back to the swindon street home. back in the swindon street home he was still without a wherefore or a why. he got up, he washed, he dressed, he ate, he went to bed again. he was in a dormitory now with three other little boys, all of them too deep in the problems of parents in jail or in parts unknown to offer him much fellowship. they cried when they were left alone in bed, or they cried in their sleep; but they cried. it was his own pride, and in no small measure his strength, that he didn't cry, unless he cried in dreams. everyone was good to him, mrs. crewdson and miss honiton especially, but no one could give him the clue to life which instinctively he clutched for. that one didn't stay forever in the swindon street home he could see from observation. the children he had found there went away; other children came. some of these stayed but a night or two. none of them stayed much longer. by those sixth and seventh senses which children develop when they are in trouble he divined that conferences were taking place on his behalf. now and then he detected glances shot toward him by the matrons in discussion which told him that he was being talked about. it was easy to deduce that he was in the swindon street home longer than was the custom because they didn't know what to do with him. he inferred that they didn't know what to do with him from the many questions which many people asked. sometimes it was a man, more times it was a woman, but the questions were always along the lines of those of miss honiton as he came out from the children's christmas tree. had he any relatives? had he any friends? if he had they ought to look after him. it was hard for these kindly people to believe that he had no claim whatever on any member of the human race. he began to hear the words, a state ward. though they meant nothing to him at first, he strove, as he always did, with new words and expressions, to find their application. then one evening, as mrs. crewdson was putting him to bed, she told him that that was what he had become. "you see, darling, now that your father and mother are both dead, the whole country is going to adopt you. isn't that nice? and it isn't everything. you're going to have a home--not a home like this--what we call an institution--but a real home--with a real father and mother in it, and real brothers and sisters." he took this stolidly. he was not to be moved now by anything that could happen. a waif on the world, the world had the right to pitch him in any direction that it chose. all he could do with his own desires was to beat them into submission. he mustn't cry! his fears and his griefs alike focussed themselves into that resolve. it was the only way in which he could translate his stout-hearted will to endure. viii to conduct him to his new home, mrs. crewdson gave up the whole of the morning she was supposed to spend in sleep after her all-night vigil. the home was in a little town a short distance up the hudson. though the railway journey was not long, it was the longest he had ever taken, and, once the river came within view, it was not without its excitements. his spirits began to rise with a sense of new adventure. there were things to look at, bridges, steamers, a man-o'-war at anchor, lumber yards, coal sheds, an open-air exhibit of mortuary monuments, and high overhead the clear cold blue of a january sky. on the other side of the river the wooded heights made a bold brown bastion, flecked here and there with snow. as he had not asked where they were going, or the composition of the family with whom the guardian of state wards was placing him, his protectress permitted him to make his own discoveries. new faces, new contacts, new necessities, would help him to forget the old. they got out at the station of harfrey. mrs. crewdson carried the suitcase containing the wardrobe rescued when they had searched the rooms which he and his mother had occupied last. in front of the station they got on a ramshackle street car, which zigzagged up the face of the bank, rising steeply from the river, so reaching the little town. they turned sharply at the top of the ridge to run through the one long street. it was a mean-looking street of drab wooden dwellings and drab wooden shops, occupied mostly by people dependent on the grand seigneurs of the neighboring big "places." an ugly schoolhouse, an ugly engine house, two or three ugly churches, further defied that beauty of which god had been so generous. having got out at a corner at which the car stopped, they walked to a small wooden house with a mansard roof, standing back from the street. it was a putty-colored house, with window and door frames in flecked, anæmic yellow. perched on the edge of the ridge, it had three stories at the back and but two in front. what had once been an orchard had dwindled now to three or four apple trees, the rest of the ground being utilized as a chicken run. as the day was sunny, a few plymouth rocks were scratching and pecking in the yard. having turned in here, they found themselves expected, the front door opening before they reached the cement slab in front of it. the greetings were all for mrs. crewdson, who was plainly an old friend. the boy went in only because mrs. crewdson went in, and in the same way proceeded to a cheery, shabby sitting room. here there were books and magazines about, while a canary in a cage began to sing as soon as he heard voices. to a homeless little boy the haven was so sweet that he forgot to take off his cap. the first few minutes were consumed in questions as to this one and that one, relatives apparently, together with data given and received as to certain recognized maladies. mrs. crewdson was getting better of her headaches, but mrs. tollivant still suffered from her varicose veins. only when these preliminaries were out of the way and mrs. crewdson had thrown off her outer wraps, was the introduction accomplished. "so i've brought you the boy! tom, dear, this is mrs. tollivant who's going to take care of you. your cap, tom! i imagine," she continued, with an apologetic smile, "you'll find manners very rudimentary." obliged to take an early train back to new york, mrs. crewdson talked with veiled, confidential frankness. a boy of seven could not be supposed to seize the drift of her cautious phraseology, even if he heard some of it. "so you know the main features of the case.... i told them it wouldn't be fair to you to let you assume so much responsibility without your knowing the whole.... with children of your own to think of, you couldn't expose them to a harmful influence unless you were put in a position to take every precaution against.... not that we've seen anything ourselves.... but, of course, after such a bringing up there can't but be traces.... and such good material there.... i'm sure you'll find it so.... personally, i haven't seen a human being in a long time to whom my heart has gone.... only there it is.... an inheritance which can't but be...." he didn't feel betrayed. he had nothing to resent. mrs. crewdson had proved herself his friend, and he trusted her. without knowing all the words she used, he caught easily enough the nature of the sentiments they stood for. these he accepted meekly. he was a bad boy. his mother and he had been engaged in wicked practices. dimly, in unallayed mental discomfort, he had been convinced of this himself; and now it was clear to everyone. if they hadn't known what to do with him it was because a bad boy couldn't fit rightly into a world where everyone else was good. a young evildoer, he had no rôle left but that of humility. he was the more keenly aware of this after mrs. crewdson had bidden him farewell, and he was face to face with his new foster mother. a wiry little woman, quick in action and sharp in tongue, she would be kind to him, with a nervous, nagging kindness. he got this impression, as he got an odor or a taste, without having to define or analyze. later in life, when he had come to observe something of the stamp which professions leave on personalities, he was not surprised that she should have worn herself out in school-teaching before marrying andrew tollivant, a book-keeper. as he sat now, just as mrs. crewdson had left him, his overcoat still on his back, his cap in his hand, his feet dangling because the chair was too high for him, she treated him as if he were a class. "now, little boy, before we go any farther, you and i had better understand each other." with this brisk call to his attention, she sat down in front of him, frightening him to begin with. "you know that this is now to be your home, and i intend to do my duty by you to the best of my ability. mr. tollivant will do the same. if you take the children in the right way i'm sure you'll find them friendly. they were very nice to the last little boy the board of guardians sent to us." staring in fascinated awe at the starry brightness of her eyes, and the wrinkles of worry around them, he waited in silence for more. "but one or two things i hope you'll remember on your side. perhaps you haven't heard that the board has found it hard to get anyone to take you. you're old enough to know that where there are children in a family people are shy of a boy who's had just your history. but i've run the risk. it's a great risk, i admit, and may be dangerous to my own. do you understand what i mean?" "no, ma'am," he said, blankly. "then i'll tell you. there are two things children must learn as soon as they're able to learn anything. one is to be honest; the other is to tell the truth. you know what telling the truth is, don't you?" he did know, but paralyzed by her earnestness, he denied the fact. "no, ma'am." "so there you are! and i don't suppose you've been taught anything about honesty." "no, ma'am." "then you must begin to learn." he began to learn that minute. still treating him as a class, she delivered a little lecture, such as a child of tender years could understand, on the two basic virtues of which he had pleaded ignorance. he listened as in a trance, his eyes fixed on her vacantly. though seizing a disconnected word or two, fear kept him from getting the gist of it all, as he generally did. "it's your influence on the children that i want you to beware of. arthur is older than you, but he's only ten; and a boy with your experience could easily teach him a good deal of harm. cilly is eight, and bertie only five. you'll be careful with them, won't you? do you know that if we lead others astray god will call us to account for it?" "no, ma'am." "well, he will; and i want you to remember it, and be afraid. unless you're afraid of god you'll never grow into the good boy i hope we're going to make of you." the homily finished, he was instructed in the ways of the upper floor, where, in the sloping space under the eaves, he was to have his room. after this he came back to the sitting room, not knowing what else to do. he was in a daze. it was as if he had dropped on another planet where nothing was familiar. whether to stand up or sit down he didn't know. he didn't know what to think, or what to think about. cut loose from his bearings, he floated in mental space. as standing seemed to commit him to least that was wrong, he stood. standing implied looking out of the window, and looking out of the window showed him, about half past twelve, a well-built boy, rosy with the cold, noisy from exuberance of spirit, swinging in at the gate and brandishing a hockey stick. from her preparation of the dinner his mother ran to meet him at the door. she spoke in a loud whisper that easily reached the sitting room. "now be careful, arthur. he's come. he's in there." arthur responded with noisy indifference. "who? the crook?" "sh-h-h, dear! you mustn't call him that. we must help him to forget it, and to grow into being like ourselves." arthur grunted noncommittally. presently he strolled into the sitting room, whistling a tune. with hands in his pockets, his bearing was that of an overlord. he made a circuit of the room, eying the new guest, as the new guest eyed him back. "hello?" the overlord said at last, with a faint note of interrogation. still whistling and still with his hands in his pockets, he strolled out again. tom whitelaw's nerves had become so many runlets for shame. he was the crook! he knew the word as one which crooks themselves use contemptuously. if he should hear it again.... but happily mrs. tollivant had put her veto on its use. the gate clicked again. coming up the pathway, he saw a girl of about his own age, with a boy much younger who swung himself on crutches. all his movements were twisted and grotesque. his head was sunk into his shoulders as if he had no neck. his feet and legs wore metal braces. his face had the uncannily aged look produced by suffering. without actually helping him, the little girl kept by his side maternally. she was a dainty little girl, very fair, with shiny yellow hair hanging down her back, like a fairy princess in a picture book. the boy looking out of the window fell in love with her at sight. he was sure that in her he would find a friend. on entering she called out in a whiny voice, very musical to tom whitelaw's ear: "ma! bertie's been a naughty boy. he wouldn't sing 'pretty birdling' for miss smallbones. i told him you'd punish him, and you will, won't you, ma?" as there was no response to this, the young ones came to the door of the sitting room and looked in. they stared at the stranger, and the stranger stared at them, with the unabashed frankness of young animals. having stared their fill, the son and daughter of the house went off to ask about dinner. to tom that dinner was another new experience. for the first time in his life he sat down to what is known as a family meal. attempts had sometimes been made by well-meaning women in the tenements to rope him to their tables, but his mother had never permitted him to yield to them. now he sat down with those of his own age, to be served like them, and on some sort of footing of equality. the honor was so great that he could hardly swallow. second helpings were beyond him. the afternoon was blank again. "you'll begin to go to school on monday," mrs. tollivant had explained; but in the meantime he had the hours to himself. they were long. he was lonely. having been given permission to go into the yard, he stood studying the plymouth rocks. presently he was conscious of a light step behind him. before he had time to turn around he also heard a voice. it was a whiny voice, yet sharp and peremptory. "you stop looking at our hens." the fairy princess had not come up to him; she had paused some two or three yards away. her expression was so haughty that it hurt him. it hurt him more from her than from anybody else because of his admiration. he looked at her beseechingly, not for permission to go on studying the plymouth rocks, but for some shade of relenting. he got none. the sharp little face was as glittering and cold as one of the icicles hanging from the roof behind her. heavy at heart, he turned to go into the house by the back door. he had climbed most of the hill when the clear, whiny voice arrested him. "who's a crook?" at this stab in the back he leaped round, fury in his dark blue eyes. but the fairy princess was used to fury in dark blue eyes, and knew how best to defy it. the tip of the tongue she thrust out at him added insolence to insult. he turned again, and, wounded in all his being, went on into the house. near the back door there was a sun parlor, and in it he saw bertie, squatting in a small-wheeled chair built for his convenience. bertie called to him invitingly. "i've got a book." "i've got a book, too," he returned, in bertie's own spirit. "you show me your book, and i'll show you mine." the proposal being fair, he went in search of his history of mankind. in a few minutes he was seated on the floor beside bertie's chair, exchanging literary criticisms. he liked bertie. he had a premonition that bertie was going to like him. after the disdain of the fairy princess, and the superciliousness of the overlord, this was comforting. moreover, he could return bertie's friendliness by doing things for him which no one else had time to do. he could push his wheeled chair; he could run his errands; he could fetch and carry; he would like doing it. "i've got infantile paralysis." "i've got a rubber ball." "i've got a train." "i've got a funny little man what dances." coming into the house, cilly found them the best of friends, in the best of spirits. without entering the sun-parlor, she spoke through the doorway, coldly. "bertie, i don't think momma would like you to act like that. i'll go and ask her." mrs. tollivant hurried from the kitchen, scouring a saucepan as she looked in on them. seeing nothing amiss, she went away again. then as if distrusting her own vision, she came back. she came back more than once, anxiously, suspiciously. bertie was enjoying himself with this boy picked out of the gutter. that the boy had been picked out of the gutter was not what troubled her, but that bertie should enjoy himself in the lad's society. wise enough not to put notions into bertie's head, she stopped her ward later in the day, when she had the chance to speak to him alone. "i saw you playing with bertie. well, that's all right. only you'll remember your promise, won't you? you won't teach him anything harmful?" "no, ma'am," the boy answered, humbly, as one who has a large selection of harmful things to impart. ix he had looked forward to monday and school. after four days in the tollivant household he was eager for relief from it. except for cilly's occasional, and always private, taunts, they were not unkind to him; they only treated him as an outcast whom they had been obliged to succor because no one else would do so. he had the same food and drink as they; his room was good enough; of whatever was material he had no complaint to make. there was only the distrust which rendered his bread bitter and the bed hard to lie upon. they didn't take him in as one of them. they kept him outside, an alien, an intruder. it was again a new experience in that for the first time in his life he was doing without love. when he was tom coburn he had had plenty of it at the worst of times. the swindon street home was full of it. in the tollivant house it was the only thing weighed and measured and stinted. he couldn't, of course, make this analysis. he only knew that something on which his life depended was not given him. he hoped to find it in the school. in any case the school would admit him to the larger life. it would bind him to that human family which he had so long craved to enter. in addition to that, it was at school you learned things. he was the more eager to learn things for the reason that mrs. tollivant had declared him backward. in the primary school cilly was in the second grade; he must go into the first. he would be with children a year younger than himself. but the humiliation would be an incentive to ambition. he had already decided that only by "knowing things" should he be able to lift himself out of his despised estate. the school session was all he had hoped for. miss pollard, the teacher, put in touch with his story by mrs. tollivant, kept him near to her, and watched over him. he learned to discriminate between _his_, _has_, and _had_, as matters of orthography, as well as between _cat_, _car_, and _can_. that twice two made four and twice four made eight added much to his understanding of numbers. he sang _roving the old homeland_, while miss pollard pointed on the map to the places as they were named. from plymouth town to plymouth town the pilgrims made their way; the puritans settled salem, and boston on the bay. the air had a rhythm and a lilt which allowed for the inclusion of any reasonable number of redundant syllables. the dutch lived in new amsterdam, where the blue waters fork; the english came and conquered it, and turned it into new york. a little history, a little geography, being taught by the simple method of doggerel, much pleasure was evoked by the exercise of healthy lungs. listening to her new pupil, miss pollard discovered a sweet treble that had never before been aware of itself, with a linnet's joy in piping. a linnet's joy was his joy throughout the whole morning, with no more than a slight flaw in his ecstasy in the thought of two hours in the tollivant home before he came back for the afternoon. as cilly called for bertie at the kindergarten, he walked homeward by himself. happy with a happiness never experienced before, he had not noticed that his school-mates hung away from him, tittering as he passed. to well-dressed little boys and girls his worn old cap, his frayed knickerbockers, and above all his cheap gray overcoat with a stringy sheepskin collar, naturally marked him for derision. they would have marked him for derision even had his story not been known to everyone. he went singing on his way, stepping manfully to the measure. the dutch lived in new amsterdam, where the blue waters fork; the english came and conquered it, and turned it into new york. they massed themselves behind him, convulsed by his lack of self-consciousness. the little girls giggled; the boys attempted to make snowballs from snow too powdery to hold together. one lad found a frozen potato which he hurled in such a way as to skim close to the singing figure while just missing it. tom whitelaw, unsuspicious of ill-will, turned round in curiosity. he was greeted by a hoot from the crowd, but from whom he couldn't tell. "who's the boy what his mother was put in jail?" the hoot became a chorus of jeers. by one after another the insult was taken up. "who's the boy what his mother was put in jaaa-il?" as far as he was able to distinguish, the voices of the little girls were the louder. in their merriment they screamed piercingly. "gutter-snipe! gutter-rat! crook! crook! crook! who's the boy what his mother was put in ja-aa-ail?" crimson, with clenched fists, with gnashing teeth, with tears of rage in his eyes, he stood his ground while they came on. they swept toward him in a semicircle of which he made the center. very well! so much the better! he could spring on at least one of them, and dash his brains out on the ground. there was no ferocity he would not enjoy putting into execution. he sprang, but amid the yells of the crowd his prey dodged and escaped him. the semicircle broke. instead of advancing in massed formation, it danced round him now as forty or fifty imps. the imps bewildered him, as _banderilleros_ bewilder a bull in the ring. he didn't know which to attack. when he lunged at one, the charge was diverted by another, so that he struck at the air wildly. shrieks of mockery at these failures maddened him, with the heartbreaking madness of a loving thing goaded out of all semblance to itself. he panted, he groaned, he dashed about foolishly, he stumbled, he fell. when pelted with pebbles or scraps of ice, he was hardly aware of the rain upon his head. but the mob swept on, leaving him behind. at gates and corners the boy baiters disappeared, hungry for their dinners. most of them forgot him as soon as they had turned their backs. it was easy for them to stop for awhile since they could begin again. he was alone on the gritty, icy slope surrounding the schoolhouse. there was no comfort for him in the world. faintly he remembered as a satisfaction that he hadn't cried, but even this consolation was cold. he wondered if he couldn't kill himself. he did not kill himself, though he pondered ways and means of doing it. he came to the conclusion that it would be foolish to kill himself before killing some of his tormentors. he prayed about it that night, his first prayer, except for the one taught him on christmas eve by mrs. crewdson. to the family devotions, for which all were assembled about eight o'clock, before the younger children went to bed, mr. tollivant had begun to add a new petition. "and, o heavenly father, take pity on the little stranger within our gates, even as we have welcomed him into our home. blot out his past from thy book. give him a new heart. make him truthful and honest especially. help him to be gentle, obedient...." but savagely the boy intervened on his own behalf. "o heavenly father, don't! don't give me a new heart, or make me gentle and obedient, till i kill some of them fellows that called me a crook, for jesus christ's sake, amen." x he killed none of the fellows who called him a crook, though during the first two years of his schooling he was called a crook pretty often. whatever grade he was in, he was always that boy who differs from other boys, and is therefore the black swan in a flock of white ones. whatever his progress, he made it to the tune of his own history. he was a gutter-snipe. his mother had killed herself in jail! before she had killed herself both he and she had been arrested for thieving in a shop! there was not a house in harfrey where the tale was not told. there was never a boy or girl in the school who hadn't learned it before making his acquaintance. besides, they said of him, he would have been "different" anyhow. being "different" was an offense less easily pardoned than being criminal. dressed more poorly than they, and with no claims of a social kind, he carried himself with that bearing which they could only describe as putting on airs. it was cilly tollivant who first brought this charge home to him. "but i don't, cilly," he protested, earnestly. "i don't know how to be any other way." cilly was by this time growing sisterly. she couldn't live in the house with him and not feel her heart relenting, and though she disdained him in public, as her own interests compelled her to do, in private she tried to help him. "don't know how to be any other way!" she exclaimed, indignantly. "tom whitelaw, you make me sick. don't you know even how to _talk_ right?" "yes, but...." "there you go," she interrupted, bitterly. "why can't you say _yep_, like anybody else?" he took the suggestion humbly. he would try. his only explanation of his eccentricity was that _yep_ and _nope_ didn't suit his tongue. but adopting yep and nope, as he might have adopted words from a foreign language, adopting much else that was crude and crass and vulgar and noisy and swaggering and standardized, according to schoolboy notions of the standard, he still found himself "different." for one thing, he looked different. debase his language as he might, or coarsen his manners, or stultify his impulses, he couldn't keep himself from shooting up tall and straight, with a carriage of the head which was in itself an offense to those who knew themselves inferior. it made nothing easier for him that his teachers liked and respected him. "teacher's pet" was a term of reproach hardly less painful than crook or gutter-snipe. but he couldn't help learning easily; he couldn't help answering politely when politely spoken to; he couldn't help the rapture of his smile when a friendly word came his way. all this told against him. he was guyed, teased, worried, tortured. if there was a cap to be snatched it was his. if there was one of a pair of rubber shoes to be stolen or hidden it was his. if there was an exercise book to be grabbed and thrown up into a tree where the owner could be pelted while he clambered after it, it was his. because he was poor, friendless, defenseless, and yet with damnable pride written all over him, it became a recognized law of the school that any meanness done to him would be legitimate. but in his third year at the tollivants the persecution waned, and in the fourth it stopped. his school-mates grew. growing, they developed other instincts. fair play was one of them; admiration for pluck was another. "you've got to hand it to that kid," arthur tollivant, now fourteen, had been heard to say in a circle of his friends. "he's stood everything and never squealed a yelp. some young tough, believe me!" this good opinion was reflected among the lads of tom whitelaw's own age. they had never been cruel; they had only been primitive. having passed beyond that stage, they forgot to no small degree what they had done while in it. the boy who at seven was the crook was at eleven whitey the sprinter. he walked to and from school with the best of them. with the best of them he played and fought and swore privately. if he put on airs it was the airs of being a much sadder dog than he was, daring to smoke a cigarette and go home with the smell of the wickedness on his breath. so, outwardly, tom whitelaw came in for two full years of good-natured toleration. if it did not go further than toleration it was because he was a state ward. on the baseball or the football team he might be welcomed as an equal; in homes there was discrimination. he was not invited to parties, and among the young people of harfrey parties were not few. girls who met him at the tollivants' didn't speak to him outside. when cilly, now being known as cecilia, had her friends to celebrate her birthday, he remained in his room with no protest from the family at not joining them. none the less, it was a relief to be free from jeering in the streets, as well as from being reminded every day at school of his mother's tragedy. it was a relief to him; but it was no more. for more than that the wound had gone too deep. outwardly, he accepted their approaches; in his heart he rejected them, biding his time. he was biding his time, not with longings for revenge--he was too sensible now for that--but in the hope of passing on and forgetting them. by the time he was twelve he was already aware of his impulse toward growth. it was in his soul as a secret conviction, the seed's knowledge of its own capacity to germinate. most of the boys and girls around him he could judge, not by a precocious worldly wisdom, but by his gift for intuitive sizing up. their range was so far and no farther, and they themselves were aware of it. they would become clerks and plumbers and carpenters and school-teachers and shoe dealers and provision men, and whatever else could reach its fulfillment in a small country town. he himself felt no limit. life was big. he knew he could expand in it. to nurse resentments would be small, and would keep him small. all he asked was to forget them, to forget, too, those who called them forth; but to that end he must be far away. xi the road to this far-away began in the summer vacation of the year when he was supposed to be twelve. it was the year when he first went to work, though the work was meant to last for no more than a few weeks. mr. quidmore, a market gardener at bere, in connecticut, some seven or eight miles eastward toward the sound, had come over to ask mr. tollivant for a few hours' work in straightening out his accounts. straightening out accounts for men who were but amateurs at bookkeeping was a means by which mr. tollivant eked out his none-too-generous salary. it was a sunday afternoon in june. they were in the yard, looking at the plymouth rocks behind their defenses of chicken-wire. that is, mr. quidmore was looking at the plymouth rocks, but tom was looking at mr. quidmore. mr. and mrs. tollivant were giving their guest information as to how they raised their hens and marketed their eggs. it was a family affair. mrs. tollivant prepared the food; cecilia fed the birds; art hunted for the eggs; bertie and tom packed them. mr. quidmore was moved to say: "i wish i had a fine boy like your art to help me with the berrypicking. good money in it. three a week and his keep for as long as the strawberries hold out." tom saw mrs. tollivant shake her head at her husband behind mr. quidmore's back. this meant disapproval. disapproval could not be disapproval of the work, but of mr. quidmore. art already gave his holiday services to a dairy for a dollar less than mr. quidmore's offer, and no keep. it was the employer, then, and not the employment that mrs. tollivant distrusted. and yet mr. quidmore fascinated tom. he had never before seen anyone whose joints had the looseness of one of those toys which you worked with a string. he was so slim, too, that you got little or no impression of a body beneath his flapping clothes. nervously restless, he walked with a shuffle of which the object seemed the keeping of his shoes from falling off. when he talked or laughed one side of his long thin face was screwed up as if by some early injury or paralysis. the right portion of his lips could smile, while the left trembled into a rictus. this made his speech slower and more drawling than tom was accustomed to hear; but his voice was naturally soft, with a quality in it like cream. it was the voice that tom liked especially. in reply to the suggestion about art, mr. tollivant replied, as one who sees only a well-meant business proposal, "we'd like nothing better, brother quidmore; but the fact is art has about as much as he can do for the rest of his vacation." he waved his hand toward tom. "what do you say to this boy?" at the glorious suggestion tom's heart began to fail for fear. he was not a fine boy like arthur tollivant. the possibility of earning three dollars a week, to say nothing of his board, was too much like the opening up of an aladdin's palace for the hope to be more than deceptive. it was part of his daily humiliation never to have had any money of his own. the paternity of the state paid for his food, shelter, and education; but it never supplied him with cash, or with any cash that he ever saw. to have three dollars a week jingling in his pocket would not only lift him out of his impotent dependence, but would make him a man. while mr. quidmore walked round him, inspecting him as if he were a dog or pig or other small animal for sale, he held himself with straightness, dignity, and strength. if he was for sale he would do his best to be worthy of his price. mr. quidmore nodded toward mr. tollivant. "state ward, ain't he?" mr. tollivant admitted that he was. "youngster whose moth--" mrs. tollivant interrupted kindly. "you needn't be afraid of that. he's been with us for five years. i think i may say that all traces of the past have been outlived. we can really give him a good character." tom was grateful. mr. quidmore examined him again. at last he shuffled up to him, throwing his arm across his shoulder, and drawing him close to himself. "what about it, young fellow? want to come?" entirely won by this display of kindliness, the boy smiled up into the twisted face. "yes, sir." "then that's settled. put your duds together, and we'll go along. i guess," he added to mr. tollivant, "that you can stretch a point to let him come, and get your permit from the guardians to-morrow." mr. tollivant agreeing that after five years' care he could venture as much as this, they drove over to bere in mr. quidmore's dilapidated motor car. mrs. quidmore met them at the door. her husband called to her: "hello, there! got a new hand to help you with the strawberries." she answered, dejectedly. "if he's as good as some of the other new hands you've picked up lately--" "oh, rats! give us a rest! if i brought the angel gabriel to pick the berries you'd see something to find fault with." that there was a rift within the lute of this couple's happiness was clear to tom before he had climbed out of the machine. "where's he to sleep?" mrs. quidmore asked in her tone of discontent. "i suppose he can sleep in the barn, can't he?" "i wouldn't put a dog to sleep in that barn, nasty, smelly, rotten place." "well, put him to sleep where you like. he'll get three a week and his keep while he's here, and that's all i'm responsible for." mrs. quidmore turned and went into the house. her husband winked at tom as man to man. "can you beat it? always like that. god! i don't know how i stand it. get in." tom got in, finding an interior as slack as mrs. quidmore herself. the tollivant house, with four children in it, was often belittered, but with a little tidying it became spick and span. here the housekeeping wore an air of hopelessness. whoever did it did it without heart. "god! i hate to come into this place," its master confided to tom, as they stood in the hall, of which the rug lay askew, while a mirror hung crooked on the wall. "you and me could keep the shack looking dandier than this if she wasn't here at all. i wish to the lord...." but before the week was out the boy had won over mrs. quidmore, and begun to make her fond of him. because he was eager to be useful, he helped her in the house, showing solicitude, too, on her personal account. a low-keyed, sad-eyed woman who did nothing to make herself attractive, she blamed her husband for perceiving the loss of her attractiveness. "he's bound to me," she would complain, tearfully, to the boy, as he dried the dishes she had washed. "it's his duty to be fond of me. but he ain't. there's fifty women he likes better than he does me." this note of married infelicity was new to tom, especially as it reached him from both parties to the contract. "god, how she gets my goat! sometimes i think how much i'd enjoy seeing her stretched out with a bullet through her head. i tell you that the fellow who'd do that for me wouldn't be sorry in the end...." to the boy these words were meaningless. the creamy drawl with which they were uttered robbed them of the vicious or ferocious, making them mere humorous explosions. he could laugh at them, and yet he laughed with a feeling of discomfort. the discomfort was the greater because in kindness to him lay the one point as to which the couple were agreed. making no attempt to reconcile elements so discordant, all he could do was to soften the conditions which each found distasteful. he kept the house tidier for the man; he did for the woman a few of the things her husband overlooked. "it's him that ought to do that," she would point out, in dull rebellion. "he's doing it for some other woman i'll be bound. who _is_ that woman that he meets?" conjugal betrayal was also new to tom, and not easily comprehensible. that a man with a wife should also be "going with a girl" was a possibility that had never come within his experience while living with the tollivants. he had heard a good many things from art, as also from some other boys, but this event seemed to have escaped even their wide observation. it would have escaped his own had not mrs. quidmore harped on it. "i do believe he'd like to see me in my grave. i'm in their way, and they'd like to get me out of it. oh, you needn't tell me! couldn't you keep an eye on him, and tell me what she's like?" for mrs. quidmore's sake he watched mr. quidmore, but as he didn't know what he was watching him for the results were not helpful. and he liked them both. he might have said that he loved them both, since loving came to him so easily. mrs. quidmore washed and mended his clothes, and whenever she went to harfrey or some other town she added to his wardrobe. mr. quidmore was forever dropping into his ear some gentle, honeyed confidence of which mrs. quidmore was the butt. neither of them ever scolded him, or overworked him. he was in the house almost as a son. and then one day he learned that he was to be there altogether as a son. xii he never knew how and when the question as to his adoption had been raised, or whether the husband or the wife had raised it first. here, too, the steps were taken with that kind of mystification which shrouded so much of his destiny. he himself was not consulted till, apparently, all the principal parties but himself had decided on the matter. one of the guardians, or a representative, asked him the formal question as to whether or not he should like it, and being answered with a yes, had gone away. the next thing he knew he had legally become the son of martin and anna quidmore, and was to be henceforth called by their name. the outward changes were not many. he had won so much freedom in the house that when he became its son and heir there was, for the minute, little more to give him. his new mother grew more openly affectionate; his new father drove him round in the dilapidated car and showed him to the neighbors as his boy. as far as tom could judge, there was general approval. martin quidmore had taken a poor outcast lad and given him a home and a status in the world. all good people must rejoice in this sort of generosity. the new father rejoiced in it himself, smiling with a twisted smile that was like a leer, the only thing about him which the new son was afraid of. it was august now. the picking of the strawberries having long been over, the boy had been kept on for other jobs. he still worked at them. he dug potatoes; he picked peas and beans; he pulled carrots, parsnips, and beets; he culled cucumbers. the hired hands did the heaviest work, but he shared in it to the limit of his strength. sometimes he went off early in the morning on the great lorry, loaded with garden-truck, which his father drove to the big markets. on these journeys the new father grew most confidential and lovable. his mellifluous voice, which was sad and at the same time not quite serious, was lovable in itself. "god, how i'd like to give you a better home than you've got! but it's no use, not as long as she's there. she'll never be anything different. she'd not make things brighter or cleaner or jollier, not even if she was to try." "well, she _is_ trying," the boy declared, in her defense; but the only answer was a melancholy laugh. and yet now that he had the duties, of a son, he set to work to improve the family relationships. he petted the mother, he cajoled the father. he found small ruses of affection in which, as it seemed to him, he gained both the one and the other, insensibly to either. his proof of this came one morning as once more they were driving to one of the big markets. "say, boy, i'm beginning to be worried about her. i don't think she can be well. she's never been sick much; but gosh! now i'll be hanged if i don't think i'll go and see a doctor and ask him to give her some medicine." as this thoughtfulness, in spite of all indications to the contrary, implied a fundamental tenderness, the boy was glad of it. he was the more glad of it when, on a morning some days later, and in the same situation, the father drawled, in his casual way: "say, i've seen that doctor, and he's given me something he wants her to take. thinks it will put her all right in no time." "and did you give it to her?" he asked, eagerly. the honeyed voice grew sweeter. "well, no; that's the trouble. you can't get her to take doctor's stuff, if she knows she's taking it. got to get her on the sly. once when she needed a tonic i used to watch round and put it in her tea. bucked her up fine." "and is that what you're going to do now?" "well, i would, only she'd be afraid of me. watches me like a cat, don't you see she does? what i was thinking of was this. you know she makes a cup of tea for herself every day in the middle of the afternoon while we're out at work. well, now, if you could make an excuse to slip into the kitchen, and put one of these powders in her teapot--" he tapped the packet in his waistcoat pocket--"she'd never suspect nothing. she'd take it--and be cured." the boy was silent. "you don't want to do it, hey?" "oh, i don't say that. i was--i was--just wondering." "wondering what?" "whether it's fair play to anyone to give them medicine when they don't know they're taking it." "but if it's to do them good?" "but ought we to do good to people against their wills?" "why, sure! what you thinking of? still if you don't want to...." the tone hurt him. "oh, but i will." "say i will, _father_. why don't you call me that? don't i call you son?" he braced himself to an effort. "all right, father; i will." "good! then here's the powder." he drew one from the packet. "don't let none of it fall. you'll steal into the kitchen this afternoon--she generally lays down after she's washed the dinner things--and just empty the paper into the little brown teapot she always makes her tea in. then burn the paper in the stove--there's sure to be a fire on--so that she won't find nothing lying around to make her suspicious. you understand, don't you?" he said he understood, though in his heart of hearts he wished that he hadn't been charged with the duty. xiii if you had asked the boy who was now legally tom quidmore why he was reluctant to give his mother a powder that would do her good he would have been unable to explain his hesitation. reason, in the main, was in favor of his doing it. in the first place, he had promised, and he had always responded to those exhortations of his teachers which laid stress on keeping his word. not to keep his word had come to seem an offense of the nature of personal defilement. then the whole matter had been thought out and decreed by an authority higher than himself. the child mind, like the childish mind at all times, is under the weight of authority. the source of the authority is a matter of little moment so long as it speaks decidedly enough. it is always a means by which to get rid of the bother of using private judgment, which as often as not is a bore to the person with the right to it. in the case of a boy of twelve, private judgment is hampered by a knowledge of his insufficiency. the man who provides food, clothing, shelter, is invested with the right to speak. the child mind is logical, orderly, respectful, and prenatally disposed to discipline. except on severe provocation it does not rebel. tom quidmore felt no impulse to rebellion, even though his sense of right and wrong was, for the moment, mystified. he lacked data. such data as came to his hearing, and less often to his sight, lay morally outside his range. like those scientifically minded men who during the childhood of our race registered the phenomena of electricity without going further, he had no power of making deductions from what eyes and ears could record. he knew that there was in life such an element as sexual love; but that was all he knew. it entered into the relations of married people, and in some puzzling way contributed to the birth of children; but of its wanderings and aberrations he had never heard. that man and wife should reach a breaking point was no part of his conception of the things that happened. there was nothing of the kind between the tollivants, nor among the parents of the lads with whom he had grown up at harfrey. that which at harfrey had been clear unrelenting daylight was at bere a gloaming haunted by strange shapes which perplexed and rather frightened him. not until he was fourteen or fifteen years of age, and the quidmore episode behind him, like an island passed at sea, did the significance of these queer doings and sayings really occur to him. all that for the present his mind and experience were equal to was listening, observing, and wondering. he knew already what it was to have things which he hadn't understood at the time of their happening become clear as he grew older. an illustration of this came from the small events of that very afternoon. on going back from his midday dinner to work in the carrot patch he fixed on half past two as the hour at which he would make the attempt to force on his mother the prescribed medicine. that time having arrived, he rose, brushed the earth from his knees, dusted his hands against each other, and started slowly for the house. a faraway memory which had been in the back of his mind ever since his father had made the odd request now began to assert itself, like the throb of an old pain. he was a little boy again. in the dim hall of the swindon street home he was listening to the friendly policeman talking to miss honiton. he recaptured his own emotions, the dumb distress of the young creature lost in the dark, and ignorant of everything but its helplessness. his mother had taken something, or had not taken something, he wasn't sure which. the beaming young lady handed him his present from the christmas tree, and told him that cyanide of potassium--the words were still branded on his brain--was a deadly poison. then he stood once more, as in memory he had stood so many times, in the half-darkened room where words were mumbled over the long black box which they spoke of as "the body." now that it was all in far perspective he knew what it had meant. that is, he knew the type of woman his mother had been; he knew the kind of soil he had sprung from. the events of five years back to a boy of twelve are a very long distance away. so his mother seemed to tom. so did the sneaking through shops, and the flights from tenement to tenement. so did the awful christmas eve when he had lost her. he could think of her tenderly now because he understood that her mind had been unhinged. what hurt him with a pain which never fell into perspective was that in trying to create in his boyish way some faint tradition of self-respect, he worked back always to this origin in shame. while seeing no connection between such far-off things and the task put upon him by his father, he found them jostling each other in his mind. you took something--and there was disaster. it was as far as his thought carried him. after that came the fact that, his respect for authority being strong, he dared not disobey. he could only dawdle. a delay of five minutes would be five minutes to the good. besides, dawdling on a hot, windless summer afternoon, on which the butterflies, bees, and humming-birds were the only nonhuman living things not taking a siesta, eased the muscles cramped with long crouching in the carrot beds. there being two ways of getting to the house, he took the longer one. the longer one led him round the duck pond, whence the heat had driven ashore all the ducks and geese with the exception of one gander. for no particular reason the gander's name was ernest. between ernest and gimlets, the wire-haired terrier pup, one of those battles such as might take place between bolivia and switzerland was in full swing of rage. gimlets fought from the bank; ernest from the pond. when ernest paddled forward, with neck outstretched and nostrils hissing, gimlets scampered to the top of the shelving shore, where he could stand and bark defiantly. when ernest swung himself round and made for the open sea, gimlets galloped bravely down to the water's edge, yelping out challenges. this bloody fray gave the boy a further excuse for lingering. three or four times had ernest, stung by the taunts to which he had tried to seem indifferent, wheeled round on his enemy. three or four times had gimlets scrambled up the bank and down again. but he, too, recognized authority, and a call that he couldn't disobey. a long whistle, and the battle was at an end! gimlets trotted off. the whistle came from the grove of pines climbing the little bluff on the side of the duck pond remote from the house. it struck the boy as odd that his father should be there at a time when he was supposed to be cutting new zealand spinach for the morrow's market. not to be caught idling, the boy slipped down the bank to creep undetected below the pinewood bluff. neither seeing nor being seen, he nevertheless heard voices, catching but a single word. the word was bertha, and it was spoken by his father. the only bertha in the place was a certain beautiful young widow living in bere. that his father should be talking to her in the pinewood was another of those details difficult to explain. more difficult to explain he found a little scene he caught on looking backward. having now passed the bluff, he was about to round the corner of the pond where the path led through a plantation of blue spruces which hid the house. his glancing back was an accident, but it made him witness of an incident pastoral in its charm. bertha, being indeed the beautiful young widow, the boy was astonished to see his father steal a kiss from her. bertha responded with such a slap as nymphs give to shepherds, running playfully away. his father shambled after her, as shepherds after nymphs, catching her in his arms. tom plunged into the blue spruce plantation where he could be out of sight. hot as he was already, he grew hotter still. what he had seen was so silly, so stupid, so undignified! he wished he hadn't seen it. having seen it, he wished he could forget it. he couldn't forget it because, unpleasant as he found it, he was somehow aware that it had bearings beyond unpleasantness. what they were he had nothing to tell him. he could only run through the plantation as if he would leave the thing as quickly as possible behind him; and all at once the house came into sight. with the house in sight he remembered again what he had come to do. he stopped running. his steps again began to lag. feeling for the powder in his waistcoat pocket, he reminded himself that it would do his mother good. the house lay sleeping and silent in the heat. he crept up to the back door. and there at the open window stood his mother rolling dough on a table. she rolled languidly, as she did everything. her head drooped a little to one side; her expression was full of that tremulous protest against life which might with a word break into a rain of tears. relieved and delighted, he stole round the house, to enter by another way. she was now lifting a cover of the stove, so that she didn't hear his approach. before she knew that anyone was there he had slipped his arm around her, and smacked a big kiss on her cheek. she turned slowly, the lifter in her hand. a new life seemed to dawn in her, brightening her eyes and flushing her sallowness. "you bad little boy! what did you come home for?" he replied as was true, that he had come for a drink of water. he had meant to take a drink of water after putting her powder in the teapot. "i thought," he ended, "you'd be lying down asleep." "i was lying down, but something made me get up." he was curious. "something--like what?" "well, i just couldn't sleep. and then i remembered that it was a long time since i'd made him any of them silver cookies he used to be so fond of." he liked the name. "is that what you're baking?" "yes; and you'll ..." she went back to the table, picking up the cutter--"you'll have some for supper if you'll--if you'll call me ma." "but i do." her smile had the slow timidity that might have been born of disuse. "yes, when i ask you. but i want you to do it all the time, and natural." "all right then; i will--ma." while he stood drinking a first, and then a second, cup of water, she began on the memories dear to her, but which few now would listen to. she had been born in wilmington, delaware, where martin also had been born. his father worked in a powder factory in that city. it was owing to an explosion when he was a lad that martin's frame had been partially paralyzed. "he wasn't blowed up or anything; he just got a shock. he was awful delicate, and used to have fits till he grew out of them. i think the crook in his face makes him look aristocratic, don't you?" the boy having said that he didn't know but what it did, she continued plaintively, cutting out her cookies with a heart-shaped cutter. "i was awful pretty in those days, and that refined i wouldn't hardly do a thing for my mother in the house, or carry the tiniest little parcel across the street. i was just born ladylike. and when martin and i were married he let me have a girl for the first two years to do everything. all he ever expected of me was to get up and dress, and look stylish; and now...." as she paused in her cutting to press back a sob, the boy took the opportunity to speak of getting back to work. "i think i must beat it, ma. i've got all those carrots--" "oh, wait a little while. he can spare you for a few minutes, can't he? anyhow, nothing you can do'll save him from going bankrupt. this place don't pay. he'll never make it pay. his work was to run a hat store. that's what he did when he married me, and he made swell money at it, too." the family history interested the boy, as all tales did which accounted for the personal. he knew now how martin quidmore's health had broken down, and the doctor had ordered out-of-door life as a remedy. out-of-door life would have been impossible if an uncle hadn't died and left him fifteen thousand dollars. "enough to live on quite genteel for life," his wife complained, "but nothing would do but that he should think himself a market-gardener, him that couldn't tell a turnip from a spade. blew in the whole thing on this place, away from everywheres, and making me a drudge that hardly knew so much as to wash a dish. even that i could have stood if he'd only gone on loving me as his marriage vows made it his duty to do, but--" "i'll love you, ma," the boy declared, tenderly. "you don't have to cry because there's no one to love you, not while i'm around." the new life in her eyes was as much of incredulity as of joy. "don't say that, dearie, if you don't mean it. you don't have to love me just because i'm trying to be a mother to you, and look after your clothes." "but, ma, i want to. i do." they gazed at each other, she with the cutter in her hand, he with the cup. what he saw was not a feeble, slatternly woman, but some one who wanted him. he had not been wanted by anyone since the night when his mudda--he still used the word in his deep silences--had gone away with the wardress who looked like a fate. in the five intervening years he had suffered less from unkindness than from being shut out of hearts. here was a heart that had need of him, so that he had need of it. the type of heart didn't matter. if it made any difference it was only that where there was weakness the appeal to him was the greater. with this poor thing he would have something on which to spend his treasure. "you'll see, ma! i'll bring in the water for you, and split the kindlings, and get up in the morning and light the fire, and milk the cow, and everything." straight and sturdy, he looked at her with the level gaze of eyes that seemed the calmer and more competent because they were hidden so far beneath his bushy, horizontal eyebrows. the uniform tan from working in the sun heightened his air of manliness. even the earth on his clothes, and a smudge of it across his forehead where a dirty hand had been put up to push back his crisp ashen hair, hinted at his capacity to share in the world's work. to the helpless woman whose prop had failed her, the coming of this young strength to her aid was little short of a miracle. in the struggle between tears and laughter she was almost hysterical. "oh, you darling boy!" she was beginning, advancing to clasp him in her arms. but with old, old memories in his heart he dreaded the paroxysm of affection. "all right, ma!" he laughed, dodging her and slipping out. "i've got to beat it, or fath--" he stumbled on the word because he found it difficult to use--"or father will wonder where i am." but once in the yard, he called back consolingly, though keeping to the practical, "don't you bother about geraldine. i'll go round by the pasture and drive her home as i come back from work. i'll milk her, too." "god bless you, dearie!" standing in the doorway, shading her eyes with her hand, her limp figure seemed braced to a new power, as she watched him till he disappeared within the plantation of blue spruces. xiv when a whistle blew at five o'clock the hired men on the quidmore place stopped working. as a son of the house, tom quidmore paid to the signal only enough attention to pile his carrots into a wheelbarrow and convey them to the spot where they would help to furnish the market lorry in the morning. in fulfillment of his promise to his adopted mother, he then went in search of geraldine. of all the tasks that he liked at bere he liked most going to the pasture. it was not his regular work. as regular work it belonged to old diggory; but old diggory was as willing to be relieved of it as mrs. quidmore of the milking. brushing himself down, and washing his hands at the tap in the garage after a fashion that didn't clean them, he marched off, whistling. he whistled because his heart was light. his heart was light because his mother having been in the kitchen, he had escaped the necessity for giving her the medicine as to which he felt his odd reluctance. leaving the garage behind him, he threaded a tiny path running through the beet-field. the turnip-field came next, after which he entered a strip of fine old timber, coming out from that on the main road to bere. along this road, for some five hundred yards, he tramped merrily, kicking up the dust. he liked this road. not only was it open, free, and straight, but along its old stone walls raspberries and blackberries grew ripe in a tangle of wild spirea, meadow-rue, jewel weed, and queen anne's lace. he loved this luxuriance, this summer sense of abundance. to the boy who had never known anything but poverty, nature at least, in this lush connecticut countryside, seemed generous. the pasture was on the edge of a scrubby woodland in which the twenty acres of the quidmore property trailed away into the unkempt. eighty or a hundred years earlier, it had been the center of a farm now cut up into small holdings, chiefly among market gardeners. in the traces of the old farmhouse, the old garden, the old orchard, the boy found his imagination touched by the pathos of a vanished human past. the land sloped from the hillside, till in the bottom of the hollow it became a little brambly wood such as in england would be called a spinney. through the spinney trickled a stream which somewhere fell into horseneck brook, which somewhere fell into one of those shallow inlets that the sound thrusts in on the coastline. halfway between the road and the streamlet, was the old home-place, deserted so long ago that the cellar was choked with blackberry vines, and the brick of the foundation bulging out of plumb. a clump of lilac which had once snuggled lovingly against a south wall was now a big solitary bush. what used to be a bed of pansies had reverted to a scattering of cheery little heartsease faces, brightening the grass. the low-growing, pale-rose mallow of old gardens still kept up its vigor of bloom, throwing out a musky scent. there was something wistful in the spot, especially now that the sun was westering, and the birds skimmed low, making for their nests. in going for geraldine tom always stole a few minutes to linger among these memories of old joys and sorrows, old labors and rewards, of which nothing now remained but these few flowers, a few wind-beaten apple trees, and this dint in the ground which served best as a shelter for chipmunks. it was the part of the property farthest from the house. it was far, too, from any other habitation, securing him the privilege of solitude. the privilege was new to him. at harfrey he had never known it. about the gardens, even at bere, there were always the owner, the hired men, the customers, the neighbors who came and went. but in geraldine's pasture he found only herself, the crows, the robins, the thrushes singing in the spinney, and the small wild life darting from one covert to another, or along the crumbling stone wall hung with its loopings of wild grape. he was not lonely on these excursions. companionship had never in the harfrey schools been such a pleasure that he missed anything in having to do without it. rather, he enjoyed the freedom to be himself, to wear no mask, to have no part to play. it was only when alone like this that he understood how much of his thought and effort was spent in dancing to other people's tunes. in the tollivant home he could never, like the other children, speak or act without a second thought. as a state ward it was his duty to commend himself. to commend himself he was obliged to think twice even before venturing on trifles. he had formed a habit of thinking twice, of rarely being spontaneous. by himself in this homey pasture he felt the relief of one who has been balancing on a tight rope at walking on the ground. when he had climbed the bars geraldine, who was down the hill and near the spinney, had lifted her head and swung her tail in recognition. not being impatient, she went on with her browsing, leaving him a few minutes' liberty. among the heartsease and the mallows he flung himself down, partly because he was tired and partly that he might think. with so much to think about thought came without sequence. it centered soon on what he was to be. of one thing he was certain; he didn't want to be a market gardener. not but that he enjoyed the open-air life and the novelty of closeness to the soil. like the whole quidmore connection, it was good enough for the time. all the same, it was only for the time, and one day he would break away from it. how, he didn't ask. he merely knew by his intuitions that it would be so. he was going to be something big. that, too, was intuitive conviction. what he meant by big he was unable to define, beyond the fact that knowledge and money would enter into it. he was interested in money, not so much for what it gave you as for what it was. it was a queer thing when you came to think of it. a dollar bill in itself had no more value than any other scrap of paper; and yet it would buy a dollar's worth of anything. he turned that over in his mind till he worked out the reason why. he worked out the principle of payment by check, which at first was as blank a mystery as marital relations. when newspapers came his way he studied the reports of the stock exchange, much as a savage who cannot read scans the unmeaning hieroglyphs which to wiser people are words. he did make out that railways and other great utilities must be owned by a lot of people who combined to put their money into them; but daily fluctuations in value he couldn't understand. when he asked his adopted father he was told that he couldn't understand it, though he knew he could. long accustomed to this answer as to the bewilderments of life, he rarely now asked anything. if he was puzzled he waited for more data. even for little boys things cleared themselves up if you kept them in your mind, and applied the explanation when it came your way. the point, he concluded, was not to be in a hurry. there were the spiders. he was fond of watching them. they would sit for hours as still as metal things, their little eyes fixed like jewels in a ring. then when they saw what they wanted one swift dart was enough for them. so it must be with little boys. you got one thing to-day, and another thing to-morrow; but you got everything in time if you waited and kept alert. by waiting and keeping alert he would find out what he was to be. he had reached his point when he saw geraldine pacing up the hill toward the pasture bars. she was giving him the hint that certain acknowledged rites were no longer to be put off. he had lowered the bars, over which she was stepping delicately, when he saw his father come tearing down the road, going toward bere, with all the speed his shuffling gait could put on. used by this time to erratic actions on quidmore's part, he was hardly surprised; he was only curious. he was more curious still when, on drawing nearer, the man seemed in a panic. "looks as if he was running away from something," was the lad's first thought, though he couldn't imagine from what. "is anything the matter?" from panic the indications changed to those of surprise, though the voice was as velvety as ever. "oh, so it's you! i thought it was diggory. what did you--what did you--do with that powder?" the boy began putting up the bars while geraldine plodded homeward. "i couldn't give it to her. she was in the kitchen baking." he thought it wise to add: "she was making silver cookies for you. you'll have them for supper." there followed more odd phenomena, of which the boy, waiting and keeping alert, only got the explanation later. quidmore threw himself face downward on the wayside grass. with his forehead resting on his arm, he lay as still as one of those drunken men tom had occasionally seen like logs beside some country road. geraldine turned her head to ask why she was not followed, but the boy stood waiting for a further sign. he wondered whether all grown-up men had minutes like this, or whether it was part of the epilepsy he had heard about. but when quidmore got up he was calm, the traces of panic having disappeared. to a more experienced person the symptoms would have been of relief; but to the lad of twelve they said nothing. "i'll go back with you," was quidmore's only comment, as together they set out to follow geraldine. having reached the barn where the milking was to be done, quidmore was proceeding to the house. in the hope of a negative, tom asked if he should try again to-morrow. quidmore half turned. "i'll leave that to you." "i'll do whatever you say," tom pleaded, desperate at this responsibility. quidmore went on his way, calling back, in his creamy drawl, over his shoulder: "i'll leave it entirely to you." xv left to him, tom saw nothing in the duty but to do it. he was confirmed in this resolution by quidmore's gentleness throughout the evening. it was a new thing in tom's experience of the house. as always with those in the habit of inflicting pain, merely to stop inflicting it seemed kindness. supper passed without a single incident that made mrs. quidmore wince. on her part she played up with an almost brilliant vivacity in making none of her impotent complaints. anything he could do to further this accord the boy felt he ought to do. he hung back only from the deed. that made him shudder. he was clear on the point that it made him shudder because of its association in his mind with the thing which had happened years before; and that, he knew, was foolish. if it would please his father he should make the attempt. he should make it perhaps the more heartily since he was free not to make it if he chose. it was the freedom that troubled him. so long as he did only what he was told he had nothing on his conscience. now he must be sure that he was right; and he was not sure. once more he didn't question the fact that the medicine would do his mother good. the right and wrong in his judgment centered round doing her good against her own will. with no finespun theories concerning the rights of the individual, he was pretty certain as to what they were. a divine beauty came over the evening when, after he had gone to bed about half-past eight, his mother, in the new blossoming of her affection, came to tuck him in, and kiss him good night. no such thing had happened to him since mrs. crewdson had last done it. mrs. tollivant went through this endearing rite with all her own children; but him she left out. many a time, when from his bed beneath the eaves he heard her making her rounds at night, he had pressed his face into the pillow to control the trembling of his lips. true, he had come to regard the attention as too babyish for a man of twelve; but now that it was shown him he was touched by it. it brought to his memory something mrs. crewdson had said, and which he had never forgotten. "god's wherever there's love, it seems to me, dear. i bring a little bit of god to you, and you bring a little bit of god to me, and so we have him right here." mrs. quidmore, too, brought a little bit of god to him, and he brought a little bit of god to mrs. quidmore. they showed god to each other, as if without each other they were not quite able to see him. the fact suggested the thought that in the matter of the secret administration of the medicine he might pray. one thing he had learned with some thoroughness while in the tollivant family, and that was religion. both in sunday school and in domestic instruction he had studied it conscientiously, and conscientiously accepted it. if he sometimes admitted to bertie tollivant, the cripple, that he "didn't see much sense in it," the confession applied to his personal inabilities. bertie was the cynic and unbeliever in the tollivant household. "there's about as much sense in it," he would declare secretly to tom, "as there is in those old yarns about pilgrim's progress and jack and the beanstalk. only don't say that to ma or pop, because the poor dears wouldn't get you." on tom this skepticism only made the impression that he and bertie didn't understand religion any more than they understood sex, which was also a theme of discussion. they would grow to it in time, by keeping ears and eyes open. now that he was away from the tollivants, in a world where religion was never spoken of, he dismissed it from his mind. that is, he dismissed its intricacies, its complicated doctrines, its galloping through prayers you were too sleepy to think of at night, and too hurried in the morning. here he was admittedly influenced by bertie. "if god loves you, and knows what you want, what's the good of all this now i lay me? it'd be a funny kind of god that wouldn't look after you anyhow." tom had given up saying now i lay me, partly because that, too, seemed babyish, but mainly on account of bertie's reasoning. "it's more of a compliment to god," was his way of explaining it to himself, "to know that he'll do right of his own accord, than to suppose he'll do it just because i pester him." so every night when he got into bed he took a minute to say to himself that god was taking care of him, making this confidence serve in place of more explicit petition. when he had anything special to pray about, he said, he would begin again. and now something special had arisen. he got out of bed. he didn't kneel down because, being anxious not to mislead god by giving him wrong information, he had first to consider what he ought to say. stealing softly across the floor, lest the creaking of the boards should betray the fact that he was up, he went to the open window, and looked out. it was one of those mystic nights which, to a soul inclined to the mystical, seem to hold a spiritual secret. the air, scented by millions of growing things, though chiefly with the acrid perfume of the blue spruces on which he looked down, had a pungent, heavenly odor such as he never caught in the daytime. there was a tang of salt in it, too, as from the direction of the sound came the faintest rustle of a breeze. the rustle was so faint as not to break a stillness, which was more of the nature of a holy suspense because of the myriads of stars. seeking a formula in which to couch his prayer, he found a phrase of mr. tollivant's often used in domestic intercession. "and, o heavenly father, we beseech thee to act wisely in the matter of our needs." what constituted wisdom in the matter of their needs would then be pointed out by mr. tollivant according to the day's or the season's requirements. accepting this language as that of high inspiration, and forgetting to kneel down, the boy began as he stood, looking out on the sanctified darkness: "and, o heavenly father, i beseech thee to act wisely in the matter of my needs." hung up there for lack of archaic grandiloquence, he found himself ending lamely: "and don't let me give it to her if i oughtn't to, for jesus christ's sake, amen." with his effort he was disappointed. not only had the choice of words not taken from mr. tollivant been ludicrously insufficient, but he had forgotten to kneel down. he had probably vitiated the whole prayer. he thought of revision, of constructing a sentence that would balance mr. tollivant's, and beginning again with the proper ceremonial. but bertie's way of reasoning came to him again. "i guess he knows what i mean anyhow." he recoiled at that, however, shocked at his own irreverence. the thought was a blasphemous liberty taken with the watchful and easily offended deity of whom mr. and mrs. tollivant had begged him always to be afraid. he was wondering if by approaching this god at all he hadn't made his plight worse, when the rising of the wind diverted his attention. it rose suddenly, in a great soft sob, but not of pain. rather, it was of exultation, of cosmic joyousness. coming from the farthest reaches of the world, from the atlantic, from africa, from remote islands and mountain tops, it blew in at the boy's window with a strong, and yet gentle, cosmic force. "and suddenly there came a sound from heaven as of a rushing mighty wind." tom quidmore had but one source of quotation, but he had that at his tongue's end. the learning by heart of long passages from the bible had been part of his education at the hands of mr. and mrs. tollivant. rightly or wrongly, he quoted the scriptures, and rightly oftener than not. he quoted them now because, all at once, his room seemed full of the creative breath. he didn't say so, of course; but, confusedly, he felt it. all round the world there was wind. it was the single element in nature which you couldn't see, but of which you received the living invigoration. it cooled, it cleansed, it strengthened. wherever it passed there was an answer. the sea rose; the snows drifted; the trees bent; men and women strove to use and conquer it. a rushing mighty wind! a sound from heaven! that it might be an answer to his prayer he couldn't stop to consider because he was listening to the way it rose and fell, and sighed and soughed and swelled triumphantly through the plantation of blue spruces. by morning it was a gale. the tall things on the property, the bush peas, the scarlet runners, the sweet corn, were all being knocked about. in spots they lay on the earth; in other spots they staggered from the perpendicular. all hands, in the words of old diggory, had their work cut out for them. tom's job was to rescue as many as possible of the ears of sweet corn, in any case ready for picking, before they were damaged. but at half-past two he dragged himself out of the corn patch to fulfill the dreaded duty. nothing had answered his prayer. he had not so much as seen his father throughout the day, as the latter had gone to the markets and had not returned. the gale was still raging, and he might be waiting for it to go down. since the scene by the roadside on the previous afternoon he had taken a measure of his father not very far from accurate. he, quidmore, wanted something of which he was afraid. he was too much afraid of it to press for it urgently; and yet he wanted it so fiercely that he couldn't give it up. what it was the boy could not discover, except that it had something to do with them all. when he said with them all he included the elusive bertha; though why he included her he once more didn't know. in god he was disappointed; that he did not deny. in spite of the shortcomings of his prayer, he had clung to the hope that they might be overlooked. he argued a little from what he himself would have done had anyone come with a request inadequately phrased. he wouldn't think of the manners or the words in his eagerness to do what lay within his power. with god apparently it was not so. there was, of course, the other effect of his prayer. he had only asked to be stopped if the thing was not to be done. if he was not stopped the inference was obvious. he was to go ahead. it was in order to go ahead that he left the corn patch. the kitchen when he got to it was empty. both the windows, that in the south wall and that in the west, were open to let the wind sweep out the smell of cooking. creeping halfway up the stairs, he saw that his mother had closed her bedroom door, a sign that she was really lying down. there was no help now for what he had to do. he stole back to the kitchen again. on the dresser he saw the brown teapot in which she would presently make her tea. he would only have to take it down, and spill the powder into it. the powder was in his waistcoat pocket. he drew it out. it was small and flat, in a neatly folded paper. opening the paper, he saw something innocent and white, not unlike the sugar you spread on strawberries. laying it in readiness on the table by the west window, at which his mother baked, he turned to take down the teapot. the gale grew fiercer. it was almost a tornado. with the teapot in his two hands he paused to look out of the south window at the swaying of the blue spruces. they moaned, they sobbed, they rocked wildly. you might have fancied them living creatures seized by a madness of despair. the fury of the wind, even in the kitchen, blew down a dipper hanging on the wall. there was now no time to lose. the noise of the falling dipper might have disturbed his mother, so that at any minute she might come downstairs. with the teapot again in his hands he turned to the table where he had left the thing which was to do her good. it was not there. dismayed, startled, he looked for it on the floor; but it was not there. it was not anywhere in the kitchen. he searched and searched. going outside, he found the paper caught in a rosebush under the window, but the something innocent and white had been blown to the four corners of the world. the rushing mighty wind had done its work; and yet it was not till two or three years later, when the quidmores had passed from his life, that he wondered if after all his prayer had not been answered. xvi of helping his mother against her will he never heard any more. when his father returned that evening he had the same look of panic as on the previous day, followed by the same expression of relief at seeing the domestic life going on as usual. but he asked no questions, nor did he ever bring the subject up again. when a day or two later tom explained to him that the powder had been blown away he merely nodded, letting the matter rest. autumn came on and tom went to school at bere. he liked the school. no longer a state ward, but the son of a man supposed to be of substance, he passed the tests inflicted by the savage snobbery of children. his quickness at sports helped him to a popularity justified by his good nature. with the teachers he was often forced to seem less intelligent than he was, so as to escape the odious soubriquet of "teacher's pet." on the whole, the winter was the happiest he had so far known. it could have been altogether happy had it not been for the tragic situation of the quidmores. after the brief improvement that had followed on his coming they had reacted to a mutual animosity even more intense. each made him a confidant. "god! it's all i can do to keep my hands off her," the soft drawl confessed. "if she was just to die of a sickness, and me have nothing to do with it, i don't believe i'd be satis--" he held the sentence there as a matter of precaution. "what do you think of a woman who all the years you've known her has never done anything but whine, whine, whine, because you ain't givin' her what you promised?" "and are you?" tom asked, innocently. "i give her what i can. she don't tempt me to do anything extra. say, now, would she tempt you?" tom did his best to take the grown-up, man-to-man tone in which he was addressed. "i think she's awful tempting, if you take her the right way." to take her the right way, to take him also the right way, was the boy's chief concern throughout the winter. to get them to take each other the right way was beyond him. "so long as he goes outside his home," mrs. quidmore declared, with an euphemism of which the boy did not get the significance, "i'll make him suffer for it." "but, ma, he can't stay home all the time." "oh, don't tell me that you don't know what i mean! if you wasn't on his side you'd have found out for me long ago who the woman is. just tell me that--" "and what would you do?" "i'd kill her, i think, if i got the chance." "oh, but ma!" she brandished the knife with which she was cutting cold ham for the supper. "i would! i would!" "but you wouldn't if i asked you not to, would you, ma?" the knife fell with a despairing movement of the hand. "oh, i don't suppose i should do it at all. but he ought to love me." "can he make himself love you, ma?" the ingenuous question went so close to the point that she could only dodge it. "why shouldn't he? i'm his wife, ain't i?" the challenge brought out another of the mysteries which surrounded marriage, as a penumbra fringes the moon on a cloudy night. when his father next reverted to the theme, while driving back from market, the penumbra became denser. "say, boy, don't you go to thinking that the first time you fall in love with a pretty face it's goin' to be for life. that's where the devil sets his snare for men. eight or ten years from now you'll see some girl, and then the devil'll be after you. he'll try to make you think that if you don't marry that girl your one and only chance'll come and go. and when he does, my boy, just think o' me." "think of you--what about?" the sweetness of the tone took from the answer anything like bitterness. "think how i got pinched. gosh, when i look back and remember that i was as crazy to get her as a pup to catch a squir'l i can't believe it was me. but don't forget what i'm tellin' you. no fellow ought to think of bein' married till he's over thirty. he can't be expected to know what he'll love permanent till then." it was the perpetual enigma. "but you always love your wife when you're married to her, don't you?" the answer was in loud satirical laughter, with the observation that tom was the limit for innocence. quite as disturbing as questions of love and marriage were those relating to the fact that the man who had done very well as a hatter was a failure as a market gardener. "a hell of a business, this is! rothschild and rockefeller together couldn't make it pay. gosh, how i hate it! hate everything about it, and home worst of all. know a little woman that if she'd light out with me...." in different keys and conjunctions these confidences were made to the boy all through the winter. if they did not distress him more it was because they were over his head. the disputes of the gods affect mortals only indirectly. when jupiter and juno disagree men feel that they can leave it to olympus to manage its own affairs. so to a boy of twelve the cares of his elders pass in spheres to which he has little or no access. in spite of his knowledge that their situation was desperate, the couple who had adopted him were mighty beings to tom quidmore, with resources to meet all needs. to be so went with being grown up and, in a general way, with being independent. their unbosomings worried him; they did not do more. when they were over he could dismiss them from his mind. his own concerns, his lessons, his games, his friends and enemies in school, and the vague objective of becoming "something big," were his matters of importance. martin and anna quidmore cared for him so much, though each with a dash of selfishness, that his inner detachment from them both would have caused them pain. and yet it was because of this detachment that he was able, in some sense, to get through the winter happily. whatever might have hurt him most passed on the kind of mount olympus where grown-up people had their incredible interests. told, as he always was, that he couldn't understand them, he was willing to drop them at that till they were forced on him again. as spring was passing into summer they were forced on him less persistently; and then one day, quite unexpectedly, he struck the beginning of the end. it was a saturday. as there was no school that day he had driven in on the truck with his father, to market a load of lettuce and early spinach. on returning through bere in the latter part of the forenoon, quidmore stopped at the druggist's. "jump down and have an ice cream soda. i'll leave the lorry here, and come back to you. errand to do in the village." the words had been repeated so often that for these excursions they had come to be a formula. by this time tom knew the errand to be at bertha's house, which was indirectly opposite. seated at a table in the window, absorbing his cool, flavored drink through a pair of straws, he could see his father run up the steps and enter, running down again when he came out. further than the fact that there was something regrettable in the visit, something to be concealed when he went home, the boy's mind did not work. the tragedy of that morning was that, as he was enjoying himself thus, the runabout, driven by one of the hired men, glided up to the door, and mrs. quidmore, dressed for shopping, and very alert, sprang out. as she rarely came into bere, and almost never in the morning when she had her work to do, tom's surprise was tinged at once with fear. recognizing the lorry, mrs. quidmore rushed into the drug store. except for the young man, wearing a white coat, who tended it, the long narrow slit was empty. as he peeped above his glass, with the two straws between his lips, tom saw the wrath of the wronged when close on the track of the wrong-doer. wheeling round, she caught him looking conscious and guilty. "oh! so you're here? where is he?" tom answered truthfully. "he said he had an errand to do. he didn't tell me what it was." "and is he coming back for you here?" "he said he would." "then i'll wait." to wait she sat down at tom's side, having bertha's house within range. whether she suspected anything or not tom couldn't tell, since he hardly suspected anything himself. that there was danger in the air he knew by the violence with which she rejected his proposal to refresh herself with ice cream. "there he is!" they watched him while he came down the steps, hesitated a minute, and turned in the direction away from where they were waiting. tom understood this move. "he's going to jenkins's about that new tire." as she jumped to her feet her movements had a fierceness of activity he had never before seen in her. "that's all i want. i'm goin' back. don't you say you seen me, or that i've been over here at all." hurrying to the street and springing into the car, she bade the hired man turn round again for home. what happened between that saturday and the next tom never knew exactly. a few years later, when his powers of deduction had developed, he was able to surmise; but beyond his own experience he had no accurate information. that there were bitter quarrels he inferred from the sullenness they left behind; but he never witnessed them. not having witnessed them, he had little or no sense of a strain more serious than usual. on the next saturday afternoon he was crouched in the potato field, picking off the ugly reddish bugs and killing them. suddenly he heard himself called. on rising and looking round he found the runabout car stopped in the road, and billy peet, one of the hired men, beckoning him to approach. brushing his hands against each other, he stepped carefully over the rows of young potatoes, and was soon in the roadway. "get in," billy peet ordered, briefly. "the boss sent me over to fetch you." "sent you over to fetch me--in the machine? what's up?" his eye fell on a small straw suitcase in the back of the car. "what's that for?" "get in, and i'll tell you as we go along." tom clambered in beside the driver. "mis' quidmore's sick." "what's the matter with her?" "i'd'n know. awful sick, they say." when they passed the quidmore entrance without turning in tom began to be startled. "say! where we going?" "you're not going home. doctor don't want you there. boss telephoned over to mrs. tollivant, and she's goin' to keep you till mis' quidmore's better--or somethin'." the boy was not often resentful, but he did resent being trundled about like a package. if his mother was sick his place was at home. he could light the fire, bring in the water from the well, and do the score of little things for which a small boy can be useful. to be shunted off like this, as if he could only be an additional care, was an indignity to the thirteen years he was now supposed to have attained to. but what could he do? protest was useless. there was nothing for it but to go where he was driven, like geraldine or the dilapidated car. and yet at harfrey he settled down among the tollivants naturally. no state ward having succeeded him, his room under the eaves was still vacant. once within its familiar shelter, he soon began to feel as if he had never been away. the family welcomed him with the shades of warmth which went with their ages and characters--mr. and mrs. tollivant overcoming their repugnance to a born waif with that christian charity which doubtless is all the nobler for being visibly against the grain; art, now a swaggering fellow of sixteen, with patronizing good nature; cilly, who affected baby-blue ribbons on a blond pigtail, with airs and condescension; bertie, the cripple, with satiric cordiality. if it was not exactly a home-coming, it was at least as good as a visit to old friends. he was touched by being included almost as a member of the family in mr. tollivant's evening prayer. "and, o heavenly father, take this young wanderer as thy child, even as we offer him a shelter. visit not thine anger upon him, lest he be tempted overmuch." at the thought of being tempted overmuch tom felt a pleasing sense of importance. it offered, too, a loophole for excuse in case he should fall. if god didn't intervene on his behalf, easing temptation up, then god would be responsible. and yet, such was the lack of fairness he was bidden to see in god, he would knock a fellow down and then punish him when he tumbled. in the midst of these reflections a thought of the quidmore household choked him with unexpected homesickness. the people who had been kind to him were in trouble, and he was not there! he wondered what they would do without him. he could sometimes catch the man's cruelties and turn them into pleasantries before they reached the wife. he could sometimes forestall the wife's complaints and twist them into little mollifying compliments. would there be anyone to do that now? would they keep the peace? he wished mr. tollivant would pray for them. he tried to pray for them himself, but, as with his effort of the previous year, the right kind of words would not come. if only god could be addressed without so much thee and thou! if only he could read a little boy's heart without calling for fine language! for lack of fine language he had to remain dumb, leaving god, who might possibly have helped martin and anna quidmore, with no information about them. nevertheless, with the facile emotions of youth, a half hour later he was playing checkers with bertie, in full enjoyment of the game. he slept soundly that night, and on sunday fell into the old routine of church and sunday school. monday and tuesday bored him, because for most of the day school claimed the children; but when they came home, and played and squabbled as usual, life took on its old zest. only now and then did the thought of the sick woman and the lonely man sweep across him in a spasm of pain; after which he could forget them and be cheerful. but on wednesday forenoon, as he was turning away from watching the plymouth rocks pecking at their feed, his father arrived in the old runabout. dashing up the hill, tom reached the back door in time to see him enter by the front. "how's ma?" he got no answer, because quidmore followed mrs. tollivant into the front parlor, where they shut the door. in anticipation of being taken home, the boy ran up to his room and packed his bag. "how's ma?" he called out the question from halfway down the stairs. quidmore, emerging from the parlor with mrs. tollivant, ignored it again. bidding good-by to his hostess and thanking her for taking in the boy, he went through these courtesies with a nervous anxiety almost amounting to anguish to convince her of the truth of something he had said. "how's ma?" they were in the car at last so that he could no longer be denied. "she's--she's--not there." all the events of the past year focussed themselves into the question that now burst on tom's lips. "is she--dead?" the lisping voice was sorrowful. "she was buried yesterday." with his habit of thinking twice, the boy asked nothing more. having asked nothing at the minute, he felt less inclined to ask anything as they drove onward. something within him rejected the burden of knowing. while he would not hold himself aloof, he would not involve himself more than events involved him according as they fell out. his reasoning was obscure, but his instincts, grown self-protective from necessity, were positive. whatever had happened, whatever was to be right and wrong to other people, his own motive must be loyalty. "i've got to stick to him," he was saying to himself. "he's been awful good to me. in a kind of a way he's my father. i must stand by him, and see him through, just as if i was his son." it was his first grown-up resolution. xvii grown-up life began at once. his chief care hitherto had been as to what others would do for him; now he was preoccupied with what he could do for some one else. it was a matter of watching, planning, cheering, comforting, and as he expressed it to himself, of bucking up. of bucking up especially he was prodigal. the man had become as limp as on the day when he had thrown himself face downward in the grass. mad once with desire to act, he was terrified now at what he had done. though, as far as tom could judge, no one blamed or suspected him, there was hardly a minute in the day in which he did not betray himself. he betrayed himself to the boy even if to no one else, though betraying himself in such a way that there was nothing definite to take hold of. "i'm sure--and yet i'm not sure," was tom's own summing up. he stressed the fact that he was not sure, and in this he was helped by the common opinion of the countryside. toward the bereaved husband and his adopted son this was sympathetic. the woman had always been neurasthenic, slipshod, and impossible. with a wife to help him, martin quidmore could have been a success as a market gardener as easily as anybody else. as it was, he would get over the shock of this tragedy and find a woman who would be the right kind of mother to a growing boy. here, the mention of bertha was with no more than the usual spice of village scandal, tolerant and unresentful. of all this tom was aware chiefly through the observations of blanche, the colored woman who came in by the day to do the housework. "law, mr. tom, yo' pappa don't need to feel so bad. nobody in this yere town what blame him, not a little mite. po' mis' quidmo', nobody couldn't please her nohow. don't i know? ain't i wash her, and iron her, and do her housecleanin', ever since she come to this yere community, and mr. quidmo' he buy this yere lot off old aaron bidbury? no, suh! nobody can't tell me! them there giddy things what nobody can't please 'em they can't please theirselves, and some day they go to work and do somefin' despe'ate, just like po' mis' quidmo'. a little cup o' tea, she take. no mo'n that. see, boy! i keep that there brown teapot, what look as innocent as a baby, all the time incriminated to her memo'y." nevertheless, tom found his father obsessed by fear, with nothing to be afraid of. the obsession had shown itself as soon as they entered the house on their return from harfrey. he was afraid of the house, afraid of the kitchen especially. when gimlets barked he jumped, cursing the dog for its noise. when a buggy drove up to the door he peeped out at the occupant before showing himself to the neighbor coming to offer his condolences. if the telephone rang tom hastened to answer it, knowing that it set his father shivering. as evening deepened on that first wednesday, they kept out of doors as late as possible, the boy chattering to the best of his ability. when obliged to go in, quidmore tried to say with solicitude on tom's behalf: "expect you'll be lonesome now with only the two of us in the house. better come and sleep in the other bed in my room." the boy was about to reply that he was not lonesome, and preferred his own bed, when he caught the dread behind the invitation. "all right, dad, i'll come. sleep there every night. then i won't be scared." about two in the morning tom was wakened by a shout. "hell! hell! hell!" jumping from his own bed, he ran to the other. "wake up, dad! wake up!" ouidmore woke, confused and trembling. "wha' matter?" his senses returning, he spoke more distinctly. "must have had a nightmare. god! turn on the light. hate bein' in the dark. now get back to bed. all right again." the next day both were picking strawberries. it was not quidmore's custom to pick strawberries, but he seemed to prefer a task at which he could crouch, and be more or less out of sight. happening to glance up, he saw a stranger coming round the duck pond. "who's that?" he snapped, in terror. tom ran to the stranger, interviewed him, and ran back again. "it's an agent for a new kind of fertilizer." "tell him i don't want it and to get to hell out of this." "you'd better see him. he'll think it queer if you don't." it was the spur he needed. he couldn't afford to be thought queer. he saw the agent, tom acting as go-between and interpreter. to act as go-between and interpreter became in a measure the boy's job. being so near the holidays, he did not return to school, and freed from school, he could give all his time to helping the frightened creature to seem competent in the eyes of his customers and hired men. not that he succeeded. none knew better than the hired men that the place was, as they put it, all in the soup; none were so quick to fall away as customers who were not getting what they wanted. when the house was tumbling about their heads one little boy's shoulder could not do much as a prop; but what it could do he offered. he offered it with a gravity at which the men laughed good-naturedly behind his back. they took his orders solemnly, and thought no more about them. for a whole week nothing went to market. the dealers whom they supplied complained by telephone. billy peet and himself got a load of "truck" into town, only to be told that their man had made other arrangements. to meet these conditions quidmore had spurts of energy, from which he backed down gibbering. taking his courage in both hands, the boy went to see bertha. never having been face to face with her before, he found her of the type of beauty best appreciated where the taste is for the highly blown. she received him with haughty surprise and wonder, not asking him to sit down. having prepared his words, he recited them, though her attitude frightened him out of the man-of-the-world tone he had meant to adopt. humbly and haltingly, he asked if she wouldn't come out and help to stiffen the old man. "so he's sent you, has he? well, you can go back and say that i've no reply except the one i've given him. all is over between us. tell him that if he thinks that _that_ was the way to win me he's very gravely mistook. i know what's happened as positive as if i was a jury, and i shall never pardon it. silence i shall keep, but that is all he can ask of me. he's made me talked about when he shouldn't ought to ov, ignoring that a woman, and especially a widow--" her voice broke--"has nothing but her reputation. go back and tell him that if he tries to force my door he'll find it double-barred against him." tom went back but said nothing. there was no need for him to say anything, since his life began at once to take another turn. school holidays having begun, he was free in fact as well as in name. it was on a thursday that his father came to him with the kind of proposal which always excites a small boy. "say, boy, what you think of a little trip down to wilmington, delaware, you and me? go off to-morrow and get back by tuesday. i'd see my sister, and it'd do me good." the prospect seemed to have done him good already. a new life had come to him. he went about the place giving orders for the few days of his absence, with particular instructions to diggory and blanche as to geraldine, and the disposal of the milk. they started on their journey in the morning. it was one of those mornings in june when every blessed and beautiful thing seems poured on the earth at once. as between five and six billy peet drove them over to take the train at harfrey, light, birds, trees, flowers, meadows, dew, would have thrilled them to ecstasy if they had not been used to them. for the first time in weeks tom saw his father smile. it was a smile of relief rather than of pleasure, but it was better than his look of woe. the journey wakened memories. not since mrs. crewdson had brought him out to place him as a state ward with mrs. tollivant had he gone into the city by this route. he had gone in by the motor truck often enough; but this line that followed the river was haunted still by the things he had outlived. he was not sorry to have known them, though glad that they were gone. he was hardly sorry even for the present, though doubtful as to how it was going to turn out. vaguely and not introspectively, he was shocked at himself, that he should be sitting there with a man who had done what he felt pretty sure this man had done, and that he should feel no horror. but he felt none. he assured himself of that. he could sleep with him by night, and work and eat with him by day, with no impulse but to shield a poor wretch who had made his own life such a misery. "i've got to do it," he said to himself, in a kind of self-defense. "i don't _know_ he did it--not for sure, i don't. and if nobody else tries to find out, why should i, when he's been so awful nice to me?" he watched a steamer plowing her way southward in the middle of the stream. he liked her air of quiet self-possession and of power. he wondered whence she was coming, whither she was going, and what she was doing it for. he couldn't guess. "that'd be like me," he said, silently, "sailing from i don't know where--sailing _to_ i don't know where----" ten years later he finished this thought, repeating exactly the same words. just now he couldn't finish anything, because there was so much to see. little towns perched above little harbors. fishermen angled from little piers. a group of naked boys, shameless as young mermen, played in the water. on a rock a few yards from the shore a flock of gulls jostled each other for standing room. a motor boat puffed. yachts rode sleepily at anchor. the car which, when they took it at harfrey had been almost empty, was beginning to fill with the earlier hordes of commuters. soon it was quite full. soon there were cheery young people, most of them chewing gum, standing in the passageway. having rounded the curve at spuyten duyvil, they saw the city looming up, white, spiritual, tremulous, through the morning mist. up to this minute he had not thought of plans; now he began to wonder what they should do on reaching the grand central, where they would arrive in another quarter of an hour. "do we go straight across to the pennsylvania station, to take the train for wilmington, or do we have to wait?" "i'll--i'll see." the answer was unsatisfactory. he looked at his father inquiringly. looking at him, he was hurt to observe that his confidence was departing, that he was again like something with a broken spring. "well, we're going to wilmington to-day, aren't we?" "i'll--i'll see." "but," the boy cried in alarm, "where can we go, if we don't?" "i--i know a place." it was disappointing. the choking sensation which, when he was younger, used to precede tears, began to gather in his throat. having heard so much from mrs. quidmore of the glories of wilmington, delaware, he saw it as a city of palaces, of exquisite, ladylike maidens, of noble youths, of aristocratic joyousness. moreover, he had been told that to get there you went under the river, through a tunnel so deep down in the earth that you felt a distressful throbbing in the head. the postponement of these experiences even for a day was hard to submit to. in the grand central his father was in a mood he had never before seen. it was a dark mood, at once decided and secretive. "come this way." this way was out into forty-second street. with their suitcases in their hands, they climbed into a street car going westward. westward they went, changing to another car going southward, under the thunder of the elevated, in ninth avenue. at fourteenth street they got out again. tom recognized the neighborhood because of its nearness to the great markets to which they sometimes brought supplies. but they avoided the markets, making their way between drays, round buildings in course of demolition, through gangs of children wooing disaster as they played in the streets. in the end they turned out of the tumult to find themselves in a placid little backwater of the "old new york" of the early nineteenth century. reading the sign at the corner tom saw that it was jane street. jane street dates from a period earlier than the development of that civic taste which gives to all new york north of fourteenth street the picturesqueness of a sum in simple arithmetic. jane street has atmosphere, period, chic. you know at a glance that the people who built these trim little red-brick houses still felt that impulse which first came to manhattan from the hague, to be fostered later by william and mary, and finally merged in the georgian tradition. jane street is dutch. it has dutch quaintness, and, as far as new york will permit it, dutch cleanliness. it might be a byway in amsterdam. instead of cutting straight from the hudson river docks to greenwich avenue, it might run from a canal with barges on it to a field of hyacinths in bloom. but tom quidmore saw not what you and i would have seen, a relief from the noise and fetidness of a hot summer's morning in a neighborhood reeking with garbage. when his heart had been fixed on that dream-city, wilmington, delaware, he found himself in a dingy little alley. not often querulous, he became so now. "what are we doing down here?" the reply startled him. "i'm--i'm sick." looking again at the man who shuffled along beside him, he saw that his face had grown ashy, while his eyes, which earlier in the day had had life in them, were lusterless. the boy would have been frightened had it not been for the impulse of affection. "let's go back to bere. then you can have the doctor. i'll get a cab and steer the whole business." without answering, quidmore stopped at a brown door, level with the pavement, in a big, dim-windowed building, with fire escapes zigzagging down the front. jane street is not exclusively clean and trim and dutch. it has lapses--here a warehouse, there a dwelling tumbling to decay, elsewhere a nondescript structure like this. it looked like a lodging house for sailors and dock laborers. in the basement was a restaurant to which you went down by steps, and bearing the legend pappa's chop saloon. while quidmore stood in doubt as to whether to ring the bell or to push the door which already stood a little open, two men came out of the chop saloon and began to mount the steps. in faded blue overalls the worse for wear, they had plainly broken a day's work, possibly begun at five o'clock, for a late breakfast. the one in advance, a sturdy, well-knit fellow of forty or forty-five, got a sinister expression from a black patch over his left eye. his companion was older, smaller, more worn by a bitter life. all the twists in his figure, all the soured betrayals in his crafty face, showed you the habitual criminal. none of these details was visible to quidmore, because his imagination could see only the bed for which he was craving. to the boy, who trusted everyone, they were no more than the common type of workman he was used to meeting in the markets. the fellow with the patch on his eye, making an estimate of the strangers as he mounted the steps, spoke cheerily. "i say, mate, what can i do for yer?" the voice with a vaguely english ring was not ungenial. not ungenial, when you looked at it, was the strongly-boned face, with a ruddiness burnt to a coarse tan. the single gray-blue eye had the sympathetic gleam which often helps roguery to make itself excusable to people with a sense of fun. quidmore muttered something about wanting to see mrs. pappa. "right you are! come along o' me. i'll dig the old gal out for yer. expects you wants a room for yerself and the kid. hi, pappa!" pappa came out of a dim, musty parlor as the witch who foretells bad weather appears in a mechanical barometer. she was like a witch, but a dark, classic witch, with an immemorial tradition behind her. her ancestors might have fought at marathon, or sacrificed to neptune in the temple on sunium. in jane street she was archaic, a survival from antiquity. her thoughts must have been with the nymphs at delphi, or following the triremes carrying the warriors from argolis to troy, as silent, mysterious, fateful, she led the way upstairs. they followed in procession, all four of them. the doorstep acquaintances displayed a solicitude not less than brotherly. the hall was without furniture, the stairs without carpet. the softwood floors, like the treads of the stairs, were splintered with the usage of many heavy heels. where the walls bulged, through the pressure of jerry-built stories overhead, the marbled paper swelled into bosses. tom found it impressive, with something of strange stateliness. "yer'll be from the country," the one-eyed fellow observed, as they climbed upward. "yes, sir," tom answered, civilly. "we're on our way to wilmington, delaware, but my father felt a little sick." "well, he's struck a good place to lay up in. i say, pappa," he called ahead, "seems to me as the big room with two beds'd be what'd suit the gent. it's next door to the barthroom, and he'll find that convenient. mate," he explained further, when they stood within the room with two beds, "this'll set ye' back a dollar a day in advance. that right, pappa, ain't it?" pappa assenting with some antique sign, quidmore drew out his pocketbook to extract the dollar. with no ceremonious scruples the smaller comrade craned his neck to appraise, as far as possible, the contents of the wallet. "wad," tom heard him squirt out of the corner of his mouth, in the whisper of a ventriloquist. his friend seemed to wink behind the patch on his left eye. tom took the exchange of confidence as a token of respect. he and his father were considered rich, the effect being seen in the attentions accorded them. this was further borne out when the genial one of the two rogues turned on the threshold, as his colleague was following pappa downstairs. "anythink i can do for yer, mate, command me. name of honeybun--lemuel honeybun. honey lem some of the guys calls me. i answers to it, not takin' no offense like." he pointed to the figure stumping down the stairs. "my friend, mr. goodsir. him and me been pals this two year. we lives on the ground floor. room back of pappa." the door closed, tom looked round him in an interest which eclipsed his hopes of the tunnel. this was adventure. it was nearly romance. never before had he stayed in a hotel. the place was not luxurious, but never, in the life he could remember, having known anything but necessity, necessity was enough. moreover, the room contained a work of art that touched his imagination. on the bare drab mantelpiece stood the head of a red indian, in plaster painted in bronze, not unlike the mummified head of rameses the great. the boy couldn't take his eye away from it. this was what you got by visiting strange cities more intimately than by trucking to and from the markets. quidmore threw himself on his bed, his face buried in the meager pillow. he was suffering apparently not from pain, but from some more subtle form of distress. being told that there was nothing he could do for the invalid, tom sat silent and still on one of the two small chairs which helped out the furnishings. it was not boring for him to do this, because he swam in novelty. he recalled the steamer he had seen that morning, sailing from he didn't know where, sailing _to_ he didn't know where, but on the way. he, too, was on the way. he was on the way to something different from wilmington, delaware. it would be different from bere. he began to wonder if he should ever go back to bere. if he didn't go back to bere ... but at this point in tom's dreams quidmore dragged himself off the bed. "let's go down to the chop saloon, and eat." xviii he was not too ill to eat, but too ill when not eating to stay anywhere but on his bed. he went back to it again, lying with his face buried in the pillow as before. the boy resumed his patient sitting. he would have been bored with it now, had he not had his dreams. all the same, it was a relief when about four o'clock, just as the westering sun was beginning to wake the red indian to an horrific life, mr. honeybun, pushing the door ajar softly, peeped in with his good eye. "i say, mate!" he whispered, "wouldn't you like me to take the young gent for a bit of a walk like? do him good, and him a-mopin' here all by hisself." the walk meant tom's initiation into the life of cities as that life is led. not that it went very far, but as far as it went it was a revelation. it took him from one end of jane street to the other, along the docks of the cunard and other great lines, and as far as eighth avenue in the broad, exciting thoroughfare of fourteenth street. new york as he had seen it hitherto, from the front seat of a motor truck, had been little more entertaining than a map. besides, he was only developing a taste for this sort of entertainment. games, school, scraps with other boys, had been enough for him. now he was waking to an interest in places as places, in men as men, in differences of attitude to the drama known as life. in mr. honeybun's attitude he grew interested especially. "i don't believe that nothink don't belong to no one," tom's guide observed, as the wealth of the city spread itself more splendidly. "things is common proputty. yer takes what yer can put yer 'and on." "but wouldn't you be arrested?" "yer'd be arrested if yer didn't look out; but what's bein' arrested? no more'n the measures what a lot of poor, frightened, silly boobs'll take agin the strong man what makes 'em tremble. at least," he added, as an afterthought, "not when yer conscience is clear, it ain't." fascinated by this bold facing of society, tom ventured on a question. "have you ever been arrested, mr. honeybun?" mr. honeybun straightened himself to the martyr's pose. "oh, if yer puts it that way, i've suffered for my opinions. that much i'll admit. i'm--" he brought out the statement proudly--"i'm one o' them there socialists. you know what a socialist is, don't yer?" tom was not sure that he did. "a socialist is one o' them fellers who whatever he sees knows it belongs to him if he can get ahold of it. it's gettin' ahold of it what counts. now if you was to have somethink i wanted locked up in yer 'ouse, let us say, and i was to make my way in so as i could take it--why, then it'd be mine. that's the law o' gord, i believes; and i tries to live up to it." enjoying a frankness which widened his horizon, tom was nevertheless perplexed by it. "but wouldn't that be something like burglary?" "burglary is what them may call it what ain't socialists; but it don't do to hang a dog because yer've give him a bad name. a lot o' good people's been condemned that way. when i'm in court i always appeals to justice." "and do you get it?" "i get men's. i don't get gord's. you see that apple?" they stopped before a window in horatio street where apples were displayed. "now, do yer suppose that apple growed itself for any one man in partic'lar? no! that apple didn't know nothink about men's laws when it blossomed on a apple tree. it just give itself generallike to the human race. if you was to go in and collar that big red one, and git away with it, it'd be yours. stands to reason it'd be. gord's law! but if that there policeman, a-squintin' his ugly eye at us this minute--he knows honey lem, he does!--was to pull yer in, yer might git thirty days. man's law! and i'll leave it to you which is best worth sufferin' for." in this philosophy of life there was something tom found reasonable, and something in which he felt a flaw without being able to detect it. he chased it round and round in his thoughts as he sat through the long dull hours with his father. it passed the time; it helped him to the habit of thinking things out for himself. his mind being clear, and his intuitions acute, he could generally solve a problem not beyond his years. when, on the morrow, they walked in the cool of the day down the length of hudson street till it ends in reade street, tom brought the subject up from another point of view. "but, mr. honeybun, suppose someone took something from you? what then?" "he'd git it in the nut," the socialist answered, tersely. "not if there'd be two of 'em," he added, in amendment. "if there's two i don't contend. i ain't a communist." "is that what a communist is, a fellow who'll contend with two?" "a communist is a socialist what'll use weepons. if there's somethink what he thinks is his in anybody's 'ouse, he'll go armed, and use vi'lence. they never got that on me. i never 'urt nobody, except onst i hits a footman, what was goin' to grab me, a wee little knock on the 'ead with a silver soup ladle i 'ad in me 'and and lays 'im out flat. didn't do him no 'arm, not 'ardly any. that was in england. but them days is over, since i lost my eye. makes yer awful easy spotted when yer've lost a eye." "how did you lose it, mr. honeybun?" "i lost it a-savin' of the life of a beautiful young lady. 'twas quite a tale." the boy looked up expectantly while his friend thought out the details. "i was footin' it onst from new haven to new york, and i'd got to a pretty little town as they call old lyme. yer see, i'd been doin' a bit o' time at new haven--awful 'ard on socialists they was in new haven in them days--and when i gits out i was a bit stoney-broke till i'd picked up somethink else. well there i was, trampin' it through old lyme, and i'd got near to the bridge what crosses the river they've got there--the connecticut i think it is--and what should i see but a 'orse what a young lady was drivin' come over the bridge like mad. the young lady she was tuggin' at the reins and a-hollerin' like blazes for some one to save her life. i ain't no 'ero, kid. don't go for to think that i'm a-sayin' that i am. but what's a man to do when he sees a beautiful young lady in danger o' bein' killed?" he paused to take the bodily postures with which he stopped the runaway. "and the tip of the shaft," he ended, "it took me right in the eye, and put it out. but, lord, what's a eye, even to a socialist, when yer can do somethink for a feller creeter?" tom gaped in admiration. "i suppose it hurt awful." "was in 'orspital three months," the hero said, quietly. "young lady, she visits me reg'lar, calls me her life-saver, and every name like that, and kind o' clings to me. but, lord, marriage ain't never been much of a fancy to me. ties a man up, and i likes to be free, except when i'm sufferin' for socialism. besides, if i was to marry every woman what i've saved their lives i'd be one o' them normans by this time. when yer wants company a good pal'll be faithfuller than a wife, and nag yer a lot less." "mr. goodsir's your pal, ain't he, mr. honeybun?" "yes, and i'm sick of him. he don't develop. he ain't got no eddication. yer can see for yerself he don't talk correct. that's what i've took to in yer gov'nor and you, yer gentleman way o' speakin'. only yer needn't go for to tell yer old man all what i've been a-gassin' of to you. i can see he's what they call conservative. he wouldn't understand. you're the younger generation, mind more open like. you and me'd make a great team if we was ever to work together." with memories of his mother in his mind, tom answered sturdily, "i wouldn't be a socialist, not for anything you could offer me." they left it at that. mr. honeybun was content to point out the historic sites known to him as they turned homeward. there was the house where a murder had been committed; the store where a big break had been pulled off; a private detective's residence. "might go out agin some day, if yer pop don't mind it," he suggested, when they had reached their own hallway. "i gits the time in the late afternoon. yer see, our job at the market begins early and ends early, and lately--" there was a wistful note--"well, i feels kind o' fed up with the low company goodsir keeps. every kind o' joint and dive and--and--chinamen--and--" out of respect for the boy he held up the description. "you'd 'ardly believe it, but an innercent little walk like what we've just took, why, it'll do me as much good as a swig o' water when you wake up about three in the mornin', with yer tongue 'angin' out like a leather strap, after a three-days' spree." unable to get the full force of this figure, tom thanked his guide politely, and was bounding up the stairs two steps at a time, when the man who stood watching him spoke again. "if i'd ever a-thought that i'd 'a had a kid like you, it'd 'a' been pretty near worth gittin' married for." tom could only turn with one of those grins which showed his teeth, making his eyes twinkle with a clear blue light, when adequate words for kindness wouldn't come to him. xix the days settled into a routine. when they rose in the morning a colored woman "did" their room while they went down to the chop saloon for breakfast. returning, quidmore threw himself on his bed again. he did this after each meal, poking his nose deep into the limp pillow. hardly ever speaking, he now and then uttered a low moan. tom watched patiently, ready to tell him the time or bring him a drink of water. when the day grew too hot he fanned him with an old newspaper. "why don't we go home, dad?" he asked anxiously on the third day. "i could get you there as easy as anything." "i'm not well enough." "you don't seem very sick to me. you don't have any pain and you can eat all right." "it isn't that kind of bein' sick. it's--" he sought for a name--"it's like nervous prostration." more nearly than he knew he had named his malady. in his own words, he was all in; and he was all in to the end of the letter of the term. of that moral force which is most of what any man has to live upon some experience had drained him. he had spent his gift of vitality. all in was precisely the phrase to apply to him. he had cashed the last cent of whatever he had inherited or saved in the way of inner strength, and now he could not go on. "what's the good of it anyhow?" he asked of tom in the night. "there's nothin' to it, not when you come to think of it. you run after something as if you couldn't live without it; and then when you get it you curse your god that you ever run." tom shuddered in his bed, but he was used to doing that. there was hardly a night when he was not wakened by a nightmare. if it was not by a nightmare, it was by the soft complaining voice. "are you awake, tom?" "yes, dad. can i get you anything?" "no; i only wanted to know if you was awake." tom kept awake as long as he could, because he knew the poor wretch was afraid of lying sleepless in the dark. to keep him awake, perhaps for less selfish reasons, too, the soft voice would take this opportunity of giving him advice. "don't you ever go to wanting anything too much, boy. that's what's done for me. you can want things if you like; but one of the tricks in the game is to know how to be disappointed. i never did know, not even when i was a little chap. if i cried for the moon i wouldn't stop till i got it. when i was about as old as you, not gettin' what i wanted made me throw a fit. if i couldn't get things by fair means i had to get 'em by foul; but i got 'em. it don't do you no good, boy. if i could go back again over the last six months...." for fear of a confession tom stopped his ears, but no confession ever came. the tortured soul could dribble its betrayals, but it couldn't face itself squarely. "look out for women," he said, gently, on another night. "you're old enough now to know how they'll play the dutch with you. when i was your age there was nothing i didn't understand, and i guess it's the same with you. don't ever let 'em get you. they got me before i was--well, i don't hardly know what age i was, but it was pretty young. look out for 'em, boy. if you ever damn your soul for one of 'em, she'll do you dirt in the end. if it hadn't been for her...." to keep this from going further, the boy broke in with the first subject he could think of. "i wonder if they'll remember to pick the new peas. they'll be ready by this time. do you suppose they'll ...?" "i don't care a hang what they do." after a brief silence he continued: "i'd 'a left the place to you, boy, only my brother-in-law, my sister's husband, has a mortgage on the place that'd eat up most of the value, so i've left it to her. that'll fix 'em both. i wish i could 'a done more for you." "you've done a lot for me, as it is." "you don't know." there was another silence. it might have lasted ten minutes. the boy was falling once more into a doze when the soft voice lisped again, "tom." he did his best to drag himself back from sleep. "yes, dad? do you want to know what time it is? i'll get up and look." "no, stay where you are. there's somethin' i want to say. i've been a skunk to you." "oh, cut it, dad...." "i won't cut it. i want to say it out. when i--when i first took you, it wasn't--it wasn't so much that i'd took a fancy to you...." "i know it wasn't, dad. you wanted a boy to pick the berries. let's drop it there." but the fevered conscience couldn't drop it there. "yes; at first. and then--and then it come into my mind that you might be--might be the one that'd do somethin' i didn't want to do myself. i thought--i thought that if you done it we might get by on it. we got by on it all right--or up to now we've got by--but i didn't get real fond of you till--till...." "oh, dad, let's go to sleep." "all right. let's. i just wanted to say that much. i was glad afterward that...." the boy breathed heavily, pretending that he was asleep. he was soon asleep in earnest, and for the rest of the night was undisturbed. in the morning his father didn't get up, and tom went down to the chop saloon to bring up something that would serve as breakfast. he did the same at midday, and the same in the evening. it was a summer's evening, with a long twilight. as it began to grow dark quidmore seemed to rouse himself. he needed tooth paste, shaving cream, other small necessities. sitting up on the bed, he made out a list of things, giving tom the money with which to pay for them. if he went to the pharmacy in hudson street he would be back in half an hour. "all right, dad. i know the way. i'm an old hand in new york by this time." he was at the door when quidmore called him back. "say, boy. give us a kiss." tom was stupefied. he had kissed his adopted mother often enough, but he had never been asked to do this. quidmore laughed, pulling him close. "ah, come along! i don't ask you often. you're a fine boy, tom. you must know as well as i do what's been...." the words were suspended by a hug; but once he was free tom fled away like a small young wild thing, released from human hands. having reached the street, he began to feel frightened, prescient, awed. something was going to happen, he could not imagine what. he made his purchases hurriedly, and then delayed his return. he could be tender with the man; he could be loving; but he couldn't share his secrets. but he had to go back. in the dim upper hall outside the door he paused to pump up courage to go in. he was not afraid in the common way of fear; he was only overcome with apprehension at having a knowledge he rejected forced on him. the first thing he noticed was that no light came through the crack beneath the door. the room was apparently dark. that was strange because his father dreaded darkness, except when he was there to keep him company. he crept to the door and listened. there was no sound. he pushed the door open. the lights were out. in panic at what he might discover, he switched on the electricity. but he only found the room empty. that was so far a relief. his father had gone out, and would be back again. closing the door behind him, he advanced into the room. it seemed more than empty. it felt abandoned, as if something had gone which would not return. he remembered that sensation afterward. he stood still to wonder, to conjecture. the red indian gleamed with his bronze leer. the next thing the boy noticed was an odd little pile on the table. it was money--notes. on top of the notes there was silver and copper. he stooped over them, touching them with his forefinger, pushing them. he pushed them as he might have pushed an insect to see whether or not it was alive. lastly he noticed a paper, on which the money had been placed. there was something scribbled on it with a pencil. he held it under the dim lamp. "for tom--with a real love." the tears gushed to his eyes, as they always did when people showed that they loved him. but he didn't actually cry; he only stood still and wondered. he couldn't make it out. that his father should have gone out and forgotten all his money was unusual enough, but that he should have left these penciled words was puzzling. it was easy to count the money. there were seven fifty-dollar bills, with twenty-eight dollars and fifty-four cents in smaller bills and change. he seemed to remember that his father had drawn four hundred dollars for the wilmington expenses, with a margin for purchases. he stood wondering. he could never recall how long he stood wondering. the rest of the night became more or less a blank to him; for, to the best of the boy's knowledge, the man who had adopted him was never seen again. xx to the best of the boy's knowledge the man who had adopted him was never seen again; but it took some time to assume the fact that he was dead. visitors to new york often dived below the surface, to come up again a week or ten days later. their experience in these absences they were not always eager to discuss. "why, i've knowed 'em to stay away that long as yer'd swear they'd been kidnapped," mr. honeybun informed the boy. "he's on a little time; that's all. nothink but nat'rel to a man of his age--and a widower--livin' in the country--when he gits a bit of freedom in the city." "yes, but what'll he do for money?" there was this point of view, to be sure. mr. goodsir suggested that quidmore had had more money still, that he had only left this sum to cover tom's expenses while he was away. "and listen, son," he continued, kindly, "that's a terr'ble big wad for a boy like you to wear on his person. why, there's guys that free-quents this very house that'd rob and murder you for half as much, and never drop a tear. now here i am, an old trusty man, accustomed to handle funds, and not sneak nothin' for myself. if i could be of any use to you in takin' charge of it like...." "me and you'll talk this over, later," mr. honeybun intervened, tactfully. "the kid don't need no one to take care of his cash when his father may skin home again before to-night. let's wait a bit. if he's goin' to trust anybody it'll be us, his next of kin in this 'ere 'ouse, of course. that'd be so, kiddy, wouldn't it?" tom replied that it would be so, giving them to understand that he counted on their good offices. for the present he was keeping himself in the non-committal attitude natural to suspense. "you see," he explained, looking from one to another, with his engaging candor, "i can't do anything but just wait and see if he's coming back again, at any rate, not for a spell." the worthies going to their work, the interview ended. at least, mr. goodsir went to his work, though within a few minutes mr. honeybun was back in tom's room again. "say, kid; don't you let them three hundred bucks out'n yer own 'and. i can't stop now; but when i blow in to eat at noon i'll tell yer what i'd do with 'em, if you was me. keep 'em buttoned up in yer inside pocket; and don't 'ang round in this old hut any more'n you can help till i come back and git you. yer never knows who's on the same floor with yer; but out in the street yer'll be safe." out in the street he kept to the more populous thoroughfares, coasting the line of docks especially. he liked them. on the façades of the low buildings he could read names which distilled romance into syllables--new orleans, savannah, galveston, texas, arizona, oklahoma. he had always been fond of geography. it opened up the world. it told of countries and cities he would one day visit, and which in the meantime he could dream about. over the low roofs of the dock buildings he could see the tops of funnels. here and there was the long black flank of a steamer at its pier. there were flags flying from one masthead or another, while exotic seafaring types slipped in and out amid the crush of vehicles, or dodged the freight train aimlessly shunting up and down. the movement and color, the rumble of deep sound, the confused world-wide purpose of it all, the knowledge that he himself was so insignificant a figure that no robber or murderer would suspect that he had all that money buttoned against his breast, dulled his mind to his desolation. he tried to keep moving so as to make it seem to a suspicious populace that he was an errand boy; but now and then the sense of his loneliness smote him to a standstill. he would wonder where he was going, and what he was going for, as he wondered the same thing about the steamer on the hudson. like her, he seemed to be afloat. she, of course, had her destination; but he had nothing in the world to tie up to. he seemed to have heard of a ship that was always sailing--sailing--sailing--sailing--with never a port to have come out of, and never a port in view, _the church of the sea!_ he read the words on the corner of a big white building where jane street flows toward the docks. he read them again. he read them because he liked their suggestions--immensity, solitude, danger perhaps, and god! [illustration: "that's a terr'ble big wad for a boy like you to wear"] it was queer to think of god being out there, where there were only waves and ships and sailors, but chiefly waves and a few seabirds. it recalled the religion of crippled bertie tollivant, the cynic. to the instructed like himself, god was in the churches that had steeples and pews and strawberry sociables, or in the parlors where they held family prayers. they told you that he was everywhere; but that only meant that you couldn't do wrong, you couldn't swear, or smoke a cigarette, or upset some householder's ash-barrels, without his spotting you. tom quidmore did not believe that mr. and mrs. tollivant would have sanctioned this church of the sea, where god was as free as wind, and over you like the sky, and beyond any human power to monopolize or give away. it made him too close at hand, too easy to find, and probably much too tender toward sailors, who were often drunk, and homeless little boys. he turned away from the church of the sea, secretly envying bertie tollivant his graceless creed, but not daring to question the wisdom of adult men and women. by the steps of the chop saloon he waited for mr. honeybun, who came swinging along, a strong and supple figure, a little after the whistle blew at twelve. to the boy's imagination, now that he had been informed as to his friend's status, he looked like what had been defined to him as a socialist. that is, he had the sort of sinuosity that could slip through half-open windows, or wriggle in at coal-holes, or glide noiselessly up and down staircases. it was ridiculous to say it of one so bony and powerful, but the spring of his step was spiritlike. "good for you, lad, to be waitin'! we'll go right along and do it, and then it'll be off our minds." what "it" was to be, tom had no idea. but then he had no suspicions. in spite of his hard childhood, it did not occur to him that grown-up men would do him wrong. he had no fear of mr. honeybun, and no mistrust, not any more than a baby in arms has fear or mistrust of its nurse. "and there's another thing," mr. honeybun brought up, as they went along. "it don't seem to me no good for a husky boy like you to be just doin' nothink, even while he's waitin' for his pop. i'd git a job, if you was me." the boy said that he would gladly have a job, but didn't know how to get one. "i've got one for yer if yer'll take it. work not too 'ard, and 'll bring you in a dollar and a 'alf a day." but "it" was the matter in hand, and presently its nature became evident. at the corner of fourteenth street and eighth avenue mr. honeybun pointed across to a handsome white-stone building, whose very solidity inspired confidence. tom could read for himself that it was a savings bank. "now what i'd do if it was my wad is this. i'd put three hundred and twenty-five of it in that there bank, which'd leave yer more'n twenty-five for yer eddication. but yer principal, no one won't be able to touch it but yerself, and twice a year yer'll be gettin' yer interest piled up on top of it." tom's heart leaped. he had long meditated on savings banks. they had been part of his queer vision. to become "something big" he would have to begin by opening some such account as this. with mr. honeybun's proposal he felt as if he had suddenly grown taller by some inches, and older by some years. "you'll come over with me, won't you?" mr. honeybun demurred. "well, yer see, kid, i'm a pretty remarkable character in this neighborhood. there's lots knows honey lem; and if they was to see me go in with you they might think as yer hadn't come by your dough quite hon--i mean, accordin' to yer conscience--or they might be bad enough to suppose as there was a put-up job between us. when i puts a few dollars into my own savings bank--i'm a savin' bird, i am--i goes right over to brooklyn, where there ain't no wicked mind to suspeck me. so go in by yerself, and say yer wants to open a account. if anyone asks yer, tell him just how the money come to yer, and i don't believe as yer'll run no chanst of no one not believin' yer." so it was done. tom came out of the building with his bank book buttoned into his breast pocket, and a conscious enhancement of life. "and now," mr. honeybun suggested, "we'll make tracks for pappa's and eat." the "check," like the meal, was light, and mr. honeybun paid it. tom protested, since he had money of his own, but his host took the situation gracefully. "lord love yer, kid, ain't i yer next o' kin, as long as yer guv'nor's away? who sh'd buy yer a lunch if it wasn't me?" childhood is naturally receptive. as romulus and remus took their food from a wolf when there was no one else to give it them, so tom quidmore found it not amazing to be nourished, first by a murderer, and then by a thief. it became amazing, a few years later, on looking back on it; but for the moment murderer and thief were not the terms in which he thought of those who had been kind to him. not that he didn't try. he tried that very afternoon. when his next o' kin had gone back to his job of lifting and heaving in the gansevoort market, he returned to the empty room. it was his first return to it alone. when he had gone up from his breakfast in the chop saloon both goodsir and honeybun had accompanied him. now the emptiness was awesome, and a little sinister. he had slept there the previous night, slept fitfully that is, waking every half hour to listen for the shuffling footstep. he heard other footsteps, dragging, thumping, staggering, but they always passed on to the story above, whence would come a few minutes later the sound of heavy boots thrown on the floor. now and then there were curses, or male voices raised in a wrangle, or a few bars of a drunken song. during the earlier nights he had slept through these signals of pappa's hospitality, or if he had waked, he knew that a grown-up man lay in the other bed, so that he was safe. now he could only lie and shudder, till the sounds died down, and silence implied safety. he did his best to keep awake, so as to unlock the door the instant he heard a knock; but in spite of his efforts he slept. this return after luncheon brought him for the first time face to face with his state as a reality. there was no one there. it was no use going back to bere, because there would be no one there. rather than become again a state ward with the tollivants, he would sell himself to slavery. what was he to do? the first thing his eye fell upon was his father's suitcase, lying open on the floor beside the bed, its contents in disorder. it was the way quidmore kept it, fishing out a shirt or a collar as he needed one. the futility of this clothing was what struck the boy now. the peculiar grief of handling the things intimately used by those who will never use them again was new to him. he had never supposed that so much sorrow could be stored in a soiled handkerchief. stooping over the suitcase, he had accidentally picked one up, and burst into sudden tears. they were the first he had actually shed since he used to creep away to cry by himself in the heart-lonely life among the tollivants. it occurred to him now that he had not cried when his adopted mother disappeared. he had not especially mourned for her. while she had been there, and he was daily face to face with her, he had loved her in the way in which he loved so easily when anyone opened the heart to him; but she had been no part of his inner life. she was the cloud and sunshine of a day, to be forgotten in the cloud and a sunshine of the morrow. of the two, he grieved more for the man; and the man was a murderer, and probably a suicide. sitting on the edge of his bed, he used these words in the attempt to work up a fortifying moral indignation. it was then, too, that he called mr. honeybun a thief. he must react against these criminal associations. he must stand on his own feet. he was not afraid of earning his own living. he had heard of boys who had done it at an age even earlier than thirteen, and had ended by being millionaires. they had always, however, so far as he knew, had some sort of ties to connect them with the body politic. they had had the support of families, sympathies, and backgrounds. they hadn't been adrift, like that haunting ship which never knew a port, and none but the god of the sea to keep her from foundering. he could have believed in this god of the sea. he wished there had been such a god. but the god that was, the god who was shut up in churches and used only on sundays, was not of much help to him. any help he got he must find for himself; and the first thing he must do would be to break away from these low-down companionships. and just as, after two or three hours of meditation, he had reached this conclusion, a tap at the door made him start. quidmore had come back! but before he could spring to the door it was gently pushed open, and he saw the patch over the left eye. "got away early, son. now, seems to me, we ought to be out after them overalls." the boy stood blank. "what overalls?" "why, for yer job to-morrow. yer can't work in them good clo'es. yer'd sile 'em." in a second-hand shop, known to honey lem, in charles street, they found a suit of boy's overalls not too much the worse for wear. honey lem pulled out a roll of bills and paid for them. "but i've got my own money, mr. honeybun." "dooty o' next o' kin, boy. i ain't doin' it for me own pleasure. yer'll need yer money for yer eddication. yer mustn't forgit that." the overalls bound him more closely to the criminal from whom he was trying to cut loose. more closely still he found himself tied by the scraps of talk he overheard between the former pals that evening. they were on the lowest of the steps leading up from the chop saloon, where all three of them had dined. tom, who had preceded them, stood on the sidewalk overhead, out of sight and yet within earshot. "i tell yer i can't, goody," mr. honeybun was saying, "not as long as i'm next o' kin to this 'ere kid. 'twouldn't be fair to a young boy for me to keep no such company." mr. goodsir made some observation the nature of which tom could only infer from mr. honeybun's response. "well, don't yer suppose it's a damn sight 'arder for me to be out'n a good thing than it is for you to see me out'n it? i don't go in for no renounciation. but when yer've got a fatherless kid on yer 'ands ye' must cut out a lot o' nice stuff that'll go all right when yer've only yerself to think about. ain't yer a christian, goody?" once more mr. goodsir's response was to tom a matter of surmise. "well, then, goody, if yer don't like it yer can go to e and double l. what's more, i ain't a-goin' to sleep in our own room to-night, nor any night till that guy comes back. i'm goin' to sleep in the kid's room, and keep him company. 'tain't right to leave a young boy all by hisself in a 'ouse like this, as full o' toughs as a ward'll be full o' politicians." tom removed himself to a discreet distance, but the knowledge that the other bed in his room would not remain so creepily vacant was consciously a relief. he slept dreamlessly that night, because of his feeling of security. in the morning, not long after four, he was wakened by a hand that rocked him gently to and fro. "come, little shaver! time to git up! got to be on yer job at five." the job was in a market that was not exactly a market since it supplied only the hotels. together with the gansevoort and west washington markets, it seemed to make a focal point for much of the food on the continent of america. railways and steamers brought it from ranches and farms, from plantations and orchards, from rivers and seas, from slaughter-stockades and cold-storage warehouses, from the north and the south and the west, from the tropics and farther than the tropics, to feed the vast digestive machine which is the basis of new york's energies. tom's job was not hard, but it was incessant. his was the duty of collecting and arranging the empty cases, crates, baskets, and coops, which were dumped on the raised platform surrounding the building on the outside, or which cluttered the stalls within. trucks and vans took them away full on one day, and brought them back empty on another. it was all a boy could do to keep them stacked, and in order, according to sizes and shapes. the sizes in the main were small; the shapes were squares and oblongs and diminishing churnlike cylinders. nimbleness, neatness, and goodwill were the requisites of the task, and all three of them the boy supplied. fatigue that night made him wakeful. his companion in the other bed was wakeful too. in talking from bed to bed tom found it a comfort to be dealing with an easy conscience. mr. honeybun had nothing on his mind, nor was he subject to nightmares. speculation on the subject of quidmore's disappearance, and possible fate, turned round and round on itself, to begin again with the selfsame guesses. "and there's another thing," came from mr. honeybun. "if he don't come back, why, you'll come in for a good bit o' proputty, won't yer? didn't he own that market-garden place, out there on the edge of connecticut?" "he left it to his sister. he told me that the other night. you see, i wasn't his real son. i wasn't his son at all till about a year ago." this statement coming to mr. honeybun as something of a shock, tom was obliged to tell the story of his life to the extent that he knew it. the only details that he touched on lightly were those which bore on the manner in which he had lost his "mudda." even now it was difficult to name her in any other way, because in no other way had he ever named her. obliged to blur the outlines of his earliest recollections, which in themselves were clear enough, his tale was brief. "so yer real name is whitelaw," mr. honeybun commented, with interest. "i never hear that name but once. that was the whitelaw baby. ye'll have heard tell o' that?" since tom had never heard tell of the whitelaw baby, the lack in his education was supplied. the whitelaw baby had been taken out to the park on a morning in may, and had vanished from its carriage. in the place where it had lain was found a waxen image so true in likeness to the child himself that only when it came time to feed him did the nurse make the discovery that she had wheeled home a replica. the mystery had been the source of nation-wide excitement for the best part of two years. it was talked of even now. it couldn't have been more than three or four years earlier that mr. honeybun had seen a daily paper, bearing the headlines that harry whitelaw had been found, selling like hotcakes to the women shopping in twenty-third street. "and was he?" tom asked, beginning at last to be sleepy. "no more'n a puff of tobacker smoke when yer'd blowed it in the air. the father, a rich banker--a young chap he was, too, i believe--he offers a reward of fifty thousand dollars to anyone as'd put him on the track o' the gang what had kidnapped the young 'un; and every son of a gun what thought he was a socialist was out to win the money. this 'ere goody, he had a scheme. tried to work me in on it, and i don't know but what i might a took a 'and if a chum o' mine hadn't got five year for throwin' the same 'ook without no bait on it. they 'auled in another chap i knowed, what they was sure he had somethink to do with it, and tried to make him squeal; but--" a long breath from tom interrupted this flow of narrative. "say, kiddy, yer ain't asleep, are yer? and me tellin' yer about the whitelaw baby?" "i am nearly," the boy yawned. "good night--honey! wake me in time in the morning." "that's a good name for yer to call me," the next o' kin commended. "i'll always be honey to you, and you'll be kiddy to me; and so we'll be pals. buddies they call it over here." echoes of a street brawl reached them through the window. had he been alone, the country lad of thirteen would have shivered, even though the night was hot. but the knowledge of this brawny companion, lying but a few feet away, nerved him to curl up like a puppy, and fall asleep trustfully. xxi the next two or three nights were occasions for the interchange of confidence. during the days the new pals saw little of each other, and sometimes nothing at all. with the late afternoon they could "clean themselves," and take a little relaxation. for this there was no great range of opportunity. relaxation for lemuel honeybun had hitherto run in directions from which he now felt himself cut off. he knew of no others, while the boy knew of none of any kind. "i tell yer, goody," tom overheard, through the open door of the room back of pappa's, one day while he was climbing the stairs, "i ain't a-goin' to go while i've got this job on me hands. the lord knows i didn't seek it. it's just one of them things that's give yer as a dooty, and i'm goin' to put it through. when quidmore's come back, and it's all over, i'll be right on the job with the old gang again; but till he does it's nix. yer can't mean to think that i don't miss the old bunch. why, i'd give me other eye...." tom heard no more; but the tone of regret worried him. true, if he wanted to break the bond this might be his chance. on the other hand, the thought of being again without a friend appalled him. while waiting in the hope that quidmore might come back, the present arrangement was at least a cosy one. nevertheless, he felt it due to his spirit of independence to show that he could stand alone. he waited till they were again lying feet to feet by the wall, and the air through the open window was cool enough to allow of their being comfortable, before he felt able to take an offhand, man-to-man tone. "you know, honey, if you want to beat it back to your old crowd, i can get along all right. don't hang round here on my account." "lord love you, kiddy, i know how to sackerfice meself. if i'm to be yer next o' kin, i'll be it and be damned. done 'arder things than this in me life, and pulled 'em off, too. i'll stick to yer, kid, as long as yer wants me, if i never have another nice time in my life, and never see another quart bottle." the pathos of the life for which he might be letting himself in turned his thoughts backward over his career. "why, if i'd 'a stuck at not puttin' others before meself i might still 'a been a gasfitter in liverpool, eng. that's where i was born. true 'eart-of-oak englishman i was. some people thinks they can tell it in the way i talk. been over 'ere so long, though, seems to me i 'andle the yankee end of it pretty good. englishman i met the other day--steward on one of the cunarders he was--said he wouldn't 'a knowed me from a born new yorker. always had a gift for langwidges. used to know a frenchman onst; and i'll be 'anged if i wasn't soon parley-vooin' with him till he'd thought i was his mother's son. but it's doin' my dooty by others as has brought me where i am, and i don't make no complaint of it. job over at the gansevoort whenever i wants one, which ain't always. quite a tidy little sum in the savings bank in brooklyn. friends as 'll stick by me as long as i'll stick by them. and if i hadn't lost me eye--but how was i to know that that low-down butler was a-layin' for me at the silver-pantry door, and 'd let me have it anywhere he could 'it me?... and when that eyeball cracked, why, i yelled fit to bring the whole p'lice-force in new york right atop o' me." tom was astounded. "but you said you lost your eye saving a young lady's life." mr. honeybun's embarrassment lasted no more than the time needed for finding the right words. "oh, did i? well, that was the other side of it. yer've heard that there's always two sides to a story, haven't yer? i can't tell yer both sides to onst, now can i?" he judged it best, however, to revert to the autobiographical. the son of a dock hand in liverpool, he had been apprenticed to a gasfitter at the age of seventeen. "but my genius was for somethink bigger. i didn't know just what it'd be, but i could see it ahead o' me, all wuzzy-like. after a bit i come to know it was to fight agin the lor o' proputty. used to seem to me orful to look around and see that everythink was owned by somebody. took to goin' to meetin's, i did. found out that me and me class was the uninherited. 'gord,' i says to meself then, 'i'll inherit somethink, or i'll bust all liverpool.' well, i did inherit somethink--inherited a good warm coat what a guy had left to mark his seat in the midland station. got away with it, too. knowin' it was mine as much as his, i walks up and throws it over my arm. ten minutes later i was a-wearin' of it in lime street. that was the beginnin', and havin' started in, i begun to inherit quite a lot o' things. 'nothink's easier,' says i, 'onst you realizes that the soul o' man is free, and that nothink don't belong to nobody.' fightin' for me class, i was. tried to make 'em see as they ought to stop bein' the uninherited, and get a move on--and the first thing i know i was landed in walton jail. you're not asleep, kiddy, are you?" not being asleep, tom came in for the rest of the narrative. released from walton jail, mr. honeybun had "made tracks" for america. "wanted to git away from a country where everythink was owned, and find the land o' the free. but free! lord love yer, i hadn't been landed a hour before i see everythink owned over 'ere as much as it is in a back'ard country like old england. let me tell you this, kid. any man that thinks that by comin' to america he'll git somethink for nothink'll find hisself sold. i ain't had nothink except what i've worked for--or collared. same old lor o' proputty what's always been a injustice to the pore. had to begin all over agin the same old game of fightin' it. but what's a few months in chokey when you're doin' it for yer feller creeters, to show 'em what their rights is?" a few nights later tom was startled by a new point of view as to his position. "i've been thinkin', kiddy, that since yer used to be a state ward, yer'll have to be a state ward agin, if the state knows you're knockin' round loose." the boy cried out in alarm. "oh, but i won't be. i'll kill myself first." he could not understand this antipathy, this horror. in a mechanical way the state had been good to him. the tollivants had been good to him, too, in the sense that they had not been unkind. but he could not return to the status. it was the status that dismayed him. in harfrey it had made him the single low-caste individual in a prim and high-caste world, giving everyone the right to disdain him. they couldn't help disdaining him. they knew as well as he did that in principle he was a boy like any other; but by all the customs of their life he was a little pariah. herding with thieves and murderers, it was still possible to respect himself; but to go back and hang on to the outer fringe of the organized life of a christian society would have ravaged him within. he said so to honeybun energetically. "that's the way i figured that yer'd feel. so long as you're on'y waitin'--or yer can say that you're on'y waitin'--till yer pop comes back, it won't matter much. it'll be when school begins that it'll go agin yer. there's sure to be some pious woman sneepin' round that'll tell someone as you're not in school when you're o' school age, and then, me lad, yer'll be back as a state ward on some down-homer's farm." tom lashed the bed in the darkness. "i won't go! i won't go!" "that's what i used to say the first few times they pinched me; but yer'll jolly well have to go if they send yer. now what i was thinkin' is this. it's in new york state that yer'd be a state ward. if you was out o' this state there'd be all kinds o' laws that couldn't git yer back again. onst when i'd been doin' a bit o' socializin' in new jersey, and slipped back to manhattan--well, you wouldn't believe the fuss it took to git me across the river when the p'lice got wind it was me. never got me back at all! thing died out before they was able to fix up all the coulds and couldn'ts of the lor." he allowed the boy to think this over before going on with his suggestion. "now if you and me was to light out together to another state, they wouldn't notice that we'd gone before we was safe beyond their clutches. if we was to go to boston, say! boston's a good town. i worked boston onst, me and a chap named...." the boy felt called on to speak. "i wouldn't be a socialist, not if it gave me all boston for my own." the statement, coming as it did, had the vigor of an ultimatum. though but a repetition of what he had said a few days before, it was a repetition with more force. it was also with more significance, fundamentally laying down a condition which need not be discussed again. after long silence mr. honeybun spoke somewhat wistfully. "well, i dunno as i'd count that agin yer. i sometimes thinks as i'll quit bein' a socialist meself. seems to me as if i'd like to git back with the old gang, and be what they calls a orthodock. you know what a orthodock is, don't yer?" "it's a kind of religion, isn't it?" "it ain't so much a kind of religion as it's a kind o' way o' thinkin'. you're a orthodock when you don't think at all. them what ain't got no mind of their own, what just believes and talks and votes and lives the way they're told to, they're the orthodocks. it don't matter whether it's religion or politics or lor or livin', the people who don't know nothink but just obeys other people what don't know nothink, is the kind that gits into the least trouble." "yes, but what do you want to be like that for? you _have_ got a mind of your own." "well, there's a good deal to be said, kiddy. first there's you." "oh, if it's only me...." "yes, but when i'm yer next o' kin it isn't on'y you; it's you first and last. i got to bring you up an orthodock, if i'm going to bring you up at all. yer can't think for yerself yet. you're too young. stands to reason. why, i was twenty, and very near a trained gasfitter, before i'd begun thinkin' on me own. what yer does when yer're growed up'll be no concern o' mine. but till you _are_ growed up...." tom had heard of quicksands, and often dreamed that he was being engulfed in one. he had the sensation now. circumstances having pushed him where he would not have ventured of his own accord, the treacherous ground was swallowing him up. he couldn't help liking honey lem, since he liked everyone in the world who was good to him; he was glad of his society in these lonely nights, and of the sense of his comradeship in the background even in the day; but between this gratitude and a lifelong partnership he found a difference. there were so many reasons why he didn't want permanent association with this fairy godfather, and so many others why he couldn't find the heart to tell him so! he was casting about for a method of escape when the fairy godfather continued. "this 'ere socialism is ahead of its time. people don't understand it. it don't do to be ahead o' yer time, not too far ahead, it don't. now i figure out that if i was to go back a bit, and git in among them orthodocks, i might do 'em good like. could explain to 'em. i ain't sure but what i've took the wrong way, showin' 'em first, and explainin' to 'em afterwards. now if i was to stop showin' 'em at all, and just explain to 'em, why, there'd be folks what when i told 'em that nothink don't belong to nobody they'd git the 'ang of it. begins to seem to me as if i'd done me bit o' sufferin' for the cause. seen the inside o' pretty near every old jug round new york. it's aged me. but if i was to sackerfice me opinions, and make them orthodocks feel as i was one of 'em, i might give 'em a pull along like." the next day being sunday, they slept late into the morning. in the afternoon honey lem had a new idea. without saying what it was, he took the boy to walk through fourteenth street, till they reached fifth avenue. here they climbed to the top of an electric bus going northward, and tom had a new experience. except for having crossed it in the market lorry, in the dimness and emptiness of dawn, this stimulating thoroughfare was unknown to him. even on a sunday afternoon in summer, when shops were shut, residences closed, and saunterers relatively few, it added a new concept to those already in his mental possession. it was that of magnificence. these ornate buildings, these flashing windows, these pictures, jewels, flowers, fabrics, furnishings, did more than appeal to his eye. they set free a function of his being that had hitherto been sealed. the first atavistic memory of which he had ever been aware was consciously in his mind. somewhere, perhaps in some life before he was born, rich and beautiful things had been his accessories. he had been used to them. they were not a surprise to him now; they came as a matter of course. to see them was not so much a discovery as it was a return to what he had been accustomed to. he was thinking of this, with an inward grin of derision at himself for feeling so, when honey went back to the topic of the night before. "the reason i said boston is because they've got that great big college there. if i'm to bring yer up, i'll have to send yer to college." the opening was obvious. "but, honey, you don't have to bring me up." "how can i be yer next o' kin if i don't bring ye' up, a young boy like you? be sensible, kiddy. yer ch'ice is between me and the state, and i'd be a lot better nor that, wouldn't i? the state won't be talkin' o' sendin' yer to college, mind that now." there was no controverting the fact. as a state ward, he would not go to college, and to college he meant to go. if he could not go by one means he must go by another. since honey would prove a means of some sort, he might be obliged to depend on him. the bus was bowling and lurching up the slope by which fifth avenue borders the park, when honey rose, clinging to the backs of the neighboring seats. "we'll git out at the next corner." having reached the ground, he led the way across the street, scanning the houses opposite. "there it is," he said, with choked excitement, when he had found the façade he was looking for. "that big brown front, with the high steps, and the swell bow-winders. that's where the whitelaw baby used to live." face to face with the spot, tom felt a flickering of interest. he listened with attention while honey explained how the baby carriage had for the last time been lifted down by two footmen, and how it was wheeled away by the nurse. "nash, her name was. i seen her come out one day, when goody and me was standin' 'ere. nice little thing she seemed, english, same as i be. yes, goody and me'd sniggle and snaggle ourselves every which way to see how we could cook up a yarn that'd ketch on to some o' that money. we sure did read the papers them days! there wasn't nothink about the whitelaw baby what we didn't know. now, if yer've looked long enough at the 'ouse, kid, i'll show yer somethink else." they went into the park by the same little opening through which the whitelaw baby had passed, not to return. like a detective reconstructing the action of a crime, he followed the path miss nash had taken, almost finding the marks of the wheels in the gravel. going round the shoulder of a little hill, they came to a fan-shaped elm, in the shade of which there was a seat. beyond the seat was a clump of lilac, so grouped as to have a hollow like a horseshoe in its heart, with a second seat close by. honey revived the scene as if he had witnessed it. miss nash had sat here; her baby carriage had stood there. the other nurse, name o' miss messenger, had put her baby beneath the elm, and taken her seat where she could watch it. all he was obliged to leave out was the actual exchange of the image for the baby, which remained a mystery. "this 'ere laylock bush ain't the same what was growin' 'ere then. that one was picked down, branch by branch, and carried off for tokens. had a sprig of it meself at one time. i always thinks them little memoriums is instructive. i recolleck there was a man 'anged in liverpool, and the 'angman, a friend of my guv'nor's, give me a bit of the chap's shirt, what he'd left in his cell when he changed to a clean one to be 'anged in. well, i kep' that bit o' shirt for years. always reminded me not to murder no one. wish i had it now. funny it'd be, wouldn't it, if you turned out to be the whitelaw baby? he'd a' been just about your age." tom threw himself sprawling on the seat where miss nash had read _juliet allingham's sin_, and laughed lazily. "i couldn't be, because his name was harry, and mine's tom." "oh, a little thing like that wouldn't invidiate your claim." "but i haven't got a claim. you don't suppose my mother stole me, do you? that's the very thing she used to tell me not to...." the laugh died on his lips. as honey stood looking down at him there was a light in his blue-gray eye like the striking of a match. tom knew that the same thought was in both their minds. why should a woman have uttered such a warning if she had not been afraid of a suspicion? a flush that not only reddened his tanned cheeks, but mounted to the roots of his bushy, horizontal eyebrows, made him angry with himself. he sprang to his feet. "look here, honey! aren't there animals in this park? let's go and find them." to his relief, honey pressed no question as to his mother and stolen babies as they went off to the zoo. xxii the move to boston was made during august, so that they might be settled in time for the opening of the schools. the flitting was with the ease of the obscure. also with the ease of the obscure, lemuel changed his name to george, while tom quidmore became again tom whitelaw. there were reasons to justify these decisions on the part of both. "got into trouble onst in boston under the name of lemuel, and if any old sneeper was to look me up.... not but what lemuel isn't a more aristocraticker name than george; but there's times when somethink what no one won't notice'll suit you best. so i'll be george honeybun, a pal o' yer father's, what left yer to me on his dyin' deathbed." the name of tom whitelaw was resumed on grounds both sentimental and prudential. in the absence of any other tie to the human race, it was something to the boy to know that he had had a father. his father had been a whitelaw; his grandfather had been a whitelaw; there was a whole line of whitelaws back into the times when families first began to be known by names. a slim link with a past, at least it was a link. the quidmore name was no link at all; it was disconnection and oblivion. it signified the ship that had never had a port. as a whitelaw, he had sailed from somewhere, even though the port would forever be unknown to him. it was a matter of prudence, too, to cover up his traces. in the unlikely event of the state of new york busying itself with the fate of its former ward, the name of quidmore would probably be used. a well-behaved tom whitelaw, living with his next of kin, and attending school in boston according to the law, would have the best chance of going unmolested. they found a lodging, cheap, humble, but sufficient, on that northern slope of beacon hill which within living memory has more than once changed hands with the silent advance and recession of a tide coming in and going out. there are still old people who can remember when some of the worthiest of the sons of the puritans had their windows, in these steep and narrow streets, brightened by the rising or the setting sun. then, with an almost ghostly furtiveness, they retired as the negro came and routed them. the negro seemed fixed in possession when the hebrew stole on silently, and routed him. at the time when george honeybun and tom whitelaw came looking for a home, the ancient inhabitant of the land was beginning to creep back again, and the hebrew taking flight. in a red-brick house of forbidding expression in grove street they found a room with two beds. within a few days honey, whose strength was his skill, was working as a stevedore on the charlestown docks. tom was picking up small jobs about the markets. by september he had passed his examinations and had entered the latin school. a new life had begun. from the old life no pursuit or interference ever followed them. the boy shot up. in the course of a year he had grown out of most of his clothes. to the best of his modest ability, honey was generous with new ones. he was generous with everything. that tom should lack nothing, he cut down his own needs till he seemed to have none but the most elemental. of his "nice times" in new york nothing had followed him to boston but a love of spirits and tobacco. of the two, the spirits went completely. when tom's needs were pressing the supply of tobacco diminished till it sometimes disappeared. if on sundays he could venture over the hill, to listen to the band on the common, or stroll with the boy in the public gardens, it was because the sunday suit, bought in the days when he had no one to provide for but himself, was sponged and pressed and brushed and mended, with scrupulous devotion. the motive of so much self-denial puzzled tom, since, so far as he could judge, it was not affection. he was old enough now to perceive that affection had inspired most of his good fortune. people were disposed to like him for himself. there was rarely a teacher who did not approve of him. by the market men, among whom he still picked up a few dollars on saturdays and in vacations, he was always welcomed heartily. in school he never failed to hold his own till the boys discovered that his father, or uncle, or something, was a stevedore, after which he was ignored. girls regarded him with a hostile interest, while toward them he had no sentiments of any kind. he could go through a street and scarcely notice that there was a girl in it, and yet girls wouldn't leave him alone. they bothered him with overtures of friendship to which he did not respond, or tossed their heads at him, or called him names. but in general the principle was established that he could be liked. but honey was an enigma. love was apparently not the driving power urging him to these unexpected fulfillments. if it was, it had none of the harmless dog-and-puppy ways which tom had grown accustomed to. honey never pawed him, as the masters often pawed the boys, and the boys pawed one another. he never threw an arm across his shoulder, or called him by a more endearing name than kiddy. apart from an eagle-eyed solicitude, he never manifested tenderness, nor asked for it. that tom would ever owe him anything he didn't so much as hint at. "dooty o' next o' kin" was the blanket explanation with which he covered everything. "but you're not my next of kin," tom, to whom schooling had revealed the meaning of the term, was bold enough to object. "next of kin means that you'd be my nearest blood relation; and we're not relations at all." honey was undisturbed in his olympian detachment. "do yer suppose i dunno that? but i believes as gord sees we're kin lots o' times when men don't take no notice. you was give to me. you was put into my 'ands to bring up. and up i'm goin' to bring yer, if it breaks me." it was a close sunday evening in september, the last of the summer holidays. tom would celebrate next day by entering on a higher grade at school. he had had new boots and clothes. for the first time he was worried by the source of this beneficence. as night closed down they sat for a breath of fresh air on the steps of the house in grove street. grove street held the reeking smell of cooking, garbage, and children, which only a strong wind ever blows away from the crowded quarters of the cities, and there had been no strong wind for a week. used to that, they didn't mind it. they didn't mind the screeching chatter or the raucous laughter that rose from doorways all up and down the hill, nor the yelling of the youngsters playing in the roadway. somewhere round a corner a group of salvationists, supported by a blurting cornet, sang with much gusto: oh, how i love jesus! oh, how i love jesus! oh, how i love jesus! because he first loved me. they didn't mind it when mrs. danker, their landlady, a wiry new england woman, sitting in the dark of the hall behind them, joined in, in her cracked voice, with the salvationists, nor when mrs. gribbens, a stout old party who picked up a living scrubbing railway cars, joined in with mrs. danker. from neighboring steps mothers called out to their children in yiddish, and the children answered in strident american. but to honey and tom all this was the friendly give-and-take of promiscuity which they would have missed had it not been there. each was so concentrated on his own ruling purpose that nothing external was of moment. honey was to give, and tom was to receive, an education. that the recipient's heart should be fixed on it, tom found natural enough; but that the giver's should be equally intense seemed to have nothing to account for it. he glanced at the quiet figure, upright and muscular, his hands on his knees, like a stone pharaoh on the nile. "why don't you smoke?" "i don't want to drop no ashes on this 'ere suit." "have you got any tobacco?" "i didn't think to lay in none when i come 'ome yesterday." "is that because there was so much to be spent on me?" "oh, i dunno about that." tom gathered all his ambitions together and offered them up. "well, i guess this can be the last year. after i've got through it i'll be ready to go to work." "and not go to college!" the tone was one of consternation. "lord love yer, kiddy, what's bitin' yer now?" "it's biting me that you've got to work so hard." "if it don't bite me none, why not let it go at that?" "because i don't seem able to. i've taken so much from you." "well, i've had it to 'and out, ain't i?" "but i don't see why you do it." "a young boy like you don't have to see. there's lots o' things i didn't understand at your age." "you don't seem specially--" he sought for words less direct, but without finding them--"you don't seem--specially fond of me." "i never was one to be fond o' people, except it was a dog. always had a 'ankerin' for a dog; but a free life don't let yer keep one. a dog'll never go back on yer." "well, do you think i would?" "i don't think nothink about it, kid. when the time comes that you can do without me...." "that time'll never come, honey, after all you've done for me." "i don't want yer to feel yerself bound by that." "i don't feel myself bound by it; but--dash it all, honey!--whatever you feel or don't feel about me, i'm fond of _you_." he was still imperturbable. "well, kid, you wouldn't be the first, not by a lot." "but if i can never be anything _for_ you, or _do_ anything for you...." "there's one thing you could do." "what is it? i don't care how hard it is." "well, when you're one o' them big lawyers, or bankers, or somethink--drorin' yer fifty dollars a week--you can have a shy at this 'ere lor o' proputty. it don't seem right to me that some people should have all the beef to chaw, and others not so much as the bones; but i can't git the 'ang of it. if nothink don't belong to nobody, then what about all your dough in the new york savin's bank, and mine in the one in brooklyn? we're keepin' it agin yer goin' to college, ain't we? and don't that belong to us? yes, by george, it do! so there you are. but if when yer gits yer larnin' yer can steddy it out...." xxiii the boy was adolescent, sentimental, and lonely. mere human companionship, such as that which honey gave him, was no longer enough for him. he was seeing visions and dreaming dreams. he began to wish he had some one with whom to share his unformulated hopes, his crude and burning opinions. he looked at fellows who were friends going two and two, pouring out their foolish young hearts to each other, and envied them. the lads of his own age liked him well enough. now and then one of them would approach him with shy or awkward signals, making for closer acquaintance; but when they learned that he lived in grove street with a stevedore they drew away. none of them ever transcended the law of caste, to stand by him in spite of his humble conditions. boys whose families were down wanted nothing to hamper them in climbing up. boys whose families were up wanted nothing that might loosen their position and pull them down. the sense of social insecurity which was the atmosphere of homes reacted on well-meaning striplings of fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen, turning them into snobs and cads before they had outgrown callowness. but during the winter of the year in which he became sixteen there were two, you might have said three, who broke in upon this solitude. in walking to the latin school from grove street he was in the habit of going through louisburg square. if you know boston you know louisburg square as that quaint red-brick rectangle, like many in the more georgian parts of london, which commemorates the gallant dash of the new england colonists on the french fortress of louisburg in cape breton. it is the heart of that conservative old boston, which is now shrinking in size and importance before the onset of the foreigner till it has become like a small beleaguered citadel. here the descendants of the puritans barricade themselves behind their financial walls, as their ancestors within their stockades, while their city is handed over to the irishman and the italian as an undefended town. the boston of tradition is a boston of tradition only. like the survivors of noah's deluge clinging to the top of a rock, they to whom the boston of tradition was bequeathed are driven back on beacon hill as a final refuge from the billows rising round them. a high-bred, cultivated, sympathetic people, they have so given away their heritage as to be but a negligible factor in the state, in the country, of which their fathers and grandfathers may be said once to have kept the conscience. but to tom whitelaw louisburg square meant only the dignified fronts and portals behind which lived the rich people who had no point of contact with himself. they couldn't have ignored him more completely than he ignored them. he thought of them as little as the lion cub in a circus parade thinks of the people of the city through which he passes in processions. then, one day, one of these strangers spoke to him. it was a youth of about his own age. more than once, as tom went by, and the stout boy stood on the sidewalk in front of his own house, they had looked each other up and down with unabashed mutual appraisal. tom saw a lad too short for his width, and unhealthily flabby. he had puffy hands, and puffy cheeks, with eyes seeming smaller than they were because the puffy eyelids covered them. the mouth had those appealing curves comically troubled in repose, but fulfilling their purpose in giggling. on the first occasion when tom passed by the lips were set to the serious task of inspection. they said nothing; they betrayed nothing. tom himself thought nothing, except that the boy was fat. they had looked at each other some two or three times a week, for perhaps a month, when one day the fat boy said, "hullo!" tom also said, "hullo!" continuing on his way. a day or two later they repeated these salutations, though neither forsook his attitude of reserve. the fat boy did this first, speaking when they had hullo'ed each other for the third or fourth time. his voice was high and girlish, and yet with a male crack in it. "what school do you go to?" tom stopped. "i go to the latin school. what school do you go to?" "i go to doolittle and pray's." "that's the big private school in marlborough street, isn't it?" the fat boy made the inarticulate grunt which with most americans means "yes." "i was put down for groton, only mother wouldn't let me leave home. i'm going to harvard." "i'm going to harvard, too. what class do you expect to be in?" the fat boy replied that he expected to be in the class of nineteen-nineteen. tom said he expected to be in that class himself. "now i've got to beat it to the latin school. so long!" "so long!" tom carried to his school in the fenway an unusual feeling of elation. with friendly intent someone had approached him from the world outside. it was not the first time it had ever happened, but it was the first time it had ever happened in just this way. he could see already that the fat boy was not one of those he would have chosen for a friend; but he was so lonely that he welcomed anyone. moreover, he divined that the fat boy was lonely, too. boys of that type, the miss nancy and the mother's darling type, were often consumed by loneliness, and no one ever pitied them. few went to their aid when other boys "picked" on them, but of those few tom whitelaw was always one. he found them, once you had accepted their mannerisms, as well worth knowing as other boys, while they spared him a scrap of admiration. it was possible that in this fat boy he might find the long-sought fellow who would not "turn him down" on discovering that he lived in grove street. being turned down in this way had made him sick at heart so often that he had decided never any more to make or trust advances. in suffering temptation again he assured himself that it would be for the last time in his life. on returning from school he looked for the boy in louisburg square, but he was not there. a few hundred yards farther, however, he came in for another adventure. the january morning had been mild, with melting snow. by midday the wind had shifted to the north, with a falling thermometer. by late afternoon the streets were coated with a glaze of ice. tom could swagger down the slope of grove street easily enough in the security of rubber soles. but not so a girl, whose slippers and high french heels made her helpless on the steep glare. having ventured over the brow of the hill, she found herself held. a step into the air would have been as easy as another on this slippery descent. the best she could do was to sway in the keen wind, keeping her balance with the grace of one of the blue spruces which used to be blown about at bere. her outstretched arms waved up and down, as a blue spruce waves its branches. coming abreast of her, tom found her laughing to herself, but on seeing him she laughed frankly and aloud. "oh, catch me! i'm going to tumble! ow-w-w!" tom snatched at one hand, while she caught him by the shoulder with the other. "saved! wasn't it lucky that you came along? you're the whitelaw boy, aren't you?" tom admitted that he was, though his new sensations, with this exquisite creature clinging to him like a drowning man to his rescuer, choked the monosyllable in his throat. though he had often in a scrimmage protected little boys, he had never before been thrown into this comic, laughing tussle with a girl. it had the excuse for itself that she couldn't stand unless he held her up. he held her firmly, looking into her dancing eyes with his first emotional consciousness of a girl's prettiness. his arm supporting her, she ventured on a step. "i'm maisie danker," she explained, while taking it. "i see you going in and out the house." "i've never seen you." "perhaps you've seen me and not noticed me." "i couldn't," he declared, with vehemence. "i've never seen you before in my life. if i had...." her high heels so nearly slipped from under her that they were compelled to hold each other as if in an embrace. "if you had--what?" he knew what, but the words in which to say it needed a higher mode of utterance. the red lips, the glowing cheeks, had the vitality of the lively eyes. a red tam-o'-shanter, a red knitted thing like a heavenly translation of his own earthly sweater, were bewitchingly diabolic when worn with a black skirt, black stockings, and black shoes. as he did not respond to her challenge, she went on with her self-introduction. "i guess you haven't seen me, because i only arrived three days ago. i'm mrs. danker's niece. live in nashua. worked in the woolen mills there. now i've come to visit my aunt for the winter." for the sake of hearing her speak, he asked if she was going to work in boston. "i don't know. maybe i'll take singing lessons. got a swell voice." if again he was dumb it was because of the failure of his faculties. nothing in his experience had prepared him for the give-and-take of a badinage in which the surface meanings were the less important. foolish and helpless, unable to show his manly superiority except in the strength with which he held her up, he got a lesson in the new art there and then. "ever dance?" "i'm never asked." "oh, it's you that ought to do the asking." "i mean that i'm never asked where there's dancing going on." "gee, you don't have to be. you just find a girl--and go." "but i don't know how to dance." "i'll teach you." slipping and sliding, with cries of alarm on her part, and stalwart assurances on his, they approached their own doorstep. "ow-w-w! hold me! i'm going!" "no you're not--not while i've got you." "but i don't want to grab you so hard." "that's all right. i can stand it." "but i can't. i'm not used to it." "then it's a very good time to begin." "what's the use of beginning if there's nothing to go on with?" "how do you know there won't be?" "well, what can there be?" had miss danker always waited for answers to her questions tom would have been more nonplussed than he was. but the game which he didn't know at all she knew thoroughly, according to her lights. she never left him at a loss for more than a few seconds at a time. her method being that of touch-and-go, reserving to herself the right of coming back again, she carried his education one step farther still. "don't you ever go to the movies?" he replied that he had gone once or twice with honey, but not often. to be on the same breezy level as herself, he added in explanation: "haven't got the dough." "but the movies don't take dough, not hardly any." "they take more than i've got." "more than you've got? gee! then you can't have anything at all." it was not so much a taunt as it was a statement, and yet it was a statement with a little taunt in it. for once driven to bravado, he gave away a secret. "well, i haven't--except what's in the bank." "oh, you've got money in the bank, have you?" "sure! but i'm keeping it to go to college." she stared at him as if he had been a duck-billed rabbit, or some variety of fauna hitherto unknown. "gee! i should think a fellow who had money in the bank would want to blow some of it on having a good time--a fellow with any jazz." once more she spared him discomfiture. slipping into the hallway, she said over her shoulder as he followed her: "how old are you?" "sixteen." she flashed round at him. "sixteen! gee! i thought you was my age if you was a day. honest i did. i'm eighteen, an old lady compared with you." "oh, but boys are always older than girls, for their age." "you are, sure. anyways, you saved me on that slippery hill, and i think you ought to have a kiss for it. come, baby, kiss your poor old ma." though the hallway was dark, the kiss had to be given and taken furtively. whatever it was to maisie danker, to tom whitelaw it was the entrance to a higher and an increased life. the pressure of her lips on his sent through his frame a dynamic glow he had not supposed to be among nature's possibilities. moreover, it threw light on that experience as to which he had mused ever since he had first talked confidentially to bertie tollivant. though instinct had taught him something in the intervening years, he had up to this minute gained nothing in the way of practical discovery. now an horizon that had been dark was lifting to disclose a wonderland. with her light laugh maisie had run into her aunt's apartment, and shut the door. tom began heavily, pensively, to climb the stairs. but halfway up he paused to mark off another stage in his perceptions. "so that's what it's like! that's why they all think so much about it--and try to hush it up!" xxiv he himself found something to hush up when he recounted the incident to honey in the evening. he told of meeting mrs. danker's niece on the ice-coated hill, and helping her down to the door. of his sensations as she clung to him he said nothing. he said nothing of the kiss in the dark hallway. during the rest of the evening, and after he had gone to bed, he wondered why. they all hushed these things up, and he did as the rest; but what was the basic reason? as his first emotional encounter the subject was sufficiently in his mind next day to make him duller than usual at school. on his way home from school it so preoccupied his thought that he forgot to look for the fat boy. it was the fat boy who first saw him, hailing him as he approached. there was already between them that acceptance of each other which is the first stage of friendship. "what's your name?" "tom whitelaw. what's yours?" "guy ansley. how old are you?" "sixteen. how old are you?" "i'm sixteen, too. what's your father do?" "i haven't got a father. i live with--" it was difficult to explain--"with a man who kind o' takes care of me." "a guardian?" "something like that. what does your father do?" "he's a corporation lawyer. makes big money, too." as tom began to move along the fat boy went with him, keeping step. "what's your guardian do?" "he does anything that'll give him a job. mostly he's a stevedore." "what's a stevedore? sounds as if it had something to do with bull-fighting." "it's a longshoreman. he loads and unloads ships." they stopped at the corner of pinckney street the puffy countenance fell. tom could follow his companion's progression of bewilderments. "where do you live?" "i live in grove street." it was the minute of suspense. all had been confessed. the countenance that had fallen went absolutely blank. to himself the tall, proud, sensitive lad was saying that his future life was staked on the response the fat boy chose to make. if he showed signs of wriggling out of an embarrassing situation he, tom whitelaw, would range himself forever with the enemies of the rich. the fat boy spoke at last. "so you're that kind of fellow." "yes, i'm that kind of fellow." this was mere marking time. the decision was still to come. it came with an air on the fat boy's part of heroic resolution. "well, i don't care." tom breathed again, breathed with bravado. "neither do i." in the stress of so much big-heartedness the girlish voice became a croak. "i know guys who think that if another guy isn't rich they must treat him as so much dirt. i'm not that sort. i'm democratic. i wouldn't turn down a fellow just because he lived in grove street. if i liked him i'd stick to him. i'm not snobbish. how do you know you couldn't give him a peg up, and he'd be grateful to you all his life?" thinking this over afterward, tom found it hard to disengage the bitter from the sweet; but he had not much chance to think it over. any spare minute he found pre-empted by maisie danker, who seemed to camp in the dark hallway. if she was not there when he entered, she appeared before he could go upstairs. the ice having melted in the street, she had other needs of protection, an errand to do in the crowded region of bowdoin square, a shop to visit across the common which was so wide and lonesome in winter twilights, a dance hall to locate in case they ever made up their minds to visit it. she was always timid, clinging, laughing, adorable. the embodiment of gayety, she made him gay, which was again a new sensation. never before had he felt young as he felt young with her. the minutes they spent swamped in the throngs of the lighted streets, between five and seven on a winter's afternoon, were his first minutes of escape from a world of care. care had been his companion since he could remember anything; and now his companion was this exquisite thing, all lightsomeness and joy. he was later than usual in returning from school one afternoon, because a teacher had given him a commission to carry out which took some two hours of his time. as it had sent him toward the south end of the city, he had the common to traverse on his way home. snow had recently fallen; but through the main avenues under the trees the paths had been cleared. on the frog pond the drifts had been swept up, so that there could be a little skating. as tom passed by he could hear the scraping and grinding of skates, and the hoarse shouts of hobbledehoys. at any other time he would have stopped, either to look on peacefully, or to take part in some bit of free-for-all, rough-and-tumble skylarking in the snow. but maisie might be waiting. she might even have given up waiting, which would take all his pleasure from the afternoon. to reach home more quickly he followed a short cut, scarcely shoveled out, on the slope of the common below beacon hill. here there were no foot passengers but himself. neither, for some little distance, were there any trees. there was only the white shroud of the snow, freezing to a crust. a misty moon drifted through a tempest of scudding clouds, while wherever in the offing there was a group of elms the electric lights danced through their tossing branches as if they were wind-blown lanterns. in spite of his hurry, the boy came to a standstill. it was a minute at which to fancy himself lost in moosonee or labrador. his _voyageur_ guides had failed him; his dog team had run away; his pemmican--he supposed it would be pemmican--had given out. he was homeless, starving, abandoned, alone but for the polar bears. it was not a polar bear that he saw come floundering down the hillside, but it might have been a black one. it was certainly black; its nature was certainly animal. it rolled and tumbled and panted and grunted, and now and then it moaned. for a few minutes it remained stationary, with internal undulations; then it scrambled a few paces, as an elephant might scramble whose feet had been sawn off. a dying mammoth would also have emitted just these raucous groans. suddenly it squealed. the squeal was like that of a pig when the knife is thrust into its throat. it was girlish, piercing, and yet had a masculine shriek in it. tom whitelaw knew what was happening. it had happened to himself so often in the days when he was different from other boys that his fists seemed to clench and his feet to spring before his mind had given the command. in clearing the fifty odd yards of snow between him and the wallowing monster, he chose a form of words which young hooligans would understand as those of authority. "what in hell are yez doin' to that kid? are yez puttin' a knife in him? leave him be, or i'll knock the brains out of every one of yez." he was in among them, laying about him before they knew what had landed in their midst. they were not brutal youngsters; they were only jocose in the manner of their kind. having spied the fat boy coming down to watch the skating, it was as natural for them to jump on him as it would be for a pack of dogs who chanced to see a sloth. with the courage of the mob, and also with its rapidity of thought-transfer, they had closed in silently and rushed him. he was on his back in a second. in a second they were clambering all over him. when he staggered to his feet they let him run, only to catch him and pull him down again. so staggering, so running, so coming down like a lump of jelly in the snow, he had reached the top of the hill, his tormentors hanging to him as if their teeth were in his flesh, at the minute when tom first perceived the black mass. the fat boy had not lacked courage. he had fought. that is, he had kicked and bitten and scratched, with the fury of vicious helplessness. he had not cried for mercy. he had not cried out at all. he had struggled for breath; he had nearly strangled; but his pantings and gruntings were only for breath just as were theirs. strong in spite of his unwieldiness, he was not without the moral spunk which can perish at a pinch, but will not give in. none of them had struck him. that would have been thought cowardly. they had only plastered him with snow, in his mouth, in his ears, in his eyes, and down below his collar. this he could have suffered, still without a plea, had not their play become fiercer. they began to tear open his clothing, to wrench it off the buttons. they stuffed snow inside his waistcoat, inside his shirt, inside his trousers. he was naked to the cold. and yet it was not the cold that drew from him that piglike squeal; it was the indignity. he was guy ansley, a rich man's son, in his native sanctified old boston a young lordling; but these muckers had mauled the last rag of honor out of him. they were good-natured little demons, with no more notion of his tragedy than if he had been a snowman. as soon as the strapping young giant had leaped in among them, they ran off with screams of laughter. most of them were tired of the fun in any case; a few lingered at a distance to "call names," but even they soon disappeared. tom could only help the lumbering body to its feet. cleaning him of snow was more difficult, and since it was melting next his skin, it had to be done at once. the shirt and underclothing being wet, and a keen wind blowing, his teeth were soon chattering. even when buttoned tightly in his outer clothes he was dank and clammy within. it helped him a little that tom should strip off his own overcoat and exchange with him; but nothing could really warm him till he got into his own bed. they would have run all of the short distance to louisburg square only that young ansley was not a runner at any time, and at this time was exhausted. tom could only drag him along as a dead weight. except for the brief observations necessary to what they had to do, they hardly spoke a word. speech was nearly impossible. the only aim of importance was covering the ground. the old manservant who admitted them in louisburg square went dumb with dismay. having brought his charge into the hall, tom was obliged to take the lead. "he's been tumbling in the snow. he's got wet. he may have caught a chill. better call his mother." the fat boy spoke. "mother's in new york. so's father. here, pilcher, help me up to my room." as the two went up the stairs, tom was left standing in the hall. a voice at the head of the stairs arrested his attention because it was a girl's. since knowing maisie danker, all girls' voices had begun to interest him. this voice was clear, silvery, peremptory, a little sharp, like the note of a crystal bell. pilcher explained something, whereupon the owner of the voice ran down. on the red carpet of the stairs, with red-damasked paper as a background, her white figure was spiritlike beneath a dim oriental hall light. "i'm hildred ansley," she said, with a cool air of self-possession. "i see my brother's had an accident. pilcher is putting him to bed. i'm sure we're very much obliged to you." she was only a child, perhaps fourteen, but a competent child, who knew what to say. not pretty, as maisie was, she had presence and personality. in this she was helped by her height, since she was tall, and would be taller, and more by her intelligence. it was the first time he had ever had occasion to observe that some faces were intelligent, though it was not quite easy to say why. "little miss ansley knows what's what," he commented silently, but aloud he said that if he were in her place he would send for a doctor. though her brother had had no bones broken, he might easily have caught a bad cold. "thank you! i'll do it at once." she made her way to a table, somewhat belittered with caps and gloves, behind the stairs, at the back of the hall. taking up the receiver, she called a number, politely and yet with a ring of command. while she was speaking he noticed his surroundings. if to him they seemed baronial it was because his experience had been cramped. louisburg square is not baronial; it is only dignified. for the early nineteenth century its houses were spacious; for the early twentieth they are a little narrow, a little steep, a little lacking in imaginative outlet. but to tom whitelaw, with memories that went back to the tenements of new york, to whom the homes of the tollivants and the quidmores had meant reasonable comfort, who found the sharing of one room with george honeybun endurable, these walls with their red paper, these stairs with their red carpet, this lofty gloom, this sense of wealth, were all that he dreamed of as palatial. when miss ansley returned from the telephone, he asked if he might have his overcoat. her brother had worn it upstairs on going to his room. "that's his," he explained, pointing to the soggy burberry he had thrown down on a carved settle. "oh, certainly! i'll run up and get it. i won't ask you to go upstairs to the drawing-room; but if you don't mind taking a seat in here...." throwing open the door of the dining room, which was on the ground floor, she switched on the light. tom entered and stood still. so this was the sort of place in which rich people took their meals! it was a glow of rich gleaming lights, lights from mahogany, lights from silver, lights from porcelain. in the center of the table lay a round piece of lace, on which stood a silver dish with nothing in it. he knew without being told, though he had never thought of it before, that it needed nothing in it. there were things so beautiful as to fulfil their purpose merely in being beautiful. from above a black-marble mantelpiece a man looked down at him with jovial eyes, a man in a high collar and huge black neckerchief, who might have been the grandfather or great-grandfather of guy and hildred ansley. he had the fat good humor of the one and the bright intelligence of the other, the source in his genial self of types so widely different. young miss ansley tripped in with the coat across her arm. "i'm sure my father and mother will want to thank you when they come back. guy's been very naughty. he's always forbidden to leave the square when he goes out of doors. he wouldn't have done it if papa and mamma hadn't been away. i can't make him mind _me_. but you must come back when everybody's here, so that you can be thanked properly. i suppose you live somewhere near us?" tom found it easiest to answer indirectly. "your brother knows everything about me. i've seen him once or twice in the square, and i've told him who i am." "that'll be very nice." she held out her hand, and he accepted his dismissal. but before having closed the door behind him, he turned round to her as she stood under the oriental lamp. "i hope your brother will soon be all right again. i think they ought to give him a hot drink. he's--he's got big stuff in him when you come to find it out. he'll make his way." the transformation in her was electric. she ceased to be starched and competent, with a manner that put a thousand miles between him and her. the intelligence he had already noted in her face was aflame with a radiance beyond beauty. "oh, i'm so glad you can say that! no one outside the family has ever said it before. he's a _lamb_!--and hardly anybody knows it." she held out her hand again. as he took it he saw that her eyes, which he thought must be dark, were shining with a mist of tears. going down the hill he repeated the two names: maisie danker! hildred ansley! they called up concepts so different that it was hard to think them of a common flesh. though maisie danker was a woman and hildred ansley but a child, there were points at which you could compare them. in the comparison the advantages lay so richly with the girl in louisburg square that he fell back on the fact, stressing it with emphasis, that maisie was the prettier. "after all," he reflected, with comfort in the judgment, "that's all that matters--to a man." xxv a few days after his rescue of guy ansley from the snow tom whitelaw found himself addressed by that young gentleman's sister, aged fourteen. she had plainly been watching for him as he went through louisburg square on his way from school. he had almost passed the ansley steps before the tall, slight girl ran down them. "oh, mr. whitelaw!" as it was the first time he had ever been honored with this prefix, he felt shocked and slightly foolish. "yes, miss ansley?" a little breathless, she was, as he had noticed during their previous meeting, oddly grown up for her age, as one who takes responsibilities because there is no one else to bear them. she had the manner and selection of words of a woman of thirty. "i hope you won't mind my waylaying you like this, but my brother would so much like to see you. you've been so awfully kind that i hope you'll come up. he's in bed, you know." "when does he want me to come?" "well, now, if it isn't troubling you too much. you see, my father and mother are coming home to-night, and he'd like to have a word with you before then. he won't keep you more than a few minutes." what tom obscurely felt as an honor to himself she put as a favor he was doing them. it was an honor in that it admitted him a little farther into privacies which to him seemed tapestried with privilege and tradition. his one brief glimpse of their way of living had not made him discontented; it had only appealed to his faculty for awe. awe was what he was aware of in following his young guide up the two red staircases to the room where the fat boy lay in bed. it was a mother's-darling's room, amusingly out of keeping with the pudgy, fleshy being whom it housed. flowered paper on the walls, flowered hangings at the windows, flowered cretonnes on thickly upholstered armchairs, flowered silk on the duvet, garlands of flowers on the headboard and footboard of the virginal white bedstead, made the piggy eyes and piggy cheeks, bolstered up by pillows of which some were trimmed with lace, the more funnily grotesque. tom whitelaw saw neither the fun nor the grotesqueness. all he could take in was the fact that beauty could gild the lily of this luxury. he knew nothing of beauty in his own denuded life. the room with two beds which he still shared with honey at mrs. danker's was not so much a sanctuary as a lair. the fat boy's giggles were those of welcome, and also those of embarrassment. "after the scrap the other night got sick. bronchitis. sit down." tom looked round to see what miss ansley was doing, but slipping away, she shut the door behind her. he sank into the flowered armchair nearest to the bed. the cracked girlish voice, which now had a wheeze in it, went on. "they've wired for dad and mother, and they're coming home to-night. thought that before they got here i'd put you wise to something i want you to do." waiting for more, tom sat silent, while the poor piggy face screwed itself up as if it meant to cry. "dad and mother think that because i'm so fat i'm not a sport. but they're dead wrong, see? i _am_ a sport; only--only--" he was almost bursting into tears--"only the damn fat won't let me get it out, see?" "yes, i see. i now you're a sport all right, old chap. of course!" "well, then, don't let them think the other thing, if they were to ask you." "ask me what?" "ask you what the row was about the other afternoon. if they do that tell 'em we were only playing nigger-in-the-henhouse, or any other snow game. don't say i was knocked down by a lot of kids. make 'em think i was having the devil's own good time." tom whitelaw knew this kind of humiliation. if he had not been through guy ansley's special phase of it he had been through others. "i'll tell them what i saw. you and a lot of other fellows were skylarking in the snow, and i went by and got you to knock off. as i had to pass your door we came home together; but when i found you were wet to the skin i advised miss ansley to see that you hit the hay. that's all there was to it." in the version of the incident the strain of truth was sufficiently clear to allow the fat boy to approve of it. he didn't want to tell a lie, or to get tom whitelaw to tell a lie; but sport having been the object with which he had stolen away on that winter's afternoon, it was easy to persuade himself that he had got it. before tom went away guy ansley understood that he would figure to his parents not as a victim but as something of a tough. "gee, i wish i was you," he grinned at tom, who stood with his hands on the doorknob. "me!" tom was never so astonished in his life. his eyes rolled round the room. "how do you think i live?" "oh, live! that's nothing. what i'd like to do is to rough it. if they'd let me do that i shouldn't be--i shouldn't be wrapped up in fat like a mummy in--in whatever it is they're wrapped up in. _you_ can get away with anything on looks." sincere as was this tribute, it meant nothing to tom whitelaw, looks being no part of his preoccupations. what, for the minute, he was thinking about was that nobody in the world seemed to be quite satisfied. here he was envying guy ansley his down quilt and his comfortable chairs, while guy was envying him the rough-and-tumble of privation. "i shouldn't look after him too much," he said to the young sister whom, on coming downstairs, he found waiting at the front door. "there's nothing wrong with him, except that he's a little stout. he's got lots of pluck." her face glowed. the glow brought out its intelligence. the intelligence set into action a demure, mysterious charm, almost oriental. "that's just what i always say, and no one ever believes me. mother makes a baby of him." "if he could only fight his own way a little more...." "oh, i do hope you'll say that if they speak to you about him." "i will if i ever get the chance, but...." "oh, you must get the chance. i'll make it. you see, you're the only boy guy's ever taken a fancy to who didn't treat him as a joke." tom assured her that her brother was not the only fellow who had a hard fight to put up during boyhood. he had seen them by the dozen who, just because of some trifling oddity, or unusual taste, were teased, worried, tormented, till school became a hell; but that didn't keep them from turning out in the end to be the best sports among them all. very likely the guying did them good. he thought it might. he, tom whitelaw, had been through a lot of it, and now that he was sixteen he wasn't sorry for himself a bit. he used to be sorry for himself, but.... seeing her for the second time, and in daylight, her features grew more distinct to him. he mused on them while continuing his way homeward. to say she was not pretty, as he had said the other night, was to use a form of words calling for amplification. it was the first time he had had occasion to observe that there are faces to which beauty is not important. "it's the way she looks at you," was his form of summing up; and yet for the way she looked at you he had no sufficient phraseology. that her eyes were long, narrow, and yellow-brown, ever so slightly mongolian, he could see easily enough. that her nose was short, with a little tilt to it, was also a fact he had no difficulty in stating. as for her coloring, it was like that of a russet apple when the brown has a little gold in it and the red the brightness of carmine. her hair was saved from being ugly by running to the quaint. straight, black--black with a bluish gloss--it was worn not in the pigtail with which he was most familiar, but in two big plaits curved behind the ears, and secured he didn't know how. she reminded him of a colored picture he had seen of a cambodian girl, a resemblance enhanced by the dark blue dress she wore, straight and formless down the length of her immature, boylike figure, and marked at the waistline by a circle of gold braid. but all these details were subordinate to something he had no power of defining. it was also something of which he was jealous as an injustice to maisie danker. if this girl had what poor maisie had not it was because money gave her an advantage. it was the kind of advantage that wasn't fair. because it wasn't fair, he felt it a challenge to his loyalty. nevertheless, he could not accept maisie's offhand judgments when between five and six that afternoon he told her of the incident. this was at the cherry tree, one of those bowers of refreshment and dancing recently opened on their own slope of beacon hill. bower was the word. what had once been the basement-kitchen and coal cellar of a small brick dwelling had been artfully converted into a long oval orchard of cherry trees, in paper luxuriance of foliage and blossom. within the boskage, and under chinese lanterns, there were tables; out in the open was a center oval cleared for dancing. somewhere out of sight a cracked fiddle and a flat piano rasped out the tango or some shred of "rag." with the briefest intervals for breath, this performance was continuous. the guests, who at that hour in the afternoon numbered no more than ten or twelve, forsook their refreshments to take the floor, or forsook the floor to return to their refreshments, just as the impulse moved them. they were chiefly working girls, young men at leisure because out of jobs, or sailors on shore. except for an occasional hoarse or screechy laugh, the decorum was proper to solemnity. it was the fourth or fifth time tom and maisie had come to this retreat, nominally that tom should learn to dance, but really that they should commune together. to him the occasions were blissful for the reason that he had no one else in the world to commune with. to talk, to talk eagerly, to pour out the torrent of opinions boiling within him, meant more than that maisie should understand him. maisie didn't understand him. she only laughed and joked with pretty inanity; but she let him talk. he talked about the books he liked and didn't like, about the advantages college men possessed over those who weren't college men, about what he knew of the banking system, about the good you conferred on the world and yourself when you saved your money and invested it. in none of these subjects was she interested; but now and then she could get a turn to talk of the movies, the new dances, and love. that these subjects made him uneasy was not, from maisie's point of view, a reason for avoiding them. each was concerned with the other, but beyond the other each was concerned most of all with the mystery called life. to live was what they were after, to live strongly and deeply and vividly and hotly, and to do it with the pinched means and narrow opportunities which were all they could command. in his secret heart tom whitelaw knew that maisie danker was not the girl out of all the world he would have sought of his own accord, while maisie danker was equally aware that this boy two years younger than herself couldn't be the generous provider she was looking for. they were only like shipwrecked passengers thrown together on an island. they must make the best of each other. no other girl, hardly any other human being except honey, had entered the social isolation in which he was marooned, and as for her.... she was so cheery and game that she never referred to her home experiences otherwise than allusively. from allusions he gathered that she was not with her aunt, mrs. danker, merely for pleasure or from pressure of affection. her father was living; her stepmother was living too. there was a whole step-family of little brothers and sisters. her father drank; her stepmother hated her; there was no room for her at home. all her life she had been knocked about. even when she worked in the woolen mills she couldn't keep her wages. she had had fellows, but none of them was ever any good. the best of them was a french canadian who made big money, but he wouldn't marry her unless she "turned catholic." "if he couldn't give up his church for me i couldn't give up mine for him; so there it was!" there was another fellow.... but as to him she said little. in speaking of him at all her face grew somber, which it did rarely. either because he had failed her, or to get her out of his clutches, tom was not sure which, her aunt had offered her a home for the winter. "gee, it makes me laff," was her own sole comment on her miseries. as tom had dropped into the habit of telling her the small happenings of his uneventful life, he gave her, across the ice-cream sodas, an account of what had just occurred between himself and guy and hildred ansley. she listened with what for her was gravity. "you've got to give some of them society girls the cold glassy eye," she informed him, judicially. "if you don't you'll get it yourself, perhaps when you ain't expecting it." "oh, but this is only a little girl, not more than fourteen. she just _seems_ grown up. that's the funny part of it." "not more than fourteen! just _seems_ grown up! why, any of that bunch is forwarder at ten than i'd be at twenty. that's one thing i'd never be, not if men was scarcer than blue raspberries--forward. and yet some of them society buds'll be brassier than a knocker on a door." "oh, but this little miss ansley isn't that sort." "you wouldn't know, not if she was running up and down your throat. any girl can get hold of a man if she makes him think she needs him bad enough." "it wasn't she who needed me; it was her brother." "a brother'll do. a grandmother'd do. if you can't bait your hook with a feather fly, you can take a bit of worm. but once a fella like you begins to take a shine to one of them...." "shine to one of them! me?" "well, i suppose you'll be taking a shine to _some_ girl _some_ day. why shouldn't you?" "if i was going to do that...." the point at which he suspended his sentence was that which piqued her especially. her eyes were provocative; her bright face alert. "well, if you were going to do that--what of it?" the minute was one he was trying to evade. as clearly as if he were fifty, he knew the folly of getting himself involved in an emotional entanglement. though he looked a young man, he was only a big boy. the most serious part of his preparation for life lay just ahead of him. if he didn't go to college.... and even more pressing than that consideration was the fact that in bringing maisie to the cherry tree that afternoon he had come down to his last fifteen cents. at the beginning of their acquaintance he had had seven dollars and a half, hoarded preciously for needs connected with his education. maisie had stampeded the whole treasure. to expect a man to spend money on her was as instinctive to maisie as it is to a flower to expect the heavens to send rain. she knew that at each mention of the movies or the cherry tree tom squirmed in the anguish of financial disability, and that from the very hint of love he bolted like a colt from the bridle; but when it came to what she considered as her due she was pitiless. no epic has yet been written on the woes of the young man trying, on twenty-five dollars a week, let us say, to play up to the american girl's taste for spending money. his self-denials, his sordid shifts, his mortifications, his sense at times that his most unselfish efforts have been scorned, might inspire a series of episodes as tensely dramatic as those of spoon river. tom had had one such experience on maisie's birthday. she had talked so much of her birthday that a present became indispensable. to meet this necessity the extreme of his expenditure could be no more than fifty cents. to find for fifty cents something worthy of a lady already a connoisseur he ransacked boston. somewhere he had heard that a present might be modest so long as it was the best thing of its kind. the best thing of its kind he discovered was a toothbrush. it was not a common toothbrush except for the part that brushed the teeth. the handle was of mother-of-pearl, with an inlay in red enamel. the price was forty-five cents. maisie laughed till she cried. "a toothbrush! a _tooth_brush! for a present that's something new! gee, how the girls'll laff when i go back to nashua and tell them that that's what a guy give me in boston!" the humiliation of straitened means was the more galling to tom whitelaw, first because he was a giver, and then because he knew the value of money. with the value of money his mind was always playing, not from miserly motives, but from those of social economy. each time he "blew in," as he called it, a dollar on the girl he said to himself: "if i could have invested that dollar, it would have helped to run a factory, and have brought me in six or seven cents a year for all the rest of my life." he made this calculation to mark the wastage he was strewing along his path in the wild pace he was running. there was something about maisie which obliged you to play up to her. she was that sort of girl. if you didn't play up, the mere laughter in her eye made you feel your lack of the manly qualities. it was not her scorn she brought into play; it was her sense of fun; but to the boy of sixteen her sense of fun was terrible. it was terrible, and yet it put him on his guard. he couldn't wholly give in to her. if she could make moves he could make them too, and perhaps as adroitly. her tantalizing question was ringing in his ears: if he was going to take a shine to any girl--what of it? "oh, if i was going to do that," he tossed off, "it would be to you." "so that you haven't taken a shine to me--yet?" "it depends on what you mean by a shine." "what do you mean by it yourself?" "i never have time to think." this was a happy sentiment, and a safeguard. "it takes all i can do to remember that i've got to go to college." "damn college!" he was so unsophisticated that the expression startled him. he hadn't supposed young ladies used it, not any more than they sneaked into barns or under bridges to smoke cigarettes. "what's the use of damning college, when i've got to go?" "you haven't got to go. a great strong fella like you ought to be earning his twenty per by this time. if you've got money in the bank, as you say you have...." he trembled already for his treasure. "i haven't got it here. it's in a savings bank in new york." "oh, that's nothing! if you got it _any_wheres you can get at it with a check. gee, if i had a few hundreds i'd have ten in my pocket at a time, i'll be hanged if i wouldn't. i don't believe you've got it, see. i know a lot o' guys that loves to put that sort of fluff over on a girl. makes 'em feel big. but if they only knew what the girl thinks of them...." she jumped to her feet, allowing herself a little more vulgarity than she generally showed. "all right, old son, c'me awn! let's have another twist. and for gawd's sake don't bring down that hoof of yours till i get a chance to pull my cinderella-slipper out of your way." xxvi it was after he had spent the first ten dollars he drew from his fund in new york that tom felt the impulse to tell honey of the way in which he was becoming involved with maisie danker. the ten dollars had melted. in signing the formalities for drawing the amount, he expected to have enough to carry him along till spring, when maisie's visit was to end. he dreaded its ending, and yet it would have this element of relief in it; he would be able to keep his money. at a pinch he could spare ten dollars, though he couldn't spare them very well. more than ten dollars.... and before he knew it the ten dollars had vanished as if into air. once maisie knew what he had done her caprices multiplied. to her as to him ten dollars to "blow in"--she used the airy expression too--was a small fortune. it was only their instincts that were different. his was to let it go slowly, since the spending of a penny was against the protests of his conscience; hers to make away with it. if tom could "draw the juice" for a first ten, he could draw it for a second, and for a third and a fourth after that. it was not extravagance that whipped her on; it was joy of life. tom's impulse to tell honey was not acted on. it was not acted on after he drew the second ten; nor after he drew the third. after he had drawn the fourth his unhappiness became so great that he sought a confidant. and yet his unhappiness was not absolute; it was rather a poisoned bliss. had maisie been content with what he could afford, the winter would have been like one in paradise. but almost before he himself was aware of the promptings of thrift, she vanquished them with her ridicule. "there's nothing i hate so much as anything cheap. if a fella can't give me what i like, he can keep away." time and time again tom swore he would keep away. he did keep away, for a day, for two or three days in succession. then she would meet him in the dark hallway, and, twining her arms around his neck without a word, would give him one of those kisses on the lips which thrilled him into subjection. he would be guilty of any folly for her then, because he couldn't help himself. ten, twenty, thirty, forty dollars, all the hoarded inheritance from the martin quidmore who was already a dim memory, would be well thrown away if only she would kiss him once again. he lost the healthy diversion which might have reached him through the ansleys because they had taken the fat boy to florida. tom learned that from little miss ansley a few days after the return of the father and mother from new york. one afternoon as both were coming from their schools they had met on their way toward louisburg square. even in her outdoor dress, she was quaintly grown-up and cambodian. a rough brown tweed had a little gold and a little red in it; a brown turban not unlike a fez bore on the left a small red wing tipped with a golden line. maisie would have emphasized the red; she would have been vivid, eager to be noticed. this girl didn't need that kind of advertisement. seeing her before she saw him, he wondered whether she would give him any sign of recognition. at harfrey the girls whom he saw at the tollivants, and who proclaimed themselves "exclusive," always forgot him when they met him on the street. this had hurt him. he waited in some trepidation now, fearing to be hurt again. but when she saw him she nodded and smiled. "guy's better," she said, without greeting, "and we're all going off to florida to-morrow. guy and i don't want to go a bit; but mother's afraid of his catching cold, and father has to be in washington, anyhow. so we're off." though he walked by her side for no more than a few yards, tom was touched by her friendliness. she was the first girl of that section of the world for which he had only the term "society" who had not been ashamed to be seen with him in a street. little miss ansley even paused for a minute at the foot of her steps while they exchanged remarks about their schools. she went to miss winslow's. she liked her school. she was sorry to be going away as it would give her such a lot of back work to make up. she might go to radcliffe when guy went to harvard, but so far her mother was opposed to it. in these casual observations she seemed to tom to lose something of her air of being a woman of the world. on his own side he lost a little of his awe of her. the snuffing out of this interest threw him back on the easing of his heart by confidence. it was not confidence alone; it was also confession. he was deceiving honey, and to go on deceiving honey began to seem to him baser than dishonor. had honey been his father, it would have been different. fathers worked for their sons as a matter of course, and almost as a matter of course expected that their sons would play them false. there was no reason why honey should work for him; and since honey did work for him, there was every reason why he who reaped the benefit should be loyal. he was not loyal. he had even reached the point, and he cursed himself for reaching it, at which honey was an old man of the sea fastened on his back. he told himself that this was the damnedest ingratitude; and yet he couldn't tell himself that it wasn't so. it was. there were days when honey's way of speaking, honey's way of eating, the smell of honey's person, and the black patch on his eye, revolted him. here he was, a great lump of a fellow sixteen years of age, and dependent for everything, for _everything_, on a rough dock laborer who had been a burglar and a convict. it was preposterous. had he jumped into this situation he would not have borne it for a week. but he had not jumped into it; it had grown. it had grown round him. it held him now as if with tentacles. he couldn't break away from it. and yet honey and he were bound to grow apart. it was in the nature of the case that it should be so. always of a texture finer than honey's, schooling, association, and habits of mind were working together to refine the grain, while honey was growing coarser. his work, tom reasoned, kept him not only in a rut but in a brutalizing rut. loading and unloading, unloading and re-loading, he had less use for his mind than in the days of his freebooting. then a wild ass of the desert, he was now harnessed to a dray with no relief from hauling it. from morning to night he hauled; from night to morning he was stupefied with weariness. in on this stupefaction tom found it more and more difficult to break. he was agog with interests and ideas; for neither interests nor ideas had honey any room. nor had he, so far as tom could judge, any room for affection. on the contrary, he repelled it. "don't you go for to think that i've give up bein' a socialist because i got a soft side. no, sir! that wouldn't be it at all. what reely made me do it was because it didn't pay. i'd make big money now and then; but once i'd fixed the police, the lawyers, and nine times out o' ten the judge, i wouldn't have hardly nothink for meself. if out o' every hundred dollars i was able to pocket twenty-five it'd be as much as ever. this 'ere job don't pay as well to start with; but then it haven't no expenses." self-interest and a vague sense of responsibility were all he ever admitted as a key to his benevolence. "it's along o' my bein' an englishman. you can't get an englishman 'ardly ever to be satisfied a'mindin' of his own business. ten to one he'll do that and mind somebody else's at the same time. a kind o' curse that's on 'em, i often thinks. once when i was doin' a bit--might 'a been at sing sing--a guy come along to entertain us. recited poetry at us. and i recolleck he chewed to beat the band over a piece he called, 'the white man's burden.' well, that's what you are, kid. you're my white man's burden. i can't chuck yer, nor nothink. i just got to carry yer till yer can git along without me; and then i'll quit. the old bunch'll be as glad to see me back as i'll be to go. there's just one thing i want yer to remember, kid, that when yer've got yer eddication there won't be nothink to bind me to you, nor--" he held himself very straight, bringing out his words with a brutal firmness--"_nor you to me_. yer'll know i'll be as glad to go the one way as you'll be to go the t'other, so there won't be no 'ard feelin' on both sides." * * * * * it was a sunday night. tom had taken his troubles to bed with him, because he had nowhere else to take them. in bed you struck a truce with life. you suspended operations, at least for a few hours. you could sleep; you could postpone. he slept as a rule so soundly, and so straight through the night, that, hunted as he was by care, he had once in the twenty-four hours a refuge in which the fiendish thing couldn't overtake him. it had been a trying sunday because maisie had tempted him to a wilder than usual extravagance. there was enough snow on the ground for sleighing. she had been used to sleighing in nashua. the singing of runners and the jingling of bells, as a sleigh slid joyously past her, awakened her longing for the sport. by coaxing, by teasing, by crying a little, and, worst of all, by making game of him, she had induced him to find a place where he could hire a sleigh and take her for a ride. snow having turned to rain, and rain to frost, the landscape through which they drove was made of crystal. every tree was as a tree of glass, sparkling in the sun. a deep blue sky, a keen dry wind, a little horse which enjoyed the outing as briskly as maisie herself, made the two hours vibrant with the ecstasy of cold. all tom's nerves were taut with the pleasure of the motion, of the air, of the skill, acquired chiefly at bere, with which he managed the spirited young nag. the knowledge of what it was costing him he was able to thrust aside. he would enjoy the moment, and face the reckoning afterward. when he did face the reckoning, he found that of his fourth ten dollars he had spent six dollars and fifty-seven cents. only three days earlier he had had the crisp clean bill unbroken in his hand.... he had been hardly able to eat his supper, and after supper the usual two hours of study to which he gave himself on sunday nights were as time thrown away. luckily, honey's consideration left him the room to himself. honey was like that. if tom had to work, honey effaced himself, in summer by sitting on the doorstep, in winter by going to bed. much of tom's wrestling with virgil was carried on to the tune of honey's snores. this being sunday evening, and honey less tired than on the days on which he worked, he had gone to "chew the rag," as he phrased it, with a little jew tailor, who lived next door to mrs. danker. tom was aware that behind this the motive was not love for the jew tailor, but zeal that he, tom, should be interfered with as little as possible in his eddication. tom's eddication was as much an obsession to honey as it was to tom himself. it was an overmastering compulsion, like that which sent peary to find the north pole, scott to find the south one, and livingstone and stanley to cross africa. what he had to gain by it had no place in his calculation. a machine wound up, and going automatically, could not be more set on its purpose than lemuel honeybun on his. but to-night his absenting of himself was of no help to tom in giving his mind to the translation from english into latin on which he was engaged. when he found himself rendering the expression "in the meantime" by the words _in turpe tempore_, he pushed books and paper away from him, with a bitter, emphatic, "damn!" though it was only nine, there was nothing for it but to go to bed. in bed he would sleep and forget. he always did. putting out the gas, and pulling the bedclothes up around his ears, he mentally waved the white flag to his carking enemy. but the carking enemy didn't heed the white flag; he came on just the same. for the first time in his life tom whitelaw couldn't sleep. rolling from side to side, he groaned and swore at the refusal of relief to come to him. he was still wide awake when about half past ten honey came in and re-lit the gas, surprised to see the boy already with his face turned to the wall. not to disturb him, honey moved round the room on tiptoe. tom lay still, his eyes closed. he loathed this proximity, this sharing of one room. in the two previous years he hadn't minded it. but he was older now, almost a man, able to take care of himself. not only was he growing more fastidious, but the self-consciousness we know as modesty was bringing to the over-intimate a new kind of discomfort. long meaning to propose two small separate rooms as not much dearer than the larger one, he had not yet come to it, partly through unwillingness to add anything to their expenses, and partly through fear of hurting honey's feelings. but to-night the lack of privacy gave the outlet of exasperation to his less tangible discontents. he rolled over on his back. one gas jet spluttered in the antiquated chandelier. under it a small deal table was heaped with his books and strewn with his papers. beside it stood an old armchair stained with the stains of many lodgers' use, the entrails of the seat protruding horribly between the legs. two small chairs of the kitchen type, a wash-stand, a chest of drawers with a mirror hung above it, two or three flimsy rugs, and the iron cots on which they slept, made a setting for honey, who sat beneath the gaslight, sewing a button on his undershirt. turned in profile toward tom, and wearing nothing but his drawers and socks, he bent above his work with the patience of a concentrated mind. he was really a fine figure of a man, brawny, hairy, spare, muscled like an athlete, a rodin's thinker all but the thought, yet irritating tom as the embodiment of this penury. so not from an impulse of confession, but to ease the suffering of his nerves, tom told something about maisie danker. it was only something. he told of the friendship, of the dancing lessons, of the movies, of the sleigh-ride that afternoon, of the forty dollars drawn from the bank. he said nothing of their kisses, nor of the frenzy which he thought might be love. honey pulled his needle up through the hole, and pushed it back again, neither asking questions nor looking up. "i guess we'll move," was his only comment, when the boy had finished the halting tale. this quietness excited tom the more. "what do you want to move for?" "because there's dangers what the on'y thing you can do to fight 'em is to run away." "who said anything about danger? do you suppose ...?" in sticking in his needle honey handled the implement as if it were an awl. "do i suppose she's playin' the dooce with yer? no, kid. she don't have to. you're playin' the dooce with yerself. it's yer age. sixteen is a terr'ble imagination age." "oh, if you think i'm framing the whole thing...." "no, i don't. yer believes it all right. on'y it ain't quite so bad as what yer think. it don't do to be too delikit with women. got to bat 'em away as if they was flies, when they bother yer too much. once let a woman in on yer game and yer 'and can be queered for good." "did i say anything about letting a woman in on my game?" "no, yer on'y said she'd slipped in. it's too late now to keep her out. she's made the diff'rence." "what difference?" honey threaded his needle laboriously, held up the end of the thread to moisten it with his lips, and tied a knot in it. "the diff'rence in you. yer ain't the same young feller what yer was six months ago. you and me has been like one," he went on, placidly. "now we're two. been two this spell back. couldn't make it out, no more'n billy-be-damned; and now i see. the first girl." tom lashed about the bed. "it was bound to come; and that's why--yer've arsked me about it onst or twice, so i may as well tell yer--that's why i never lets meself get fond o' yer. could'a did it just as easy as not. when a man gits to my age a young boy what's next o' kin to him--why, he'll seem like as if 'twould be his son. but i wouldn't be ketched. 'honey,' i says to meself, 'the first girl and you'll be dished.'" "oh, go to blazes!" having finished his button, honey made it doubly secure by winding the thread around it. "not that i blame yer, kiddy. i ain't never led no celebrant life meself, not till i had to take you on, and cut out all low company what wouldn't 'a been good for you. but i figured it out that we might 'a got yer through college before yer fell for it. well, we ain't. maybe now we'll not git yer to college at all. but we'll make a shy at it. we'll move." "if you think that by moving you'll keep me from seeing her again...." "no, son, not no more'n i could keep yer from cuttin' yer throat by lockin' up yer razor. yer could git another razor. i know that. all the same, it'd be up to me, wouldn't it, not to leave no razors layin' round the room, where yer could put yer 'and on 'em?" this settling of his destiny over his head angered tom especially. "i can save you the trouble of having me on your mind any more. to-morrow i'll be out on my own. i'm going to be a man." "sure, you're going to be a man--in time. but yer ain't a man yet." "i'm sixteen. i can do what any other fellow of sixteen can do." "no fella of sixteen can do much." "he can earn a living." "he can earn part of a livin'. how many boys of sixteen did yer ever know that could swing clear of home and friends and everythink, and feed and clothe and launder theirselves on what they made out'n their job?" "well, i can try, can't i?" "oh, yes, yer can try, kid. but if you was me, i wouldn't cut loose from nobody, not till i'd got me 'and in." tom raised himself on his elbow, his eyes, beneath their protruding horizontal eyebrows, aglitter with the wrath which puts life and the world out of focus. "i _am_ going to cut loose. i'm going to be my own master." "are you, kid? how much of yer own master do yer expect to be, on the ten or twelve per yer'll git to begin with--_if_ yer gits that?" "even if it was only five or six per, i'd be making it myself." "and what about college?" "college--hell!" the boy fell back on his pillow. feeling he had delivered his ultimatum, he waited for a reply. but honey only stowed away his sewing materials in a little black box, after which he pulled off the articles of clothing he continued to wear, and set about his toilet for the night. at the sound of his splashing water on his face tom muttered to himself: "god, another night of this will kill me." honey spoke through the muffling of the towel, while he dried his face. "isn't all this fuss what i'm tellin' yer? the minute a girl gits in on a young feller's life there's hell to pay. that's why i'd like yer to steer clear of 'em as long as yer can hold out." tom shut his eyes, buried his face in the pillow, and affected not to hear. "they don't mean to do no harm; they're just naterally troublesome. seems as if they was born that way, and couldn't 'elp theirselves. there's a lot of 'em as is never satisfied till they've got a man like a jumpin'-jack, what all they need to do is to pull the string to make him jig. this girl is one o' them kind." tom continued to hold his peace. "i've saw her. pretty little thing she is all right. but give her two or three years. lord love you, kid, she'll be as washed out then as one of her own ribbons after a hard rain. and yet them is the kind that most young fellers'll run after, like a pup'll run after a squirrel." tom was startled. the figure of speech had been used to him before. he could hear it drawled in a tired voice, soft and velvety. it was queer what conclusions about women these grown men came to! quidmore had thought them as dangerous as honey, and warned him against them much as honey was doing now. mrs. quidmore had once been what maisie was at that minute, and yet as he, tom, remembered her.... but honey was going on again, spluttering his words as he brushed his teeth. "it can be awful easy to git mixed up with a girl, and awful hard to git unmixed. she'll put a man in a hole where he can't help doin' somethink foolish, and then make out as what she've got a claim on him. there's a lot o' talk about women bein' the prey o' men; but for one woman as i've ever saw that way i've saw a hundred men as was the prey o' women. now when a girl of eighteen gits a young boy like you to spend the money as he's saved for his eddication...." the boy sprang up in bed, hammering the bedclothes. "don't you say anything against her. i won't listen to it." with that supple tread which always made tom think of one who could easily slip through windows, honey walked to the closet where he kept his night-shirt. "'tain't nothink agin her, kid. was on'y goin' to say that a girl what'll git a young boy to do that shows what she is. and yer did spend the money a-takin' her about, now didn't yer?" tom fell back upon his pillow. putting out the gas, honey threw himself on his creaking cot. "you're a free boy, kiddy," he went on, while arranging the sheet and blanket as he liked them. "if yer wants to beat it to-morrer, beat it away. don't stop because yer'll be afraid i'll miss yer. wasn't never no hand for missin' no one, and don't mean to begin. what i'd 'a liked have been to fill yer up with eddication so that yer could jaw to beat the best of 'em, if yer turned out to be the whitelaw baby." tom had almost forgotten who the whitelaw baby was. not since that sunday afternoon nearly three years ago had honey ever mentioned him. the memory having come back, he made an inarticulate sound of impatience, finally snuggling to sleep. he tried to think of maisie, to conjure up the rose in her cheeks, the laughter in her eyes; but all he saw, as he drifted into dreams, was the quaint cambodian face of little hildred ansley. only once did honey speak again, muttering, as he too fell asleep: "we'll move." xxvii they did not move for the reason that maisie did. not for forty-eight hours did tom learn of her departure. as mrs. danker kept not a boarding house but a rooming house, and her guests went days at a time without seeing their landlady, he had no sources of information when maisie, as she sometimes did, kept herself out of sight. watching for her on the monday and the tuesday following his sunday night talk with honey, he thought it strange that she never appeared in the hallway, though he had no cause to be alarmed. he was going to leave honey, get a job, and be independent. when he had added a little more to his fund in new york, he would propose to maisie, and marry her if she would take him. he would be eighteen, perhaps nineteen by the time he was able to do this, an early, but not an impossible, age at which to be a husband. on both these days he had gone to school from force of habit, but on the wednesday he was surprised by a letter. though he had never seen maisie's writing, the postmark said nashua. before tearing the envelope he had a premonition of her flight. a telegram on monday morning had bidden her come home at once, as her stepmother was dying. she had died. till her father married again, which she supposed would be soon, she would have to care for the four little brothers and sisters. that was all. on paper maisie was laconic. since his mother's death no revolution in his inner life had upset the boy like this. the tollivant experience had only left him a little hard and skeptical; that with the quidmores had passed like the rain and the snow, scarcely affecting him. with honey his need for affection had always been unfed, and for reasons he could not fathom. maisie had made the give and take of life easy, natural. she had her limitations, her crude, and sometimes her cruel, insistences; but she liked him. he loved her. he was ready to say it now, because of the blank her loss had hollowed in his life. for the unformed, growing hot-blooded human thing to have nothing on which to spend itself is anguish. sitting down at his deal table, he wrote to her out of a heart fuller and more passionate than poor maisie could ever have understood. all he had been planning in rebellion against fate he poured out now as devotion. he had meant to cut loose, to go to work, to live on nothing, to save his money, and be ready to marry her in a year or two. and yet, on second thoughts, if he went through college, their position in the end would be so much better that perhaps the original plan was the best one. he thought only of her, and of what would make her happiest. he loved her--loved her--loved her. maisie wrote back that she saw no harm in their being engaged, and she wouldn't press him for a ring till he felt himself able to give her one. for herself she didn't care, but if she told the girls she was engaged to a fellow, and had no ring to corroborate her word, she wouldn't be believed. in case he ever felt equal to the purchase she was sending him the size in the circlet of thread inclosed. tom was heroic. he had never thought of a ring, and a ring would mean more money. be it so! he would spend more money. he would spend more money if he mortgaged his whole future to procure it. maisie should not be shamed among her friends in nashua. giving all his free hours to wandering about and pricing rings, he found them less expensive than he feared. maisie having once confided to him her longing for a diamond, a diamond he meant to make it if it cost him fifty dollars. but he found one for twenty, as big as a small pea, and flashing in the sunshine like a lighthouse. the young jew who sold it assured him that it would have cost a hundred, except for a tiny flaw which only an expert could detect. on its reception maisie was delighted. he felt himself almost a married man. the rest of the winter went by peaceably. with honey he declared a truce of god. he would go to college, and live up to all that had been planned; but honey must look on his own self-sacrifice as of the nature of a loan which would be repaid. honey was ready to promise anything, while, in the hope of getting through college in three years instead of four, tom worked with increased zeal. then, one day, when spring had come round, he stumbled on guy and hildred ansley. it was in louisburg square, as usual. having arrived from the south the night before, they were sailing soon for europe. "rotten luck!" the fat boy complained. "got to trail a tutor along too, so that i shan't fall down on the harvard exam when it comes. wish i was you." "if you were mr. whitelaw, guy," his sister reminded him, "you'd find something else to worry you. we all have our troubles, haven't we, mr. whitelaw?" "she's got nothing to worry her," the brother protested. "if she was me, with mother scared all the time that i'll be too hot or too cold or too tired or too hungry, or that some damn thing or other'll make me sick...." "all the same," tom broke in, "it's something to have a mother to make a fuss." the girl looked sympathetic. "you haven't, have you?" "oh, i get along." "guy says you live with a guardian." "you may call him a guardian if you like, but the word is too big. you only have a guardian when you've something to guard, and i haven't anything." "yes, but how did you ever ...?" once more tom said to himself, "it's the way she looks at you." he knew what she was trying to ask him, and in order to be open and aboveboard, he gave her the few main facts of his life. he did it briefly, hurriedly, throwing emphasis only on the point that, to keep him from becoming a state ward the second time, his stevedore friend had brought him to boston and sent him to school. "he must be an awfully good man!" he was going to tell her that he was when the brother gave the talk another twist. "what are you going to do in your holidays?" "work, if i can find a job." "what kind of job?" he explained that for the last two summers he had worked round the quincy and faneuil hall markets, but that he had outgrown them. a two-fisted, he-man's job was what he would look for now, and had no doubt that he would get it. "after you've left harvard what are you going to be?" "banking's what i'd like best, but most likely i'll have to make it barbering. what are you going to be yourself?" "oh, i've got to be a corporation lawyer. my luck! just because dad'll have the business to take me into." "but what would you like better?" the piggy face broke into one of its captivating grins. "hanged if _i_ know, unless it'd be an orphan and an only child." the meeting was important because of what it led to. a few days later tom heard the wheezy girlish voice calling behind him in the street: "tom! tom!" he turned and walked back. during the winter the fat boy had expanded, not so much in height as in girth and jelliness. he came up, puffing from his run. "can you drive a car?" tom hesitated. "i don't know that you'd call it driving a car. i can drive--after a fashion. mr. quidmore used to let me run his ford, when we were alone in it, and no one was looking. since then i've sometimes driven the market delivery teams for a block or two, nothing much, just to see what it was like. i know i could pick it up with a few lessons. i'm a natural driver--a horse or anything. why?" "because my old man said that if you could drive, he might help you get your summer's job." "where? what kind of job?" "i don't know. he said that if you wanted to talk it over to come round to our house this evening at nine o'clock." at nine that evening tom was shown up into another of those rooms which marked the gulf between his own way of living and that of people like the ansleys, and at the same time woke the atavistic pang. his impression was only a blurred one of comfort, color, shaded lights, and richness. from the many books he judged that it was what they would call the library, but any judgment was subconscious because the human presences came first. a man wearing a dinner jacket and scanning an evening paper was sunk into one deep armchair; in another a lady, demi-décolletée, was reading a book. it was his first intimation that people ever wore what he called "dress-clothes" when dining only with their families. he was announced by pilcher, who had led him upstairs. "this is the young man, sir." having reached something like friendly terms with the son and daughter, tom had expected from the parents the kind of courtesy shown to strangers when you shake hands with them and ask them to sit down. mr. ansley only let the paper drop to his knees with an "oh!" in response to the butler, and looked up. "you're the young fellow my son has spoken of. he tells me you can drive a car." repeating what he had already said to guy as to his experience with cars, tom expressed confidence in his ability to obtain a license, if it should become worth his while. "it wouldn't be difficult driving such as you get in the crowded parts of a city. it would be chiefly station work, over country roads." he explained himself further. in the new hampshire summer colony where the ansleys had their place, the residents were turning a large country house into an inn which would be like a club, or a club which would be like an inn. it would not be open to ordinary travelers, since ordinary travelers would bring in people whom they didn't want. the guests would be their own friends, duly invited or introduced. he, mr. ansley, was chairman of the motor-car committee, but as he was going to europe he was taking up the matter in advance. on general grounds he would have preferred an older man and one with more experience, but the inn-club was a new undertaking and not too well financed. more experienced men would cost more money. for the station work they could afford but eighty dollars a month, with a room in the garage, and board. moreover, the jobs they could offer being only for the summer, the promoters hoped that a few young men and women working for their own education might take advantage of the scheme. eighty dollars a month, with a room to himself, even if it had only been in a stable, and board in addition, glittered before tom's eyes like aladdin's treasure house. having thanked mr. ansley for the kind suggestion, he assured him he could give satisfaction if taken on. all the chauffeurs who had let him have a few minutes at the steering-wheel had told him that he possessed the eye, the nerve, and the quickness which make a good driver, in addition to which he knew that he did himself. "how old are you?" it was a question tom always found difficult to answer. he could remember when his birthday had been on the fifth of march; but his mother had told him that that had been gracie's birthday, and had changed his own to september. later she had shifted to may, to a day, so she told him, when all the nurses had had their children in the park, and the lilacs had been in bloom. he had never asked her the year, not having come to reckoning in years before she was taken from him. though latterly he had been putting his birthday in may, he now shifted back to march, so as to make himself older. "i'm seventeen, sir." mrs. ansley spoke for the first time. "he looks more than that, doesn't he?" tom turned to the lady who filled a large armchair with a person suggesting the quaking, flabby consistency of cornstarch pudding. "i suppose that's because i've knocked about so much." "the hard school does give you experience, doesn't it, but it's a cruel school." he remembered his promise to guy, if ever he got the opportunity. "boys can stand a good deal of cruelty, ma'am. nine times out of ten it does them good." "still there's always a tenth case." he smiled. "i think i ought to have made it ten times out of ten. i never saw the boy yet who wasn't all the better for fighting his way along." mrs. ansley's mouth screwed itself up like guy's when it looked as if he were going to cry. "fight? why, i think fighting's something horrid. why _can't_ boys treat each other like gentlemen?" "i suppose, ma'am, because they're not gentlemen." the cornstarch pudding stiffened to the firmness of ice-cream. "excuse me! my boy couldn't be anything but a gentleman." "he couldn't be anything but a sport. he _is_ a fighter, ma'am--when he gets the chance." "then i hope he won't often get it." "but, sunshine," mr. ansley intervened, "you don't make any allowance for differences in standards. you're a woman of forty-five. guy's a boy of sixteen--he's practically seventeen, like whitelaw here--your name is whitelaw, isn't it?--and yet you want him to have the same tastes and ways as yourself." "i don't want him to have brutal tastes and ways." "it's a pretty brutal world, ma'am, and if he's going to take his place he'll have to get used to being hammered and hammering back." "which is what i object to. if you train boys to be courteous with each other from the start...." "they'll be quite ladylike when they get into the stock exchange or the prize ring. look here, sunshine! the country's over feminized as it is. it's run by women, or by men who think as women, or by men who're afraid of women. congress is full of them; the courts are full of them; the churches--the churches above all!--are full of them; and you'd make it worse. if guy hadn't the stuff in him that he has...." mrs. ansley was more than ever like a cornstarch pudding, quivering and undulating, when she rose. "you make it very hard for me, philip. i was going to ask whitelaw, here, if when he's anywhere where guy is--i know guy will have to go among young men, of course--he'd keep an eye on him, and protect him." "he doesn't need protection, ma'am. he can take his own part as easily as i can take mine. if there's a row he likes to be in it; and if he's licked he doesn't mind it. if he only had a chance...." she raised her left hand palm outward, in a gesture of protest. "thank you! i'm not asking advice as to my own son." sailing from the room with the circumambient dignity of ladies when they wore the crinoline, she left tom with the crestfallen sense of presumption. half expecting to be ordered from the room, he turned toward his host, who, however, simply reverted to the subject of the summer. he told tom where he could have lessons in driving, adding that he would charge them to club expenses, as he would the uniform tom would have to wear. when mr. ansley picked up his paper the young man knew the interview was over. with a half-articulate, "good-night, sir," to which there was no response, he turned and left the room. * * * * * the occasion left him with much to think of, chiefly on his own account. it marked his status more clearly than anything that had happened to him yet. he had not been shaken hands with; he had not been asked to sit down. he had not been greeted on arriving; his "good-night" had not been acknowledged when he went away. mr. ansley had called him whitelaw, which was all very well; but when mrs. ansley did it, the use of the name was significant. this must be the way in which rich people treated their servants. here he had to reason with himself as to what he had been looking for. it was not for recognition on a footing of equality. of course not! he had no objection to being a servant, since he needed the money. he objected to ... and yet it was not quite tangible. he didn't mind standing up; he didn't mind the absence of a greeting; he didn't mind any one thing in itself. he minded the combination of assumptions, all fusing into one big assumption that he was in essence their inferior. having this assumption so strongly in their minds, they couldn't but betray it when they spoke to him. with his tendency to think things out, he mulled for the next few days over the question of inferiority. why was one man inferior to another? what made him so? did nature send him into the world as an inferior, or did the world turn him into an inferior after he had come into it? did god have any part in it? was it god's will that there should be a class system among mankind, with class animosities, class warfares? of the latter he was hearing a good deal. in grove street, with its squirming litters of idealistic jews and slavs, class warfare was much talked about. sometimes tom heard the talk himself; sometimes honey brought in reports of it. it was a rare day, especially a rare night, when some wild-eyed apostle was not going up or down the hill with a gospel which would have made old boston, only a few hundred yards away, shiver in its bed on hearing it. to a sturdy american like tom, and a sturdy englishman like honey, these whispered prophecies and plans were no more than the twitter of sparrows going to roost. but now that the boy was working toward man's estate, and had always, within his recollection, been treated as an inferior, he found himself wondering on what principle the treatment had been based. he would listen more attentively when the jew tailor next door to mrs. danker began again, as he had so often, to set forth his arguments in favor of dragging the upper classes down. he would listen when honey cursed the lor of proputty. he had long been asking himself if in some obscure depth of honey's obscure intelligence there might not be a glimmer of a great big thing that was right. he had reached the age, which generally comes a little before the twenties, when the right and wrong of things puzzled and disturbed him. no longer able to accept rights and wrongs on somebody else's verdict, he was without a test or a standard of his own. he began to wander among churches. here, he had heard, all these questions had been long ago threshed out, and the answers reduced to formulæ. his range was wide, hebrew, catholic, protestant. for the most part the services bewildered him. he couldn't make out why they were services, or what they were serving. the sermons he found platitudinous. they told him what in the main he knew already, and said little or nothing of the great fundamental things with which his mind had been intermittently busy ever since the days when he used to talk them over with bertie tollivant. but one new interest he drew from them. the fragments of the gospels he heard read from altar or lectern or pulpit roused his curiosity. passages were familiar from having learned them at the knee, so to speak, of mrs. tollivant. but they had been incoherent, without introduction or sequence. he was surprised to find how little he knew of the most dominant character in history. on his way home one day he passed a shop given to the sale of bibles. deciding to buy a cheap new testament, he was advised by the salesman to take a modern translation. that night, after he had finished his lessons, and honey was asleep, he opened it. it opened at a page of st. luke. turning to the beginning of that gospel, he started to read it through. he read avidly, charmed, amazed, appeased, and pacified. when he came to an incident bearing on himself he stopped. "now one of the pharisees repeatedly invited him to a meal at his house. so he entered the house and reclined at the table. and there was a woman in the town who was a notorious sinner. having learnt that jesus was at table in the pharisee's house she brought a flask of perfume, and standing behind, close to his feet, weeping, began to wet his feet with her tears; and with her hair she wiped the tears away again, while she lovingly kissed his feet, and poured the perfume over them. "noticing this the pharisee, his host, said to himself: "'this man, if he were really a prophet, would know who and what sort of person this is who is touching him, for she is an immoral woman.' "in answer to his thoughts jesus said to him: 'simon, i have a word to say to you.' "'rabbi, say on,' he replied. "'do you see this woman? i came into your house. you gave me no water for my feet; but she has made my feet wet with her tears, and then wiped the tears away with her hair. no kiss did you give me; but she, from the moment i came in, has not left off tenderly kissing my feet. no oil did you pour even on my head; but she has poured perfume on my feet. this is the reason why i tell you that her sins--her _many_ sins--are forgiven--because she has loved much." he shut the book with something of a bang. "so they used to do that sort of thing even then!... the water for the feet, and the kiss, and the oil, must have corresponded to our shaking hands and asking people to sit down.... and they wouldn't show him the courtesy.... he was their inferior.... i wonder if he minded it.... it looks as if he did because of the way he had it in his mind, and referred to it.... if the woman hadn't turned up he would probably not have referred to it at all.... he would have kept it to himself ... without resentment.... the little disdains of little people were too petty for him to resent.... he could only be hurt by them ... but on their account." he sat late into the night, thinking, thinking. suddenly he thumped the table, and sprang up. "i _won't_ resent it. they're good people in their way. they don't mean any unkindness. it's only that they think like everybody else. honey would call them orthodocks. they're courteous among themselves; they only don't know how far courtesy can be made to go. they're--they're little. i'll be big--like him." xxviii the resolution helped him through the summer. it was a pleasant summer, and yet a trying one. it was the first time he had ever done work of which the essence lay in satisfying individuals. in his market jobs the job had been the thing. even if done at somebody's order, it was judged by its success, or by its lack of it. his work at the inn-club brought him hourly into contact with men and women to whom it was his duty to be specially, and outwardly deferential. he sprang to open the door for them when they entered or left the car; he touched his hat to them whenever they gave him an order. his bearing, his manner of address, formed a part of his equipment only second to his capacity to drive. to this he had no objection. it only seemed odd that while it was his business to be courteous to others it was nobody's business to be courteous to him. some people were. they used toward him those little formalities of "please" and "thank you" which were a matter of course toward one another. they didn't command; they requested. others, on the contrary, never requested. if their nerves or their digestions were not in good order, they felt at liberty to call him a damn fool, or if they were ladies, to find fault foolishly. whatever the injustice, it was his part to keep himself schooled to the apologetic attitude, ready to be held in the wrong when he knew he was in the right. though he had never heard of the english principle that you may be rude if you choose to your equals, but never rude to those in a position lower than your own, he felt its force instinctively. his humble place in the world's economy entitled him to a courtesy which few people thought it worth their while to show. apart from this he had nothing to complain of. he made good money, as the phrase went, his wages augmented by his tips. he took his tips without shame, since he did much to please his clients beyond what he was paid for. his relation with them being personal, he could see well enough that only in tips could they make him any recognition. with the staff in the house he got on very well, especially with the waitresses, all six of them girls working their way through radcliffe, wellesley, or vassar. they chaffed him in an easy-going way, one of them calling him her hercules, another her charlemagne because of his height, while to a third he was her siegfried. when he had no work in the evenings, and their dining-room duties were over, he took them for drives among the mountains. writing to honey, he said that what with the air, the food, the fun, and the outdoor life, he was never before in such splendid shape. honey was his one anxiety, though an anxiety which troubled him only now and then. "go to it, lad," had been his response when tom had told him of mr. ansley's proposition. "with eighty dollars a month for all summer, and yer keep throwed in, yer ought to save two hundred." "you're sure you won't be lonesome, honey?" honey made a scornful exclamation. "lord love yer, kid, if i was ever goin' to be lonesome i'd 'a begun before now. lonesome! me! that's a good 'un!" and yet on the sunday of his departure tom noticed a forced strain in honey's gayety. it was a sunday because tom was to drive the car up to new hampshire in the afternoon to begin his first week on the monday. honey was in clamorous spirits, right up to an hour before the boy left. then he seemed to go flat. pump up his humor as he would, it had no zest in it. when it came to the last handshake he grinned feebly, but couldn't, or didn't, speak. tom drove away with a question in his mind as to whether or not, in honey's professions of a steeled heart, there was not some bravado. in driving through nashua he saw maisie. it had been agreed that she should meet him by the roadside, at the end of the town toward lowell, and go on with him till he struck the country again. they not only did this, but got out at a druggist's to spend a half hour over ice-cream sodas. picking up the dropped threads of intercourse was not so easy as they had expected. it was hard for tom to make himself believe that in this pretty little thing, all in white with pink roses in her hat, he was talking to his future wife. since the fervor of his first love letter there had been a slight shift in his point of view. without being able to locate the change, he felt that the new interests--the car, the inn-club, the variety of experience--had to some small degree crowded maisie out. she was not quite so essential as she had seemed on the afternoon when he had learned of her departure. neither was she quite so pretty. he thought with a pang that honey's predictions might be coming true. because they might be coming true, his pity was so great that he told her she was looking lovelier than ever. "gee, that's something," maisie accepted, complacently. "with four brats to look after, and all the cooking and washing, and everything--if my father don't marry again soon i'll pass away." she glanced at his chauffeur's uniform. "you look swell." he felt swell, and told her so. he told her of his wages, of the economies he hoped to make. "gee, and you talk of goin' to college, a fellow that can pull in all that money just by bein' a shofer. why, if you were to go on bein' a shofer we could get married as soon as i got the family off my hands." he explained to her that it was not the present, but the future for which he was working. a chauffeur had only a chauffeur's possibilities, whereas a man with an education.... "just my luck to get engaged to a nut," maisie commented, with forced resignation. "gee, i got to laff." some half dozen times that summer, when errands took him to boston, they met in the same way. growing more accustomed to their new relation to each other, he also grew more tender as he realized her limitations and domestic cares. with his first month's wages in his hand, he could bring her little presents on each return from boston, so helping out her never-failing joy in the flash of her big diamond. that at least she had, when every other blessing was put off to a vague future. * * * * * in august, the ansleys came flying back, driven by the war. it had caught them at munich, where their french chauffeur, pierre, had been interned as a prisoner. while taking driving lessons tom had made pierre's acquaintance, and that he should now be a prisoner in germany made the war a reality. for the first few weeks it had been like a battle among giants in the clouds; now it came down to earth as a convulsion among men. the ansleys had come to the inn-club because their own house was closed. with guy and hildred tom found his relations changed by the fact that he was a chauffeur. guy talked to him freely enough, as one young fellow to another, but hildred had plainly received a hint to mark the distance between them. if she passed him in the grounds, or if he opened the car door for her, she gave him a faint, self-conscious smile, but never spoke to him. mrs. ansley freely used the car and him, always calling him whitelaw. philip ansley was much preoccupied by the international situation. a small, dry man of slightly mongolian features, and a skin which looked like a parchment lampshade tinted with a little rose, he had made a specialty of international law as it affected the great corporations. new york and washington both had need of him. when he couldn't go there, those who wished his opinion came to him. not a little of tom's work lay in driving him to keene, the station for new york, to meet the important men seeking his advice. thus it happened that tom brought over from keene, so late one night that he got no more than a dim glimpse of the visitor, the man who was to leave on him the most disturbing impression of the summer. having delivered his charge at the inn-club door, he drove his car to the garage, climbed the stairs to his room, and turned into bed. before six next morning he was up for a plunge in the lake, this being the only hour he could count on as his own. it was one of those windless mornings late in summer which bring the first hint of fall. the lake was so still that each throw of his arms was like the smashing of a vast metallic mirror. only a metallic mirror could have had this shining dullness, faintly iridescent, hardly catching the rays of the newly risen sun. not leaden enough for night, nor silvery enough for day, it kept the aloofness from man, as well as from nature's smaller blandishments, of its mighty companion, monadnock. it was an awesome lake, beautiful, withdrawn, because it gave back the mountain's awesomeness, beauty, and remoteness. tom's thrust, as he paddled the water behind him, broke for no more than a few seconds that which at once reformed itself. you would have said that the darting of his body, straight as a fish's, clave the water as a bird cleaves the air. after he had gone there was hardly a ripple to tell that he had passed. built to be a swimmer, loose limbed, loose muscled, and not too bonily spare, he breathed as a swimmer, deeply, gently, without spluttering or loss of his control. in the limpid medium through which another might have sunk like a stone he had that sense of natural support which helps man to his dominion. now on his right side, now on his left, he could skim like an arrow to its mark for the simple reason that he knew he could. he turned over on his back and floated. the quiet was that of a world which might never have known the velocity of wind, the ferocity of war. above him the inviolate sky; around him the mountains nearly as inviolate! and everywhere the living stillness, vibrating, dramatic, with which nature alone can quicken a dead calm! turning over again, he was abandoning the crawl for the forearm stroke, to make his way back to the bathing cabins, when over the water came a long "ahoy!" nearer the shore, and a little abeam, there was another man swimming toward him. tom gave back an "ahoy!" and made in the direction of the stranger. it was perhaps another chauffeur. even if it were a resident, or some resident's guest, the informality of sport would put them on a level. the newcomer had the sun behind him; tom had it on his face. his features were, therefore, the first to become visible. a strong voice called out, in a tone of astonishment: "why, tad! what are _you_ doing up here in new hampshire?" tom laughed. "tad--nothing! i'm tom!" the other came nearer. "tom, are you? excuse me! took you for my son." "sorry i'm not," tom laughed again. "somebody else's." coming abreast, they headed toward shore. each face was turned toward the other. adopting his companion's stroke, tom adjusted himself to his pace. though conversation was not easy, the one found it possible to ask questions, the other to answer them. "look like my son. what's your name?" "whitelaw." a light came into the eyes, and went out again. "where do you live?" "boston." "lived there all your life?" "only for the last three years or so." "where'd you live before that?" "new york some of the time." "where were you born?" "the bronx." "what was your father's name?" "theodore whitelaw." there was again that spark in the eyes, flashing and then dying out. "how did he get that name?" "don't know. just a name. suppose his mother gave it to him." "lots of theodore whitelaws. have come across two or three. like the colin campbells and howard smiths you run into everywhere. what did your father do?" "never heard. died when i was a kid." tom felt entitled to ask a question on his own side. "what do you want to know for?" the other seemed on his guard. "oh, nothing! was just--was just struck by the resemblance to--to my boy." the swerve which took them away from each other was as slight as that which a ship gets from her rudder. tom continued to play round in the water till he saw the older man reach the bathing cabins, dress, and go away. that afternoon he was told to drive back to keene both mr. ansley and the guest whom he, tom, had brought over on the previous evening. as the latter came out to enter the car it was easy to recognize the swimmer of the morning. tom held the door open, his hand to his cap. the gentleman gave him a swift, keen look. "oh, so this is what you do!" "yes, sir; this is what i do. mr. ansley got me the job." "young fellow whom guy has befriended," mr. ansley explained, as he took his place beside his friend. but in the pullman, when tom had carried in the gentleman's valise, there was another minute in which they were alone. the car was nearly empty; there were still some five minutes before the departure of the train. while the colored porter took the suitcase the traveler turned to tom. he was a tall man, straight and flexible like tom himself, but a little heavier. "how old are you?" "seventeen, sir." a shadow flew across the face. "tad is seventeen, too. that settles any--" without stating what was settled by this coincidence of ages, he went on with his quick, peremptory questions. "what do you do when you leave here?" "i go back for my last year in the latin school in boston." "and then?" "i go to harvard." "putting yourself through?" "only partly, sir." "friends?" "yes, sir." the questions ceased. the face, which even a boy like tom could see to be that of a strong man who must have suffered terribly, grew pensive. when the eyes were bent toward the floor tom took note of a pair of bushy, outstanding, horizontal eyebrows, oddly like his own. the reverie ended abruptly. some thought seemed to be dismissed. it seemed to be dismissed with both decision and relief. but the man held out his hand. "good-by." "good-by, sir." it was not the questions, nor the interest, it was the last little act of farewell that gave tom a glowing feeling in the heart as he went back to his car and mr. ansley. xxix it was late that evening before tom found an opportunity to ask miss padley, who kept what the inn-club knew as the office, the name of the guest who had questioned him so closely. miss padley was a red-haired, freckled girl, putting herself through radcliffe. unused to clerical work, she was tired. when tom put his query she gazed up at him vacantly, before she could collect her wits. "the name of the gentleman who left this afternoon?" she called to ella, one of the waitresses, in her second year at wellesley. "what was it, ella? i forget." as the house was closing for the night some informality was possible. ella sauntered up. "what was what?" tom's question was repeated. "oh, that was the great henry t. whitelaw. big banker. partner in meek and brokenshire's. they say that he and a few other bankers could stop the war if they liked, by holding back the cash. don't believe it. war's too big. and, say! he was the father of that whitelaw baby there used to be all the talk about." miss padley looked up, her cheek resting on her hand. "you don't say! gee, i wish i'd known that. i'd 'a looked at him a little closer." she turned her tired greenish eyes toward tom. "your name is whitelaw, too, isn't it?" he grinned nervously. "my name is whitelaw, too, only, like the lady's maid whose name was shakespeare but was no relation to the play-actor of that name, i don't belong to the banking branch of the family." ella exclaimed, as one who makes a discovery. "but, siegfried, you look as if you did. doesn't he, blanche? look at his eyebrows. they're just like the banker man's." "oh, i've looked at them often enough," miss padley returned, wearily. "got his mustaches stuck on in the wrong place. i'm off." yawning, she shut her ledger, closed an open drawer, and rose. but ella, a dark little thing, kept her snappy black eyes on tom. "you do look like him, siegfried. i'd put in a claim if i were you. i'm single, you know, and i've always admired you. think of the romance it would make if the whitelaw baby took home as his bride a poor but honest working girl!" dodging ella's chaff, tom escaped to the garage. it was queer how the whitelaw baby haunted him. honey!--ella!--and the whitelaw baby's own father! but the haunting stopped. neither ella nor miss padley took it as more than a passing pleasantry, forgotten with the morning. the tall man who had asked him questions never came back again. the rest of the summer went by with but one little incident to remain in his memory. it was a very little incident. walking one day in the road that ran round the lake he came face to face with hildred ansley. she had grown since the previous winter, a little in height, and more in an indefinable development. she was fifteen now; but, always older than her age, she was more like seventeen or eighteen. her formal manner, her decided mind, her "grown-up" choice of words, made her already something of that finished entity for which we have only the word lady. ella had said of her that at twenty she would look like forty, and at forty continue to look like twenty. tom thought that this might be true--an early fullness of womanhood, but a long one. she had been playing tennis, and swung her racket as she came along. he was sorry for this direct encounter, since she might find it awkward; but when she waved her racket to him, it was clear that she did not. she felt perhaps the more independent, released from her mother's supervision and the inn. her smile, something in her way of pausing in the road, an ease of manner beyond analysis, put them both on the plane on which their acquaintance had begun. the slanting yellowish-brown eyes together with the faint glimmer of a smile heightened that air of mystery which had always made her different from other girls. "how have you been getting along?" he said he had been doing very well. "how have you liked the job?" "fine! everybody's been nice to me--" "everybody likes you. all the same, i hope, if they ask you to come back next year, that--you won't." "why not?" "oh, just--because!" slipping away, she left him with the summer's second memory. she hoped he wouldn't take the place again--_because_! because--what? could she have meant what he thought she must have meant? was it possible that she didn't like to see him in a situation something like a servant's? though he never again, during all the rest of the summer, had so much speech with her alone, it gave him a hint to turn over in his mind. driving the car back to boston, after the inn-club had closed, he saw maisie for the last time that year. uncertain of his hours, he had been unable to arrange to have her meet him, and so looked her up in her home. a small wooden house, once stained a dark red, weather-worn now to a reddish-dun, it stood on the outskirts of the town. in a weedy back-yard, redeemed from ugliness by the flaming of a maple tree, maisie was pinning newly washed clothes to a clothes-line stretched between the back door and a post. two children, a boy of six and a girl of eight, were tumbling about with a pup. at sound of the stopping of the car in the roadway in front of the house maisie turned, a clothes-pin held lengthwise in her mouth. even with her sleeves rolled up and her hair in wisps, she couldn't be anything but pretty. she came and sat beside him in the car, the children and the pup staring up at them in wonder. "gee, i wish he'd get married; but i daresay he won't for ever so long. married to the bottle, that's what he is. it was six years after my mother died before he took on the last one. that's what makes me so much older than the four kids. all the same i'd beat it if you'd take a shofer's job and settle down. i'm not bound to stay here and make myself a slave." it was the burden of all maisie's reasoning, and he had to admit its justice. he was asking her to wait a long four years before he could give her a home. it would have been more preposterous than it was if among poor people, among poor young people especially, a long courtship, with marriage as a vague fulfillment, was not general. any such man as she was likely to get would have to toil and save, and save and toil, before he could pay for the few sticks of furniture they would need to set up housekeeping. never having thought of anything else, she was the more patient now; but patient with a strain of rebellion against tom's whim for education. she cried when he left her; he almost cried himself, from a sense of his impotence to take her at once from a life of drudgery. the degree to which he loved her seemed to be secondary now to her helpless need of him. true, he could get a job as chauffeur and make a hundred dollars a month to begin with. to maisie that would be riches; but a hundred and fifty a month would then become his lifelong limit and ambition. even to save maisie now he couldn't bring himself to sacrifice not merely his future but her own. once he was "through college," it seemed to him that the treasures of the world would lie open. arrived in grove street, he found one new condition which made his return easier. honey, who, for the sake of economy, had occupied a hall-bedroom through the summer, had reserved another, on the floor above, for tom. the relief from the sharing of one big room amounted to a sense of luxury. on the other hand, honey, for the first time since tom had known him, was moody and tired. he was not ill; he was only less cast-iron than he used to be. he found it harder to go to work in the morning; he was more spent when he came back at night, as if some inner impulse of virility was wearing itself out. the war worried him. the fact that old england had met a foe whom she couldn't walk over at once disturbed his ideas as to the way in which the foundations of the world had been laid. "anything can happen now, kid," he declared, in discussing the english retreat from mons. "haven't felt so bad since the bloody cop give me the whack with his club what put out me eye. if englishmen has to turn tail before germans, well, what next?" but to tom's suggestions that he should go to canada and enlist in the british army honey was as stone. "you're too young. y'ain't got yer growth. i don't care what no one says. war is for men. yer first business, and yer last business, and yer only business, is yer eddication." it must be admitted that tom agreed with him. he had no longing to go to war. europe was far away while life was near. education, maisie, the future, had the first claim on him. it began to occur to him that even honey had a claim on him, now that he was not so vigorous as he used to be. there were other interests to make war remote. on returning to town, after a summer amid the spaciousness, beauty, and comfort which the few could give themselves, he was oppressed by the privations of the many. never before had he thought of them. he had taken grove street for granted. he had taken it for granted that life was hard and crowded and bitter and cold and ugly, and couldn't be anything else. now he had seen for himself that it could be easy and beautiful and healthy. true, he had always known that there were rich people as well as poor people; but never before had he been close enough to the rich to see their luxuries in detail. the contrasts in the human scheme of things having thus come home to him he was moved to a distressed wondering. what brought these differences about? if all the rich were industrious and good, while all the poor were idle and extravagant, he could have understood it better. but it wasn't so. the rich were often idle and extravagant, and didn't suffer. the poor were nearly always industrious--they couldn't be anything else--and were as good as they had leisure to be, but suffered from something all the time. how could this injustice be endured? what was to be done about it? wasn't it everybody's duty to try to right such a wrong? because he had only now become aware of it he supposed that nobody but the slav and jewish agitators had been aware of it before. louisburg square, and all that element in the world which louisburg square represented, could never have thought of it. if it had, it couldn't have slept at night in its bed. that it should lie snug and soft and warm while all the rest of the world--at least a good three-fourths--lay cold and hard and hungry, must be out of the question. if the rich people only knew! it was strange that someone hadn't told them. what were the newspapers and the governments and the churches doing that they weren't ringing with protests against this fundamental evil? more than ever honey's rebellion against the lor of proputty seemed to him based on some principle he couldn't trace. honey was doubtless all wrong; and yet the other thing was just as wrong as honey. he started him talking on the subject as they strolled to their dinner that evening. "seems as if this 'ere old human race didn't have no spunk. yer can put anything over on them, and they'll 'ardly lift a kick. it's like as if they was hypnertized. them as has got everything is hypnertized into thinkin' they've a right to it; and them as have got nothink'll let theirselves believe as nothink is all that belongs to 'em. comes o' most o' the world bein' orthodocks. lord love yer, i'd rather think for meself if it landed me ten months out'n every twelve in jail, than have two thousand a year and yet be an old tabby-orthodock what never had a mind." they were seated at the table in mrs. turtle's basement dining-room, when, looking up and down the double row of guests, honey whispered, "tabby-orthodocks--all of 'em." at his sixteen or eighteen fellow-mealers tom looked with a new vision. with the aid of honey's epithet he could class them. mostly men, they sat bowed, silent, futile, gulping down their coarse food with no pretense at softening the animal processes of eating. these, too, he had hitherto taken for granted. in all the months they had "mealed" at mrs. turtle's--in the years they had "mealed" at similar establishments in grove street--he had looked on them, and on others of their kind, as the norm of humanity. now he saw something wrong in them, without knowing what it was. "what's the matter with them?" he asked of honey, as they went back across grove street to mrs. danker's. honey's reply was standardized. "bein' orthodocks. not thinkin' for theirselves. not usin' the mind as gord give 'em. believin' what other blokes told 'em, and stoppin' at that. i say, kiddy! don't yer never go for to forget that yer'll get farther in the world by bein' wrong the way yer thinks yerself than by bein' right the way some other feller tells yer." having reached their own house they stood, each with a foot on the doorstep, while tom smoked a cigarette and honey enlarged on his philosophy. "i don't believe as gord put us into this world to be right not 'arf so much as what he done it so as we'd find out for ourselves what's right and what's wrong. one right thing as yer've found out for yerself'll make yer more of a man than fifty as yer've took on trust. look at 'em in there!" he nodded backward toward mrs. turtle's. "they've all took everythink on trust, and see what it's made of 'em. whoever says, 'i'm an orthodock, and i'm goin' to live and die an orthodock,' is like the guy in the bible as was bound 'and and foot with grave-clothes. my genius was always for thinkin' things out for meself; and look at me to-day!" it was another discovery to tom that honey felt proud and happy in his accomplishment. honey to tom was a machine for doing heavy work. he was a drudge, and a dray-horse. he was shut out from the higher, the more spiritual activities. but here was honey himself content, and in a measure exultant. "been wrong in a lot o' things i have; but i've found it out for meself. i ain't sorry for what i've did. it's learned me. there ain't a old jug i've been in, in england or the state o' new york, that didn't learn me somethink. i see now that i was wrong. but i see, too, that them as tried and sentenced me wasn't right. when they repents of the sins what their lors and gover'ments and churches has committed against this old world, i'll repent o' the sins i've committed against them." this ability to stand alone, mentally at least, against all religion and society, was, as tom saw it, the secret of honey's independence. he might have been a rogue, a burglar, a convict; and yet he was a man, as the orthodocks at mrs. turtle's were not, and never had been, men. having allowed themselves to be hammered into subjection by what honey called lors, gover'ments, and churches, in subjection they had been trapped, and never could get out again. there was something about honey that was strong and free. xxx to make himself strong and free was tom whitelaw's ruling motive through the winter which preceded his going to harvard. he must be a man, not merely in physical vigor, but in mental independence. convinced that he was in what he called a rotten world, a world of rotten customs built on a rotten foundation, he saw it as a task to learn to pick his way amid the rottenness. to rebel, but keep his rebellion as steam with which to drive his engine, not as something to let off in futile raging against established convictions, was a hint of honey's by which he profited. "it don't do yer no good to kick so as they can ketch and jump on you. i've tried that. and it ain't no good to jaw. tried that too. if the uninherited was anythink but a bunch o' simps you might be able to rouse 'em. but they ain't. all yer can do is to shut yer mouth and live. yer'll live harder and surer with yer mouth shut. yer'll live truer too, just as yer'll shoot straighter when yer ain't talkin' and fidgitin' about. don't believe what no judge or gov'nor or bishop says to yer just because he says it; but don't let 'em know as yer don't believe it, because they'll hoodoo you with their whim-whams. awful glad they'll be, both church and state, to ruin the man what don't believe the way they tell him to." on the eve of manhood tom thought more highly of honey than he had when a few years younger. having judged him drugged by work, he found that he had ideas of his own, however mistaken they might be. however mistaken they might be, they had at least produced one guiding principle: to keep your mouth shut and live! taking his notes about life, as he did through the following winter, he made them according to this counsel. the outstanding feature of the season was the development of something like a real friendship with guy ansley. hitherto the two young men had backed and filled; but in proportion as tom grew more sure of himself the weaker fellow clung to him. he clung in his own way; but he clung. he was the patron. tom was the fine young chap he had taken a fancy to and was helping along. "i'm awful democratic that way. whole lot of fellows'll think they've just got to go with their own gang. doolittle and pray's is full of that sort of bunk. the doolittle and pray spirit they call it. i call it fluff. if i like a fellow i stick by him, no matter what he is. i'd just as soon go round with you as with the stylishest fellow on the back bay. social position don't mean anything to me. of course i know it's very nice to have it; but if a fellow hasn't got it, why, i don't care, not so long as he's a sport." "keep your mouth shut and live," tom reminded himself. he liked guy ansley well enough. he was at least a fellow of his own age, with whom he could be franker than had been possible with maisie, and who would understand him in ways in which honey never could. with the difference made by ten years in his point of view, he discussed with guy the same sort of subjects, sex, religion, profession, vices, politics, that he had talked over with bertie tollivant. merely to hear their own voices on these themes eased the adolescent turmoil in their brains. hildred ansley, having entered miss winslow's school as a boarder, was immured as in a convent. her absence made it the easier for tom to run in and out of the ansley house on the missions, secret and important, which boys create among themselves. guy had a set of maps by which you could follow the ebb and flow on the battlefront. guy had a wireless installation with which you could listen in on messages not meant for you. guy had skis, and bought another pair for tom so that they could tramp together on the fenway. guy had a runabout which tom taught him to drive. guy had tickets for any play or concert he chose to attend, and invited tom to go along with him. doubtful at first, mrs. ansley came round to view the acquaintance almost without misgiving. "i think you're a steady boy, aren't you?" she asked of tom one day, when finding him alone. tom smiled. "i don't get much chance, ma'am, to be anything else." lacking a sense of humor, mrs. ansley was literal. "i don't like you to say that. it sounds as if when you do get the chance--but perhaps you'll know better by that time. it's something i hope guy will help you to see in return for all the--well, the physical protection you give him." "oh, but, ma'am, i--" "that'll do. i know my boy is brave. but i know too that he's not very strong, and to have a great fellow like you, used to roughing it--it reminds me of the big cossack who always goes round with the little tsarevitch. not that guy is as young as that, but he's been tenderly brought up." "oh, mother, give us a rest!" guy had rushed into his flowered room from whatever errand had taken him away. "if i _have_ been tenderly brought up, i'm as tough to-day as any mucker down where tom lives." "the dear boy!" she smiled at tom, as at one who like herself understood this extravagance, moving away with the stately lilt that made her skirts flounce up and down. "it's hildred that's sicking the old lady on to her little song and dance in your favor," guy declared, when they had the room to themselves again. "hildred likes you. always has. she's democratic, too, just like me. once let a fellow be a sport and hildred wouldn't care what he was socially." "keep your mouth shut and live," became tom's daily self-adjuration. that guy sincerely liked him he was sure, and this in itself meant much to him. the patronage could be smiled away. if he and his mother failed in tact they gave him much in compensation. in their house he was getting accustomed to certain small usages which at first had overawed him. space didn't dwarf him any more, nor beauty strike him spellbound. he was so courteous to pilcher that pilcher, returning deference for deference, had once or twice called him "sir." the plays to which guy took him were a long step in his education; the music they heard together released a whole new range in his emotions. he discovered that guy was what is commonly called musical. he played the piano not badly; he knew something of the classics, of the great romanticists, of the moderns. back of the library was a music room, and when other occupations palled, there guy would play and explain, while tom sat listening and enjoying. guy liked explaining; it showed his superiority. tom liked to learn. to know the difference between mozart and beethoven was a stage in progress. to have the cabalistic names of wagner and debussy, which he had often seen in newspapers, spring to significance was an initiation into mysteries. so with work, with sports, with amusements, the winter sped by, bringing a sense of an expanding life. he had one main care: maisie was more unhappy. her appeals to him to throw up college, to become a chauffeur and marry her, increased in urgency. he had come to the point of seeing that his engagement to maisie was a bit of folly. if honey were to learn of it, or the ansleys ... but he hoped to keep it secret till he won a position in which he could be free of censure. once with an income to support a wife, his mistakes and sufferings would be his own business. in proportion as life opened up it was easy for him to face trouble cheerfully. may had come round, and by keeping his birthday on the fifth of march, he was now more than eighteen. on a saturday morning when there was no school to attend he and guy had lingered on the roof of the ansley house after their task with the wireless apparatus was over. looking across the river toward cambridge, where one big tower marked the site of harvard, they were speculating on the new step in manhood they would take in the following october. pilcher's old head appeared through the skylight to inform mr. guy that lunch was waiting. madam wished him to come down. "where is she?" "she's in the dining room, mr. guy." "get along, tom. i'll be ready with the runabout at two. you won't be late, will you?" tom said he would not be late, following pilcher through the skylight and down the several flights of stairs. he was eager to slip out the front door without encountering mrs. ansley. mrs. ansley was eager not to encounter him. with lunch on the table, it would be awkward not to ask him to sit down; and to ask him to sit down would be out of the question. it would be just like guy.... and then guy did what was just like him. "mother," he called out, puffing down the last of the staircases, "why can't tom have lunch with us? he's got to be back here at two anyway. he's coming out with me in the runabout." tom was doing his best to turn the knob of the front door. "couldn't, guy," he whispered back, shaking his head violently. "got to beat it." in reality he was running away. to sit at the table with mrs. ansley, and be served by pilcher, required a knowledge of etiquette he did not possess. "mother, grab him," guy insisted. "he might as well stay, mightn't he?" reluctantly mrs. ansley appeared in the doorway. in so far as she could ever be vexed with guy, she was vexed. "if whitelaw's got to go, dear--" "he hasn't got to go, have you, tom? he don't have a home to toe the line at. he just picks up his grub wherever he can get it." to such an appeal it was impossible to be wholly deaf. "oh, then, if whitelaw chooses to stay with us--" "oh, i couldn't, ma'am," tom cried, hurriedly. "i've got to--" but guy, who had now reached the floor of the hall, caught him by the arm. "oh, come along in. it can't hurt us. the old lady's just as democratic as hildred and me." mrs. ansley was overborne; she couldn't help herself. tom also was overborne, finding it easier to yield than to rebel. there being but three places laid at the table, one of which was reserved for mr. ansley in case he came home for luncheon, pilcher set a fourth. "will you sit there, whitelaw?" "oh, mother, call him tom. he isn't a chauffeur, not when he's in town here." if anyone but guy had put her in this situation mrs. ansley would have deemed it due to herself to sail from the room. as it was, she endeavored to humor the boy, to keep tom in his place, and to rescue the dignity which had never yet sat down at table with a servant. "i'm sure there's no harm in being a chauffeur. i'm the last person in the world to say so, dependent on chauffeurs as i am. besides, we knew, of course, that some of the young people helping us at the inn-club were studying in colleges, and that they didn't mean to stay in those positions permanently." she grew arch. "but i'm not democratic, mr. whitelaw. guy knows i'm not. it's his way of teasing me. he's perfectly aware that i consider democracy a failure. there never was a greater fallacy than that all men were born free and equal. as to freedom i'm indifferent; but i've never pretended that any tom, dick, or harry was my equal, and i never shall." "you don't mean this tom, do you, old lady?" "now, guy! isn't he a tease, mr. whitelaw? but i do believe in equality of opportunity. that seems to me one of the glories of our country. so many of our great men have come from the very humblest origin. and if we can do anything to help them along--with guy that's an obsession. if it's a fault i say it's a good fault. better to err on that side, i always think, than to see some one achieve the big thing, and know that you had no share in it when you might have had. that's shepherd's pie, mr. whitelaw. we have very simple lunches because mr. ansley doesn't always come home, and in any case his meal is his dinner." she rambled on because guy was too busy with his food to help her, and tom too terrified. he was sorry not merely for himself, but for her. compelled to admit him to breaking bread with her, she must feel as if he had been forced on her in her dressing room. as a matter of fact, he admired the way in which she was carrying it off. long ago, having divined her as taking her inherited position in boston as a kind of sanctifying aura, shrinking from unauthorized approach like a sensitive plant from a touch, she reminded him of an anecdote he had somewhere read of queen victoria. the queen was holding a council. present at it among others was a statesman sitting for the first time as a member of the cabinet. obliged at a given moment to carry a paper from one side of the table to the other, this gentleman passed back of the queen's chair, accidentally grazing it with his hand. the queen shuddered and shrank away. the touching merely of the chair was a violation of majesty. "he won't do," she whispered to the prime minister. he didn't do. he passed not only into political but into social oblivion. tom recalled the incident as he tried to choke down his shepherd's pie. he was the unhappy statesman. he wouldn't do. amiable as mrs. ansley tried to make herself, he knew how she was suffering. he was suffering himself. and in on his suffering, to make it worse, bustled mr. ansley. throwing his hat and gloves on a settle in the hall, he shot into the dining room at once. he was a man who shot, sharply, directly, rather than one who walked. tom stood up. "sorry i'm so late, sunshine--" his eye fell on tom. "oh, how-d'ye-do? seen you before, haven't i? oh! oh!" the exclamations were of surprise and a little pain. "why, you're the young fellow who ran the station car for us." mrs. ansley intervened as one who pacifies. "he's going out with guy at two o'clock, to help him run the runabout." "_help_ me run it! why, mother, you talk as if--" "and guy couldn't let him go off without anything to eat." "quite so! quite so!" mr. ansley agreed. "glad to see you. sit down." he helped himself to the shepherd's pie which pilcher passed again. "let me see! what was it your name was?" tom sat down again. "whitelaw, sir." "oh, yes; so it was. you're the same whitelaw who's been running about this winter and spring with guy. quite so! quite so! oh, and by the way, sunshine, speaking of whitelaw, henry looked in on me this morning. ran over from new york about some business cropped up since the sinking of the _lusitania_." "how is he?" "seems rather worried. lost several intimate friends on the ship, besides which the old question seems to be popping up again." mrs. ansley sighed. "oh, dear! i hope they'll not be dragged through all that with another of their foolish clues. i thought it was over." "it's over for eleonora. but you know how henry feels about it. got it on the brain. pity, i call it, after--how many years is it?" mrs. ansley computed. "it was while we were on our honeymoon. don't you remember? we read it in the paper at montreal, after we'd come from niagara falls. that was the fifteenth of may, and harry had been stolen on the tenth." tom felt a queer sick sinking of the heart. the tenth of may was the last of the three dates his mother had fixed as his birthday. she had told him, too, that the day when he was born was one on which the nursemaids were in the park, and the lilacs had been in bloom. why this specification? if, as she had informed him at other times, he was born in the bronx, where gracie also had been born, why the reference to the park and nursemaids, five miles away? he listened avidly. "how old would that make him if he were living now?" again mrs. ansley reckoned. "something over nineteen. i've forgotten just how many months he was when he disappeared." tom was reassured. he was only eighteen; he was positive of that. he couldn't have been nineteen without ever suspecting it. mr. ansley continued. "seems to me a great mistake to bring him back now, even if they found him. a lumbering fellow of nineteen, practically a man, with probably the lowest associations." "that's what onora feels. she's told me so. she couldn't go through it. even if he isn't dead in fact he's dead to them." "henry feels that, of course. he doesn't deny it. he doesn't want him back--not now. at the same time when any new will o' the wisp starts up he can't help feeling--" tom was back in his little hall bedroom, after the run in the car with guy, before he had time to think these scraps of conversation over. the details for which he had to render an account were, first, his sickening sense of dread on learning that the whitelaw baby had been stolen on the tenth of may, and, then, his relief that the child, if now alive, would be nineteen years of age. these sensations or emotions, whatever they might be called, had been independent of his will. what did they portend? why was he frightened in the one case, and in the other comforted? he didn't know. that he didn't know was the only decision he could reach. were the impossible ever to come true, were the parents of the whitelaw baby ever, no matter how unwillingly, to claim him as their son, the advantages to him would be obvious. why then did he hate the idea? what was it in him that cried out, and pleaded not to be forsaken? he didn't know. xxxi luckily the questions raised that day died out like a false alarm. with no further mention of the whitelaw baby, he graduated from the latin school, passed his exams at harvard, and spent the summer as second in command of a boys' camp in a part of new hampshire remote from the inn-club and the ansleys. october found him a freshman. the new life was beginning. he had slept his first night in his bedroom in gore hall, where his quarters had been appointed. he had met the three fellow-freshmen with whom he was to share a sitting room. the sitting room was on the ground floor in a corner, looking out on the embankment and the charles. never having had, since he left the quidmores, a place in which to work better than the narrow squalid room at the end of a narrow squalid hall, his joy in this new decency of living was naïve to the point of childishness. he spent in that retreat, during the first twenty-four hours, every minute not occupied with duties. because he was glad of the task, his colleagues had left to him as much of the job of arranging the furniture as he would assume. on the second day of his residence he was on his knees, behind his desk, pulling at a rug that had been wrinkled up. his zeal could bear nothing not neat, straight, adjusted. the desk was heavy, the rug stubborn. when a rap sounded on the door he called out, "come in!" looking up above the edge of the desk only when the door had been opened and closed. a lady, dignified, a little portly, was stepping into the room, with the brisk air of one who had a right there. as she had been motoring, she was wreathed in a dark green veil, which partially hid her features. peeling off a gauntlet, she glanced round the room, after a first glance at tom. "i'm sorry to be late, tad. that stupid patterson lost his way. he's a very good driver, but he's no sense of direction. why, where's the picture? you said you had had it hung." her tone was crisp and staccato. in her breath there was the syncopated halt which he afterward came to associate with the actress, mrs. fiske. she might be nervous; or she might suffer from the heart. for the first few seconds he was too agitated to know exactly what to do. he had been looked at and called tad again, this time probably by tad's mother. he rose to his height of six feet two. the lady started back. "why, what have you been doing to yourself? what are you standing on? what makes you so tall?" "i'm afraid there's some mistake, ma'am." she broke in with a kind of petulance. "oh, tad, no nonsense! i'm tired. i'm not in the mood for it." both gauntlets peeled off, she flung them on the desk. with a motion as rapid as her speech she stepped toward a window and looked out over the embankment. "it's going to be noisy and dusty for you here. the stream of cars is incessant." being now beyond the desk, she caught the fullness of his stature. her left hand went up with a startled movement. she gave a little gasp. "oh! you frightened me. you're not standing on anything." "no, ma'am, i...." "i asked for mr. whitelaw's room. they told me to come to number twenty-eight." making her way out, she kept looking back at him in terror. when he hurried to open the door for her, she waved him away. everything she did and said was rapid, staccato, and peremptory. "you've forgotten your gloves, ma'am." he reached them with a stretch of his arm. taking them from him, she still kept her eyes on his face. "no! you don't look like him. i thought you did. i was wrong. it's only the--the eyes--and the eyebrows." she was gone. he closed the door upon her. dropping into an armchair by the window, he stared out on a wide low landscape, with a double procession of motor cars in the foreground, and a river in the middle distance. so this was the woman who had lived through the agony of a stolen child! he tried to recall what honey had told him of the tragedy. he remembered the house which five years earlier honey had taken him to see; he remembered the dell with the benches and the lilacs. this woman's child had been wheeled out there one morning--and had vanished. she had had to bear being told of the fact. she had gone through the minutes when the mind couldn't credit it. she had known fear, frenzy, hope, suspense, disappointment, discouragement, despair, and lassitude. in self-defense, in sheer inability of the human spirit to endure more than it has endured, she had thrown round her a hard little shell of refusal to hear of it again. she resented the reminder. she was pricked to a frantic excitement by a mere chance resemblance to the image of what the lost little boy might have become. a chance resemblance! he underscored the words. it was all there was. he himself was the son of theodore and lucy whitelaw. at least he thought her name was lucy. not till he had been required to give the names of his parents for some school record did it occur to him that he didn't positively know. she had always been "mudda." he hadn't needed another name. after she had gone there had been no one to supply him with the facts he had not learned before. even the theodore would have escaped him had it not been for that last poignant scene, when she stood before the officer and gave a name--mrs. theodore whitelaw! why not? there were more whitelaws than one. there was no monopoly of the name in the family that had lost the child. he didn't often consciously think of her nowadays. the memory was not merely too painful; it was too destructive of the things he was trying to cherish. he had impulses rather than ideals, in that impulses form themselves more spontaneously; and all his impulses were toward rectitude. it was not a chosen standard; neither was it imposed upon him from without, unless it was in some vague general direction of the spirit received while at the tollivants. he didn't really think of it. he took it as a matter of course. he couldn't be anything but what he was, and there was an end of it. but all his attempts to get a working concept of himself led him back to this beginning, where the fountain of life was befouled. so he rarely went back that far. he would go back to the quidmores, to the tollivants, to mrs. crewdson; but he stopped there. there he hung up a great curtain, soft and dim and pitiful, the veil of an immense tenderness. rarely, very rarely, did he go behind it. he would not have done it on this afternoon had not the woman who had just gone out--dressed, as anyone could see, with the expensive easy-going roughness which only rich women can afford--neurotic, imperious, unhappy--had not this woman sent him there. she was a great lady whose tragic story haunted him; but she turned his mind backward, as it hardly ever turned, to the foolish and misguided soul who had loved him. no one since that time, no one whatever in the life he could remember, had loved him at all, unless it were honey, and honey denied that he did. how could he forsake ...? and then it came to him what it was that pleaded within him not to be forsaken. * * * * * the lecture was over. it was one of the first tom had attended. the men, some hundred odd in number, were shuffling their papers, preparatory to getting up. seated in an amphitheater, they filled the first seven or eight semicircles outward from the stage. the arrangement being alphabetical, tom, as a _w_, was in the most distant row. the lecturer, who was also putting his papers together as they lay on a table beside him, looked up casually to call out, "if mr. whitelaw is here i should like to speak to him." tom shot from his seat and stood up. the man on his left did the same. occupied with taking notes on the little table attached to the right arm--the only arm--of his chair, tom had not turned to the left at all. he was surprised now at the ripple of laughter that ran among the men beginning to get up from their seats or to file out into the corridor. the professor smiled too. "you're brothers?" tom looked at his neighbor; his neighbor looked at tom. except for the difference in height the resemblance was startling or amusing, as you chose to take it. to the men going by it was amusing. it was the neighbor, however, who called out, in a shocked voice: "oh, no, no! no connection." "then it's to mr. theodore whitelaw that i wish to speak." mr. theodore whitelaw made his way toward the platform, taking no further notice of tom. for this lack of the friendly freemasonry general among young men, general among freshmen especially, tom thought he saw a reason. the outward appearance which enabled him to "place" tad would enable tad to "place" him. on the one there was the stamp of wealth; on the other there must be that of poverty. he might have met tad whitelaw anywhere in the world, and he would have known him at a glance as a fellow nursed on money since he first lay in a cradle. it wasn't merely a matter of dress, though dress counted for something. it was a matter of the personality. it was in the eyes, in the skin, in the look, in the carriage, in the voice. it was not in refinement, or cultivation, or cleverness, or use of opportunity; it was in something subtler than these, a cast of mind, a habit of thought, an acceptance, a self-confidence, which seeped through every outlet of expression. tad whitelaw embodied wealth, position, the easy use of whatever was best in whatever was material. you couldn't help seeing it. on the other hand, he, tom whitelaw, probably bore the other kind of stamp. he had not thought of that before. in as far as he had thought of it, it was to suppose that the stamp could be rubbed off, or covered up. clothes would do something toward that, and in clothes he had been extravagant. he had come to harvard with two new suits, made to his order by the jew tailor next door to mrs. danker's. but in contrast with the young new yorker his extravagance had been futile. he found for himself the most opprobrious word in all the american language--cheap. very well! he probably couldn't help looking cheap. but if cheap he would be big. he wouldn't resent. he would keep his mouth shut and live. things would right themselves by and by. they righted themselves soon. the three men with whom he shared the sitting room, having passed him as "a good scout," admitted him to full and easy comradeship. in the common-room, in the classroom, he held his own, and made a few friends. guy ansley, urged in part by a real liking, and in part by the glory of having this big handsome fellow in tow, was generous of recognition. he was standing one day with a group of his peers from doolittle and pray's when tom chanced to pass at a distance. guy called out to him. "hello, you old sinner! where you been this ever so long?" with a word to his friends, he puffed after tom, and dragged him toward the group. "this is the guy they call the whitelaw baby. see how much he looks like tad?" "tad'll give you whitelaw baby," came from one of the group. "hates the name of it. don't blame him, do you, when he's heard everyone gassing about the kid all through his life?" but that he was going in harvard by this nickname disturbed tom not a little. considering the legend in the whitelaw family, and the resemblance between himself and tad, it was natural enough. but should tad hear of it.... with tad he had no acquaintance. as the weeks passed by he came to understand that with certain freshmen acquaintance would be difficult. they themselves didn't want it. it was a discovery to tom that it didn't follow that you knew a man, or that a man knew you, because you had been introduced to him. guy ansley had introduced him that day to the little group from doolittle and pray's; but when he ran into them again none of them remembered him. so tad whitelaw did not remember him after having met him accidentally at guy's. the meeting had been casual, hurried, but it was a meeting. the two had been named to each other. each had made an inarticulate grunt. but when later that same afternoon they passed in a corridor tad went by as if he had never seen him. he continued to live and keep his mouth shut. if he was hurt there was nothing to be gained by saying so. then an incident occurred which threw them together in a manner which couldn't be ignored inwardly, even if outward conditions remained the same. little by little the harvard student, following the general sobering down which makes it harder for people in the twentieth century to laugh than it was to those who lived fifty years ago, was becoming less frolicsome. pranks were still played, especially by freshmen, but neither so many nor so wild. the humor had gone out of them. but in every large company of young men there are a few whose high spirits carry them away. where they have money to spend and no cares as to the future on their minds, the new sense of freedom naturally runs to roistering. in passing tad whitelaw's rooms, which were also in gore hall, tom often heard the banging of the piano, and those shouts of song and laughter which are likely to disturb the proctor. guy, who was often the one at the piano, now and then gave him a report of a party, telling him who was at it, and what they had had to drink. in the course of the winter his relations with guy took on a somewhat different tinge. in guy's circle, commonly called a gang or a bunch, he was guy's eccentricity. the doolittle and pray spirit allowed of an eccentricity, if it wasn't paraded too much. guy knew, too, that it helped to make him popular, which was not an easy task, to be known as loyal to a boyhood's chum, when he might be expected to desert him. but behind this patronage the fat boy found in tom what he had always found, a source of strength. not much more than at school did he escape at harvard his destiny as a butt. "same old spiel, damn it," he lamented to tom, "just because i'm fat. what difference does that make, when you're a sport all right? doesn't keep me from going with the gang, not any more than tad whitelaw's big eyebrows, or spit castle's long nose." on occasions when he was left out of "good things" which he would gladly have been in he made tom come round to his room in the evening for confidence and comfort. tom never made game of him. there was no one else to whom he could turn with the certainty of being understood. having an apartment to himself, he could be free in his complaints without fear of interruption. it was late at night. the two young men had been "yarning," as they called it, and smoking for the past two hours. tom was getting up to go back to his room, when a sound of running along the corridor caught their attention. "what in blazes is that?" by the time the footsteps reached guy's door smothered explosions of laughter could be heard outside. with a first preliminary pound on the panels the door was flung open, spit castle and tad whitelaw hurling themselves in. though they would have passed as sober, some of their excess of merriment might have been due to a few drinks. tad carried a big iron door-key which he threw with a rattle on the table. his hat had been knocked to the back of his head; his necktie was an inch off-center; his person in general disordered by flight. spit castle, a weedy youth with a nose like a tapir's, was in much the same state. neither could tell what the joke was, because the joke choked them. guy, flattered that they should come first of all to him, stood in the middle of the floor, grinning expectantly. tom, quietly smoking, kept in the background, sitting on the arm of the chair from which he had just been getting up. as each of the newcomers tried to tell the tale he was broken in on by the other. "came out from town by subway...." "walking through brattle square...." "not so much as a damn cat about...." "saw little old johnny come abreast of little old bootstore...." "took out a key--opened the door--went into the shop in the dark--left the key in the keyhole to lock up when he comes outside again--just in for something he'd forgot." "and damned if tad didn't turn the key--quick as that--and lock the old beggar in." "last we heard of him he was poundin' and squealin' to beat all blazes." yellin', 'pull-_ice_!--pull-_ice_!'--whacking his leg, spit gave an imitation of the prisoner--"and he's in there yet." to guy the situation was as droll as it was to his two friends. an old fellow trapped in his own shop! he was a dago, spit thought, which made the situation funnier. they laughed till, wearied with laughter, they threw themselves into armchairs, and lit their cigarettes. tom, who had laughed a little not at their joke but at them, felt obliged, in his own phrase, to butt in. he waited till a few puffs of tobacco had soothed them. "say, boys, don't you think the fun's gone far enough?" the two guests turned and stared as if he had been a talking piece of furniture. tad took his cigarette from his lips. "what the hell business is it of yours?" tom kept his seat on the arm of the chair, speaking peaceably. "i suppose it isn't my business--except for the old man." "what have you got to do with him? is he your father?" "he's probably somebody's father, and somebody's husband. you can't leave him there all night." spit challenged this. "why can't we?" "because you can't. fellows like you don't do that sort of thing." it looked as if tad whitelaw had some special animosity against him, when he sprang from his chair to say insolently, "and fellows like you don't hang round where they're not wanted." "oh, tom didn't mean anything--" guy began to interpose. "then let him keep his mouth shut, or--" he nodded toward the door--"or get out." tom kept his temper, waiting till tad dropped back into his chair again. "you see, it's this way. the old chap has a home, and if he doesn't come back to it in the course of, let us say, half an hour his family'll get scared. if they hunt him up at the shop, and find he's been locked in, they'll make a row at the police station just across the street. if the police get in on the business they're sure to find out who did it." "well, it won't be you, will it?" tad sneered again. "no, it won't be me, but even you don't want to be...." tad turned languidly to guy. "say, guy! awful pity isn't it about little jennie halligan! cutest little dancer in the show, and she's fallen and broken her leg." tom got up, walked quietly to the table, picked up the key, and at the same even pace was making for the door, when tad sprang in front of him. "damn you! where do you think you're going?" "i'm going to let the old fellow out." "drop that key." "get out of my way." "like hell i'll get out of your way." "don't let us make a row here." "drop that key. do you hear me?" the rage in tad's face was at being disobeyed. he was not afraid of this fellow two inches taller than himself. he hated him. ever since coming to harvard the swine had had the impertinence to be called by the same name, and to look like him. he knew as well as anyone else the nickname by which the bounder was going, and knew that he, the bounder, encouraged it. it advertised him. it made him feel big. he, the brother of the whitelaw baby, had been longing to get at the fellow and give him a whack on the jaw. he would never have a better opportunity. the lift of his hand and the grasp with which tom caught the wrist were simultaneous. slipping the key into his pocket, tom brought his other hand into play, throwing the lighter-built fellow out of his path with a toss which sent him back against the desk. maddened by this insult to his person, tad picked up the inkstand on the desk, hurling it at tom's head. the inkstand grazed his ear, but went smash against the wall, spattering the new wallpaper with a great blob of ink. guy groaned, with some wild objurgation. to escape from the room tom had turned his back, when a blow from an uplifted chair caught him between the shoulders. wheeling, he wrenched the chair from the hands of spit castle, chucked it aside and dealt the young man a stinger that brought the blood from the tapir nose. all blind rage by this time, he caught the weedy youth's head under his right arm, pounding the face with his left fist till he felt the body sagging from his hold. he let it go. spit fell on the sofa, which was spattered with blood, as the wallpaper with ink. startled at the sight of the limp form, he stood for a second looking down at it, when his skull seemed crashed from behind. staggering back, he thought he was going to faint, but the sight of tad aiming another thump at him, straight between the eyes, revived him to berserker fury. he sprang like a lion on an antelope. strong and agile on his side, tad was stiff to resistance. before the sheer weight of tom's body he yielded an inch or two, but not more. freeing his left hand, as he bent backward, he dealt tom a bruising blow on the temple. tom disregarded it, pinning tad's left arm as he had already pinned the right. his object now was to get the boy down, to force him to his knees. it was a contest of brutal strength. when it came to brutal strength the advantage was with the bigger frame, the muscles toughened by work. the fight was silent now, nearly motionless. slowly, slowly, as iron gives way to the man with the force to bend it, tad was coming down. his feet were twisted under him, with no power to right themselves. two pairs of eyes, strangely alike, glared at each other, like the eyes of frenzied wild animals. tad gave a quick little groan. "o god, my leg's breaking." tom was not touched. "damn you, let it break!" pressed, pressed, pressed downward, tad was sinking by a fraction of an inch each minute. the strength above him was pitiless. except for the running of water in the bathroom, where guy had dragged spit castle to wash his nose, there was no sound in the room but the long hard pantings, now from tad's side, now from tom's. in the intervals neither seemed to breathe. [illustration: "get up, i tell you"] suddenly tad collapsed, and went down. tom came on top of him. the heavier having the lighter fastened by arms and legs, the two lay like two stones. the faces were so near together that they could have kissed. their long protruding eyebrows brushed each other's foreheads. the weight of tom's bulk squeezed the breath from his foe, as a bear squeezes it with a hug. nothing was left to tad but resistance of the will. of that, too, tom meant to get the better. the words were whispered from one mouth into the other. "do you know what i'm going to do with you?" there was no answer. "i'm going to take you back with me to let that old man out of his shop." there was still no answer. tom sprang suddenly off tad's body, but with his fingers under the collar. "get up!" he pulled with all his might. the collar gave way. tad fell back. "damned if i will," was all he could say by way of defiance. tom gave him a kick. "get up, i tell you. if you don't i'll kick the stuffing out of you." the kick hurt nothing but tad's pride; but it hurt that badly. it hurt it so badly that he got up, with no further show of opposition. he dusted his clothes mechanically with his hands; he tried to adjust his torn collar. his tone was almost commonplace. "this has got to be settled some other time. what do you want me to do?" tom pointed to the door. "what i want you to do is to march. keep ahead of me. and mind you if you try to bolt i'll wring your neck as if you were a cur. you--you--" he sought a word which would hit where blows had not carried--"you--coward!" the flash of tad's eyes was like that of tom's own. "we'll see." he went out the door, tom close behind him. it was a march night, with snow on the ground, but thawing. they were without overcoats, and bare-headed. a few motor cars were passing, but not many pedestrians. "run," tom commanded. he ran. they both ran. the distance being short, they were soon in brattle square. tad stopped at a little shop, showing a faint light. there was too much in the way of window display to allow of the passer-by, who didn't give himself some trouble, to see anything within. at first they heard nothing. then came a whimpering, like that of a little dog, shut in and lonely, tired out with yelping. putting his ear to the door, tom heard a desolate, "tam! tam!" it was the only utterance. "here's the key! unlock the door." tad did as he was bidden. inside the "tam! tam!" ceased. "now go in, and say you're sorry." as tad hesitated tom gave him a push. the door being now ajar the culprit went sprawling into the presence of his victim. there was a spring like that of a cat. there was also a snarl like a cat's snarl. "you tam harvard student!" feeling he had done and said enough, tom took to his heels; but as someone else was taking to his heels, and running close behind him, he judged that tad had escaped. back in his room, tom felt spent. in his bed he was in emotional revolt against his victory. he loathed it. he loathed everything that had led up to it. the eyes that had stared into his, when the two had lain together on the floor, were like those of something he had murdered. what was it? what was the thing that deep down within him, rooted in the primal impulses that must have been there before there was a world--what was the thing that had been devastated, outraged? once more, he didn't know. xxxii life resumed itself next day as if there had been no dramatic interlude. proud of the scrap, as he named it, which had taken place in his room, guy made the best of it for all concerned. his version was tactful, hurting nobody's feelings. the trick on the old man was a merry one, and after a fight about its humor tad whitelaw and the whitelaw baby had run off together to let the old fellow out. spit castle's tapir nose had got badly hurt in the scrimmage, and bled all over the sofa. the splash of ink on the wall was further evidence that guy's room was a rendezvous of sports. but sports being sports the honors had been even on the whole, and no hard feeling left behind. tad and the whitelaw baby would now, guy predicted, be better friends. but of that there was no sign. there was no sign of anything at all. when the whitelaw baby met the whitelaw baby's brother they passed in exactly the same way as heretofore. you would not have said that the one was any more conscious of the other than two strangers who pass in piccadilly or fifth avenue. in tad there was no show of resentment; in tom there was none of pride. as far as tom was concerned, there was only a humiliated sense of regret. and then, in april, life again took another turn. coming back one day to his rooms, tom found a message requesting him to call a number which he knew to be mrs. danker's. his first thought was of maisie, with whom his letters had begun to be infrequent. mrs. danker told him, however, that honey had had an accident. it was a bad accident, how bad she didn't know. giving him the name of the hospital to which he had been taken, she begged him to go to him at once. after all the years they had lived with mrs. danker she considered them almost as relatives. the hospital, near the foot of grove street, preserved the air of the sedate old boston of the middle nineteenth century. its low dome, its pillared façade, its grounds, its fine old trees, had been familiar to tom ever since he had lived on beacon hill. in less than an hour after ringing up mrs. danker he was in the office asking for news. news was scanty. expecting everyone to understand what he meant to honey and honey meant to him, he had looked for the reception which friends in trouble and excitement give to the friend who brings his anxiety to mix with theirs. it would be, "oh, come in. poor fellow, he's suffering terribly. it happened thus and so." but to the interne in the office, a young man wearing a white jacket, honey was not so much as a name. his case was but one among other cases. a good many came in a day. in a week, or a month, or a year, there was no keeping account of them, except as they were registered. individual suffering was lost sight of in the immense amount of it. but the interne was polite, and said that if tom would sit down he would find out. among the hardest minutes tom had ever gone through were those in the little reception room. not only was there suspense; there was remorse. he had treated honey like a cad. he had never been decent to him. he had never really been grateful. there had never been a minute, in the whole of the nearly six years they had lived together, in which he had not been sorry, either consciously or subconsciously, at being mixed up with an ex-convict. it was the ex-convict he had always seen before he had seen the friend. a second interne wearing a white jacket came to question him, to ask him who he was, and the nature of his business with the patient. if he was only a friend he could hardly expect to see him. the man was under opiates, he needed to be kept quiet. "what's happened? what's the matter with him? i can't find out." the interne didn't know exactly. he had been crushed. he was injured internally. the cause of the accident he hadn't heard. "could i see his nurse?" there was more difficulty about that, but in the end he was taken upstairs, where the nurse came out to the corridor to speak to him. she was a competent, businesslike woman, with none of the emotion at contact with pain which tom thought must be part of a nurse's equipment. but she could tell him nothing definite. not having been on duty when the case had been brought in, she had heard no more than the facts essential to what she had to do. "do you think he'll die?" "you'd have to ask the doctor that. he's not dead now. that's about as much as i can say." at sight of the big handsome fellow's distress she partly relented. "you may come in and look at him. you mustn't try to speak to him." he followed her into a long ward, with an odor of disinfectant. white beds, mostly occupied, lined each wall. here and there was one surrounded by a set of screens, partially secluding a sufferer. at one such set they stopped. through an opening between two screens tom was allowed to look at honey who lay with face upturned, and no sign of pain on the features. he slept as tom had seen him sleep hundreds of times when he expected to get up again next morning. the difference was in the expectation of getting up. blinded by tears, tom tiptoed away. when he came next day the effect of the opiate had worn off, and yet not wholly. honey turned his head at his approach and smiled. sitting beside the bed, tom took the big, calloused hand lying outside the coverlet, and held it in his own relatively tender one. more than ever it was borne in on him at whose cost that tenderness had been maintained. honey liked to have his hand held. a part of the wall of aloofness with which he had kept himself surrounded seemed to have broken down. a little incoherently he told what had happened. he had been stowing packing-cases in the hold of a big ship. the packing-cases were lowered by a crane. the crane as a rule was a good old thing, slow paced, gentle, safe. but this time something seemed to have gone wrong with her. though his back was turned, honey knew by the shadow above him that she was at her work. when he had got into its niche the case with which he was busy he would swing round and seize the new one. and then he heard a shout. it was a shout from the dock, and didn't disturb him. he was about to turn when something fell. it struck him in the back. it was all he knew. he thought he remembered the blow, but was not certain whether he did or not. when he "came to" he had already been moved to the shed, and was waiting for the ambulance. he seemed not to have a body any more. he was only a head, like one of them there angels in a picture, with wings beneath their chins. he laughed at that, and with the laugh the nurse took tom away; but when he came back on the following day honey's mind was clearer. "i've made me will long ago," he said, when tom had given him such bits of news as he asked for. "it's all legal and reg'lar. had a lawyer fix it up. never told yer nothink about it. everythink left to you." "oh, honey, don't let us talk about that. you'll be up and around in a week or so." "sure i'll be up and around. yer don't think a little thing like this is goin' to bust me. why, i don't feel 'ardly nothink, not below the neck. all the same, it can't do no harm for you to know what's likely to be what. if i was to croak, which i don't intend to, yer'd have about sixteen hundred dollars what i've saved to finish yer eddication on. the will is in the bottom of me trunk at danker's." on another day he said, "if anyone was to pop up and say i owed 'em that money, because i took it from 'em...." he held the sentence there, leaving tom to wonder if he had thoughts of restitution, or possibly of repentance. "i don't owe 'em nothink," he ended. "belonged to me just as much as it belonged to them. nothink don't belong to nobody. i never was able to figger it out just the way i wanted to, because i ain't never had no eddication; but gord's lor i believes it is. never could get the 'ang o' the lor o' man, not nohow." to comfort him, tom suggested that perhaps when he got through college he might be able to take the subject up. "i wouldn't bind yer to it, kiddy. tough job! why, when i give up socializin' to try and win over some o' them orthodocks i thought as they'd jump to 'ear me. not a bit of it! the more i told 'em that nothink didn't belong to nobody the more they said i was a nut." having lain silent for a minute he continued, with that light in his face which corresponded to a wink of the blind eye: "i don't bind yer to nothink, kiddy. that's what i've always wanted yer to feel. you're a free boy. when i'm up and around again, and yer've got yer eddication, and have gone out on yer own, yer won't have me a-'angin' on yer 'ands. no, sir! i'll be off--free as a bird--back with the old gang again--and yer needn't be worried a-thinkin' i'll miss you--nor nothink!" it was a few days after this that the businesslike nurse who had first admitted him hinted that, if she were tom, honey would have a clergyman come to visit him. a few days more and it might be too late. honey with a clergyman! it was something tom had never thought of. the incongruous combination made him smile. nevertheless, it was what people who were dying had--a clergyman come to visit them. if a clergyman could do honey any good.... "honey," he suggested, artfully, next day, "now that you're pinned to bed for awhile, and have got the time, wouldn't you like to see a clergyman sometimes, and talk things over?" there was again that light in the face which took the place of a wink. "what things?" tom was nonplussed. "well, i suppose, things about your soul." "what'd a clergyman know about _my_ soul? he might know about his own, but i know all about mine that i've got to know. 'tain't much--but it's enough." tom was relieved. he didn't want to disturb honey by bringing in a stranger nor was he more sure than honey that any good could be done by it. he was more relieved still when honey explained himself further. "do yer suppose i've come to where i am now without thinkin' them things out, when gord give me a genius for doin' it? i don't say i've did it as well as them as has had more eddication; but gord takes us with the eddication what we've got. eddication's a fine thing; i don't say contrairy; but i don't believe as it makes no diff'rence to gord. if you and me was before him--me not knowin' 'ardly nothink, and you stuffed as you are with learnin' till you're bustin' out with it--i don't believe as gord'd say as there was a pinch o' snuff between us--not to him there wouldn't be." a little wearily he made his confession of faith. "gord made me; gord knows me; gord'll take me just the way i am and make the best o' me, without no one else buttin' in." * * * * * it was the middle of an afternoon. if anything, honey was better. all spring was blowing in at the windows, while the trees were in april green, and the birds jubilant with the ecstasy of mating. "beats everythink the way i dream," honey confided, in a puzzled tone. "always dreamin' o' my mother. haven't 'ardly thought of her these years and years. didn't 'ardly know her. died when i was a little kid; and yet...." he lay still, smiling into the air. tom was glad to find him cheerful, reminiscent. never in all the years he had known him had honey talked so much of his early life as within the last few days. "used to take us children into the country to see a sister she had livin' there.... little village in cheshire called king's clavering.... see that little cottage now.... thatched it was.... set a few yards back from the lane.... had flowers in the garden ... musk ... and poppies ... and london pride ... and canterbury bells ... and old man's love ... and cherry pie ... and raggedy jack ... and sailor's sweetheart ... funny how all them names comes back to me...." again he lay smiling. tom also smiled. it was the first day he had had any hope. it was difficult not to have hope when honey was so free from pain, and so easy in his mind. as to pain he had not had much since the accident had benumbed him; but there had always been something he seemed to want to say. to-day he had apparently said everything, and so could spend the half-hour of tom's visit on memories of no importance. "always had custard for tea, my mother's sister had. lord, how us young ones'd...." the recollection brought a happy look. tom was glad. with pleasant thoughts honey would not have the wistful yearning in his eyes which he had turned on him lately whenever he went away. "there was a hunt in cheshire. onst i saw a lord--a dook, i think he was--ridin' to 'ounds. sat his 'orse as if he was part of him, he did...." this too died away without sequence, though the happy look remained. the smile grew rapt, distant perhaps, as memory took him back to long forgotten trifles. just outside the window a robin fluted in a tree. honey turned his head slightly to say: "have i been asleep, kid?" "no; you haven't had your eyes shut." "oh, but i must have. couldn't dream if i was wide awake. i saw ma--just as plain as--" he recovered himself with a light laugh--"wouldn't it bust yer braces to 'ear me sayin' ma? but that's what us childern used to call...." once more he turned in profile, lying still, silent, radiant, occupied. the robin sang on. tom looked at his watch. it was time for him to be stealing away. now that honey was better, he didn't mind going without a farewell, because he could explain himself next time. he was glancing about for the nurse when honey said, softly, casually, as if greeting an acquaintance: "hello--ma!" he lifted both hands, but they dropped back, heavily. tom, who had half risen, fell on his knees by the bedside, seizing the hand nearest him in both his own. "honey! honey! speak to me!" but honey's good eye closed gently, while the head sagged a little to one side. the robin was still singing. * * * * * two letters received within a few days gave tom the feeling of not being quite left alone. _dear mr. whitelaw_ in telling you how deeply we feel for you in your great bereavement i wish i could make you understand how sincerely we are all your friends. i want to say this specially, as i know you have no family. family counts for much; but friends count for something too. it is george sand who says: "our relations are the friends given us by nature; our friends are the relations given us by god." will you not think of us in this way?--especially of guy and me. whenever you are lonely i wish you would turn to us, in thought at least, when it can't be in any other way. when it can be--our hearts will always be open. very sincerely yours, hildred ansley. the other letter ran: _dear tom_ now that you have got this great big incubous off your hands i should think you would try to do your duty by me and what you owe me. it seems to me i've been patient long enough. it is not as if you were the only peanut in the bag. there are others. i do not say this purposely. it is rung from me. i have done all i mean to do here, and will beat it whenever i get a good chance. i should think you would be educated by now. i graduated from high school at sixteen, and i guess i know as much as the next one. i've got a gentleman friend here, a swell fellow too, a travelling salesman, and he makes big money, and he says that if a fellow isn't hitting the world by fifteen he'll always be a quitter. think this over and let me know. with passionate love. maisie. xxxiii the day after honey was buried tom went to mrs. danker's to pay what was owing on the room rent, and take away his effects. the effects went into one small trunk which mrs. danker packed, while tom sat on the edge of the bed and listened to her comments. a little wiry woman, prim in the old new england way, she was tireless in work and conversation. "he was a fine man, mr. honeybun was, and my land! he was fond of you. he'd try to hide it; but half an eye could see that he was that proud of you! he'd be awful up-and-coming while you was here, and make out that it didn't matter to him whether you was here or not; but once you was away--my land! he'd be that down you'd think he'd never come up again. and one thing i could see as plain as plain; he was real determined that when you'd got up in the world he wasn't going to be a drag on you. he'd keep saying that you wasn't beholding to him for anything; and that he'd be glad when you could do without him so that he could get back again to his friends; but my land! half an eye could see." during these first days tom found the memory of a love as big as honey's too poignant to dwell upon. he would dwell upon it later, when the self-reproach which so largely composed his grief had softened down. all he could do as yet was to curse himself for the obtuseness which had taken honey at the bluff of his words, when the tenderness behind his deeds should have been evident to anyone not a fool. he couldn't bear to think of it. not to think of it, he asked mrs. danker for news of maisie. he had often wondered whether maisie might not have told her aunt in confidence of her engagement to himself; and now he learned that she had not. "i hardly ever hear from her; but another aunt of maisie's writes to me now and then. says that that drummer fellow is back again. i hope he'll keep away from her. he don't mean no good by her, and she goes daft over him every time he turns up. my land! how do we know he hasn't a wife somewheres else, when he goes off a year and more at a time, on his long business trips? this time he's been to australia. it was to get her away from him that i asked her to spend that winter in boston; but now that he's back--well, i'm sure i don't know." tom had not supposed that at the suggestion of a rival he would have felt a pang; and yet he felt one. "of course, there's some one; we know that. it must be some one too who's got plenty of money, because he's given her a di'mond ring that must be worth five hundred dollars, her other aunt tells me, if it's worth a cent. we know he makes big money, because he's got a fine position, and his family is one of the most high thought of in nashua. that's part of the trouble. they're very religious and toney, so they wouldn't think maisie a good enough match for him. still, if he'd only do one thing or the other, keep away from her, or ask her right out and out to marry him...." tom was no longer listening. the mention of maisie's diamond had made him one hot lump of shame. he knew more of the cost of jewels now than when he had purchased the engagement ring, and even if he didn't know much he knew enough. a few days later he was in nashua. he went, partly because he had the day to spare before he took up college work again, partly because of a desire to learn what was truly in maisie's heart, partly to make her some amends for his long neglect of her, and mostly because he needed to pour out his confession as to the diamond ring. having been warned of his coming, maisie, who had got rid of the children for an hour or two, awaited him in the parlor. a little powder, a little unnecessary rouge, a sweater of imitation cherry-colored silk, gave her the vividness of a well-made artificial flower. even tom could see that, with her neat short skirt and high-heeled shoes, she was dressed beyond the note of the shabby little room; but if she would only twine her arms around his neck, and give him one of the kisses that used to be so sweet, he could overlook everything else. her eyes on the big square cardboard box he carried in his hand, she received him somberly. having allowed him to kiss her, she sat down at the end of a table drawn up beside the window, while he put the box in front of her. "what's this?" he placed himself at the other end of the table, having its length between them. because of his waning love, because of the ring above all, he had done one of those reckless things which sometimes render men exultant. from his slender means he had filched a hundred dollars for a set of furs. he watched maisie's face as she untied knots and lifted the cover of the band-box. on discovering the contents her expression became critical. she fingered the fur without taking either of the articles from the box. turning over an edge of the boa, she looked at the lining. it was a minute or two before she took out the muff and held it in her hands. she examined it as if she were buying it in a shop. "that's a last year's style," was her first observation. "it'll be regular old-fashioned by next winter, and, of course, i shouldn't want a muff before then. the girls'll think i got them second-hand when they're as out of date as all that. they're awful particular in nashua, more like new york than boston." she shook out the boa. "those little tails are sweet, but they don't wear them now. how much did you give?" he told her. "they're not worth it. it's the marked-down season too. some one's put it over on you. i could have got them for half the price--and younger. these are an old woman's furs. the girls'll say my aunt in boston's died, and left them to me in her will." brushing them aside, she faced him with her resentful eyes. her hands were clasped in front of her, the diamond flashing on the finger resting on a table-scarf of thin brown silk embroidered in magenta ferns. "well, tom, what's your answer to my letter?" at any other minute he would have replied gently, placatingly; but just now his heart was hot. a hundred dollars had meant much to him. it would have to be paid back in paring down on all his necessities, in food, in carfares, even in the washing of his clothes. he too clasped his hands on the table, facing her as she faced him. he remembered afterward how blue her eyes had been, blue as lapis lazuli. all he could see in them now was demand, and further demand, and demand again after that. "have i got to give you an answer, maisie? if so, it's only the one i've given you before. we'll be married when i get through college, and have found work." "and when'll that be?" "i'm sorry to say it won't be for another two years, at the earliest." "another two years, and i've waited three already!" "i know you have. but listen, maisie! when we got engaged i was only sixteen. you were only eighteen. even now i'm only nineteen, and you're only twenty-one. we've got lots of time. it would be foolish for us to be married...." she broke in, drily. "so i see." "you see what, maisie?" "what you want me to see. if you think i'm dying to marry you...." "no, i'm not such an idiot as that. but if we're in love with each other, as we used to be...." "as you used to be." "as i used to be of course; and you too, i suppose." "oh, you needn't kill yourself supposing." he drew back. "what do you mean by that, maisie?" "what do you think i mean?" "well, i don't know. it sounds as if you were trying to tell me that you'd never cared anything about me." "how much did you ever care about me?" "i used to think i couldn't live without you." "and you've found out that you can." "i've had to, for one thing; and for another, i'm older now, and i know that nobody is really essential to anybody else. all the same--" "yes, tom; all the same--what?" "if you'd be willing to take what i can offer you--" "take what you can offer me! you're not offering me anything." he explained his ambitions, for her as well as for himself. life was big; it was full of opportunity; his origin didn't chain any man who knew how to burst its bonds. he did know. he didn't know how he knew, but he did. he just had it in him. when you knew you had it in you, you didn't depend on anyone to tell you; you yourself became your own corroboration. but in order to fulfil this conviction of inner power you needed to know things. you needed the experience, the standing, the rubbing up against other men, which you got in college in a way that you didn't get anywhere else. you got some of it by going into business, but only some of it. in any case, it was no more than a chance in business. you might get it or you might not. with the best will in the world on your part, it might slip by you. in college it couldn't slip by you, if you had any intelligence at all. all the past experience of mankind was gathered up there for you to profit by. you could only absorb a little of it, of course. but you acquired the habit of absorbing. it was not so much what you learned that gave college its value; it was the learning of a habit of learning. you got an attitude of mind. your attitude of mind was what made you, what determined your place in the world. with a closed mind you got nowhere; with an open mind the world was as the sea driving all its fish into your net. college opened the mind; it was the easiest method by which it could be done. if she would only be patient till he had got through the preliminary training and had found the job for which he would be fitted.... "but what's the use of waiting when you can get a job for which you'd be fitted right off the bat? there's a family up here on the hill that wants a shofer. they give a hundred and twenty-five a month. why go to all that trouble about opening your mind when here's the job handed out to you? the gentleman-friend i told you about says that business has got college skinned. he says colleges are punk. he says lots of men in business won't take a man if he's been to college. they'd want a fellow with some get-up-and-get to him." he began to understand her as he had never done before. maisie had the closed mind. she was honey's "orthodock," the type which accepts the limitations other people fix for it. he registered the thought, long forming in his mind subconsciously, that among american types the orthodock is the commonest. it was not true, as so often assumed, that the average american is keen to forge ahead and become something bigger than he is. that was one of the many self-flattering american ideals that had no relation to life. mrs. ansley's equality of opportunity was another. people passed these phrases on, and took for granted they were true, when in everyday practice they were false. there could be no breaking forth into a larger life so long as the national spirit made for repression, suppression, restriction, and denial. maisie was but one of the hundred and sixteen millions of americans out of a possible hundred and seventeen on whom all the pressure of social, industrial, educational, and religious life had been brought to bear to keep her mind shut, her tastes puerile, and her impulses to expansion thwarted. with a great show of helping and blessing the less fortunate, american life, he was coming to believe, was organized to force them back, and beat them into subjection. the hundred and seventeenth million loved to believe that it wasn't so; it was not according to their consciences that it should be so; but the result could be seen in the hundred and sixteen million minds drilled to disability, as maisie's was. a young man not yet hardened to life's injustices, he saw himself rushing to maisie's aid, to make the best of her. experience would help her as it had helped him. the shriveled bud of her mind would unfold in warmth and sunshine. this would be in their future together. in the meantime he must clear the ground of the present by getting rid of pretence. "there's one thing i want to tell you, maisie, something i'm rather ashamed of." the lapis lazuli eyes widened in a look of wonder. he might be going to tell her of another girl. "you know, as i've just said, that when we got engaged i was only sixteen. i didn't know anything about anything. i thought i did, of course; but then all fellows of sixteen think that. i'd never had anyone to teach me, or show me the right hang of things. you saw for yourself how i lived with honey; and before that, as you know, i'd been a state ward. further back than that--but i can't talk about it yet. some day when we're married, and know each other better--" "i'm not asking you. i don't care." "no, i know you don't care, and that you're not asking me; but i want you to understand how it was that i was so ignorant, so much more ignorant than i suppose any other fellow would have been. when i went out to buy that ring you've got on--" he knew by the horror in her face that she divined what he had to tell her. he knew too that she had already been afraid of it. "you're not going to say that it isn't a real diamond?" to nerve himself he had to look at her steadily. confessing a murder would have been easier. "no, maisie, it isn't a real diamond. at the time i bought it i didn't know what a real diamond was. i'm not sure that i know now--" he stopped because, without taking her eyes from his, she was slipping the ring from her finger. she was slipping, too, an illusion from her mind. he knew now that to be trifled with in love, to be betrayed in a great trust, would be small things to maisie as compared to this kind of deception. her wrath and contempt were the more scathing to behold because of her cherry-colored prettiness. the ring lay on the table. drawing in the second finger of her right hand, she made of it a spring against her thumb. she loosed the spring suddenly. the faked diamond sped across the table hitting against his hand. he picked it up, putting it out of sight in his waistcoat pocket. for a fellow of nineteen, eager to be something big, no lower depth of humiliation could ever be imagined. maisie stood up. "you cheap skate!" he bowed his head as a criminal sometimes does when sentenced. he had no protest to make. a cheap skate was what he was. he sat there crushed. skirting round him as if he were defiled, she went out into the little entry. he was still sitting crushed when she came back. she did not pause. she merely flung his hat on the table as she went by. it was a cheap skate's hat, a brown soft felt, shapeless, weather-stained, three years out of style. with no further words, she opened the door into the adjoining room, passed through it, and closed it noiselessly behind her. xxxiv for probating honey's will he asked leave to come and consult mr. ansley. an appointment was made for an evening when that gentleman was to be at home. tom, who had some gift for character, was beginning to understand him. understanding him, it seemed to him that he understood all that old boston which had once been a national institution, a force in the country's history, and now, like a man retired from business, sat resting on its hill. old boston was more significant, however, than a man retired from business, in that it was to a great degree a man retired from the pushing of ideals. generous once with the hot generosity of youth, keen to throw itself into the fight against wrongs, ready to be slaughtered in the van rather than compromise on principles, old boston had now reached the age of mellowness. it had grown weary in well-doing. it had done enough. contending with national evils had proved to be futile. national evils had grown too big, too many, too insurgent. better make the best of life as your people mean to live it. keep quiet; take it easy; save money; let the country gang its own gait. a big turbulent country, with no more respect for old boston than for the prophet jeremiah, it wallowed in prosperous vulgarity. let it wallow! with solid investments in cotton and copper old boston could save its own soul. it withdrew from its country; it withdrew from its state; it withdrew from its own city. where its ancestors had made the laws and administered them, it became, like those proud old groups of spaniards still to be found in california, a remnant of a former time, making no further stand against the invader. with a little art, a little literature, a little music, a little education, a little religion, a little mild beneficence, and a great deal of astute financial and professional ability, it could pass its time and keep its high-mindedness intact. to tom's summing up this was philip ansley. he was able, public-spirited, and generous; but he was disillusioned. the united states of his forefathers, of which he kept the ideal in his soul, had turned into such a hodgepodge of mankind, that he had neither hope nor sentiment with regard to it. in his heart he believed that its governments were in the hands of what he called a bunch of crooks. with congresses, state legislatures, and civic councils elected by what to him were hordes of ignoramuses, with laws dictated by cranks and fanatics, with the old-time liberties stampeded by the tyranny of majorities lacking a sense of responsibility, he deemed it prudent to follow the line of least resistance and give himself to making money. apart from casting his vote for the republican ticket on election days, he left city, state, and country to the demagogues and looters. he was sorry to do this, yet with the world as it was, he saw no help for it. but he served as director on the boards of a good many companies; he was an overseer of harvard, a trustee of the museum of fine arts, the treasurer of several hospitals, a subscriber to every important philanthropic fund. his club was the somerset; his church was trinity. for old boston these two facts when taken together placed him in that sacred shrine which in england consecrates dowager duchesses. when tom was shown up he found his host in the room where two years earlier they had talked over the place as chauffeur, but he was no longer awed by it. neither was he awed by finding ansley wearing a dinner-jacket simply because it was evening. the conventions and amenities of civilized life were becoming a matter of course to him. "how d'ye do? come in. sit down. what's the weather like outside? still pretty cold for april, isn't it?" though he offered his hand only from his armchair, where he sat reading the evening paper, he offered it. it was also a tribute to tom's progress that he was asked to take a seat. a still further sign of his having reached a position remotely on a footing of equality with the ansleys was an invitation to help himself from a silver box of cigarettes. having respectfully declined this honor, as ansley himself was not smoking, he stated his errand. if mr. ansley would introduce him to some young inexpensive lawyer, who would tell him what to do in the probating of honey's will.... the business was soon settled. in possession of ansley's card with a scribbled line on it, tom rose to take his leave. ansley rose also, but moved toward the fireplace, where a few sticks were smoldering, as if he had something more to say. "wait a minute. sit down again. have a cigarette." as ansley himself lighted a cigar, tom took a cigarette from the silver box, and leaned against the back of the big chair from which he had just risen. once more he was struck by the resemblance between the shrewd close-lipped face, dropping into its meditative cast, and the lampshade just below it, parchment with a touch of rose, and an inner light. ansley puffed for a minute or two pensively. "you've no family, i believe. you haven't got the complications of a lot of relatives." tom was surprised by the new topic. "no, sir. i wish i had, but--" "oh, well, for a young fellow like you, bound to get on--" he dropped this line to take up another. "i'm thinking about guy. occurred to me the other day that while he'd been dragged about europe a good many times he didn't know anything of his own country. never been west of the hudson." tom smoked and wondered. "i've suggested to him to take his summer's vacation and wander about. get the lay of the land. could cover a good deal of ground in three months. zigzag up and down--niagara--colorado--chicago--grand canyon--california--seattle--back if he liked by the canadian pacific. what would you think?" "i think it would be great." "would you go with him?" it seemed to tom that his brain was spinning round. not only was he too dazed to find words, but the question of money came first. how could he afford ...? but ansley went on again. "it's a choice between you and a tutor. my wife would like a tutor. guy wants you. so do i. you'd have your traveling expenses, of course--do everything the same as guy--and, let us say, five hundred dollars for your time. would that suit you?" he didn't know how to answer. excitement, gratitude, and a sense of insufficiency churned together and choked him. it was only by spluttering and stammering that he could say at last: "if--if mrs. ansley--d-doesn't w-want me--" "oh, she'd give in. simply feels that guy'd get more good out of it if he had some one to point out moral lessons as he went along. i don't. two young fellows together, if they're at all the right kind, 'll do each other more good than all the law and the prophets." "but would you mind telling me, sir, something of what you'd expect from me?" "oh, nothing! just play round with him, and have a good time. you seem to chum up with him all right." tom was distressed. "yes, sir, but if i'm to be--to be paid for chumming up with him i should have to--" "forget it. i want guy to take the trip. it's not the kind of trip anyone wants to take alone, and you're the fellow he'd like to have with him. i'd like it too. you understand him." he turned round to knock the ash from his cigar into the dying fire. "trouble with guy is that he has no sense of values. thing he needs to learn is what's worth while and what's not. i don't want you to teach him. i just want him to _see_. what do you say?" tom hung his head, not from humility but to think out a point that troubled him. "you know, sir"--he looked up again--"that when guy and i get together we talk about things that--well, that you mightn't like." "i don't care a hang what you talk about." "yes, sir; but this is something particular." "well, then, keep it to yourself." "i can't keep it to myself because--because some day you might think that i'd had a bad ... as long as we've just been chums ... and i wasn't paid--" ansley moved away from the fireplace, striding up and down in front of it. "look here, my boy! i know what young fellows are. i know you talk about things you wouldn't bring up before mrs. ansley and me. i don't care. it's what i expect. do you both good. you're not specially vicious, either of you, and even if you were--" "it's not a matter of morals, sir; it's one of opinions." he dismissed this lightly. "oh, opinions!" "but this is a special kind of opinion. you see, sir, i've always been poor. i've lived among poor people. i've seen how much they have to go without. and i begin to see all that rich people have more than they need--more than they can ever use." "oh, quite so! i see! i see! and you both get a bit revolutionary. go to it, boy! fellows of your age who're not boiling over with rebellion against social conditions as they are'll never be worth their salt. don't say anything about it before mrs. ansley, but between yourselves.... why, when i was an undergraduate.... you'll live through it, though.... the poor people don't want any champions.... they don't want to be helped.... you get sick of it in the long run.... but while you're young boil away.... if that's all that bothers you...." tom explained that it was all that bothered him, and the bargain was struck. he had expressed his thanks, shaken hands, and reached the threshold on the way out when ansley spoke again. "guy tells me that out at cambridge they call you the whitelaw baby. i suppose you know all about yourself--your people--where you began--that sort of thing?" he decided to be positive, laconic, to do what he could to squelch the idea in ansley's mind. "yes, sir; i do." "then that settles that." xxxv between the end of the college year and the departure on the journey westward there was to be an interval of three weeks. mrs. ansley had insisted on that. she was a mother. for eight or nine months she had seen almost nothing of her boy. now if he was to be taken from her for the summer, and for another college year after that, she might as well not have a son at all. tom was considering where he should pass the intervening time when the following note unnerved him. _dear mr. whitelaw_ mother wants to know if when college closes, and guy joins us in new hampshire, you will not come with him for the three weeks before you start on your trip. please do. i shall have got there by that time, and i haven't seen you now for nearly two years. we must have a lot of notes to compare, and ought to be busy comparing them. do come then, for our sakes if not for your own. you will give us a great deal of pleasure. yours very sincerely, hildred ansley. his heart failed him. it failed him because of the details as to customs, etiquette, and dress he didn't know anything about. he should be called on to speak fluently in a language of which he was only beginning to spell out the little words. it seemed to him at first that he couldn't accept the invitation. then, not to accept it began to look like cowardice. he would never get anywhere if he funked what he didn't know. when you didn't know you went to work and found out. you couldn't find out unless you put yourself in the way of seeing what other people did. after twenty-four hours of reflection he penned the simplest form of note. thanking hildred for her mother's kind invitation, he accepted it. before putting his letter in the post, however, he dropped in to call on guy. guy, who was strumming the love-death of isolde, tossed his comments over his shoulder as he thumped out the passion. "that's hildred. she's made mother do it. nutty on that sort of thing." tom's heart failed him again. "nutty on what sort of thing?" isolde's anguish mounted and mounted till it seemed as if it couldn't mount any higher, and yet went on mounting. "oh, well! she's toted it up that you haven't got a home--that for three weeks after college closes you'll be on the town--and so on." "i see." "all the same, come along. i'd just as soon. dad won't be there hardly. the old lady'll be booming about, but you needn't mind her. you'll have your room and grub for those three weeks, and that's all you've got to think about. anyhow, it's bats in the attic with hildred the minute it comes to a lame dog." while guy's fat figure swayed over the piano, isolde's great heart broke. tom went back to his room and wrote a second answer, regretting that owing to the pressure of his engagements he would be unable.... and then there came another reaction. what did it matter if hildred ansley _was_ opening the door out of pity? pity was one of the loveliest traits of character. only a cad would resent it. he sent his first reply. having done this, he felt it right to go and call on mrs. ansley. he was sure she didn't want him in new hampshire, but by taking it for granted that she did he would discount some of her embarrassment. as mrs. ansley was not at home pilcher held out a little silver tray. tom understood that he should have had a card to put in it. a card was something of which he had never hitherto felt the need. he said so to pilcher frankly. pilcher's stony medieval face, the face of a saint on the portal of some primitive cathedral, smiled rarely, but when it did it smiled engagingly. "you'll find a visitin' card very 'andy, mr. tom, now that you're so big. mr. guy has had one this long spell back." it was a lead. in shy unobtrusive ways pilcher had often shown himself his friend. tom confessed his yearning for a card if only he knew how to order one. "i'll show you one of mr. guy's. he always has the right thing. i'll find out too where he gets them done. if you'll step in, mr. tom...." as he waited in the dining room, with the good-natured ansley ancestor smiling down at him, there floated through tom's mind a phrase from the bible as taught by mrs. tollivant. "the lord sent his angel." wasn't that what he was doing now, and wasn't the angel taking pilcher's guise? when the heavenly messenger came back with the card tom went straight to his point. "pilcher, i wonder if you'd mind helping me?" "i'd do it and welcome, mr. tom." mr. tom told of his invitation to new hampshire, and of his ignorance of what to do and wear. if pilcher would only give him a hint.... he could not have found a better guide. pilcher explained that a few little things had to be as second nature. a few other little things were uncertain points as to which it was always permissible to ask. in the way of second nature tom would find sporting flannels and tennis shoes an essential. so he would find a dinner-jacket suit, with the right kind of shirt, collar, tie, shoes, and socks to wear with it. as to things permissible to ask about, pilcher could more easily explain them when they were both in the same house. occasions would crop up, but could not be foreseen. "the real gentry is ever afraid of showin' that they don't know. they takes not knowin' as a joke. many's the time when i've been waitin' at table i've 'eard a born gentleman ask the born lady sittin' next to 'im which'd be the right fork to use, and she'd say that she didn't know but was lookin' round to see what other people done. that's what they calls hease of manner, mr. tom." under the ansley roof he would meet none but the gentry born. any one of them would respect him more for asking when he didn't know. it was only the second class that bothered about being so terribly correct, and they were not invited by mrs. ansley. in addition to these consoling facts tom could always fall back on him, pilcher, as a referee. being a guest in a community in which two years earlier he had been a chauffeur tom found easier than he had expected because he worked out a formula. he framed his formula before going to new hampshire. "servants are servants and masters are masters because they divide themselves into classes. the one is above, and is recognized as being above; the other is below, and is recognized as being below. i shall be neither below nor above; or i shall be both. i will _not_ go into a class. as far as i know how i'll be everybody's equal." he had, however, to find another formula for this. "you're everybody's equal when you know you are. whatever you know will go of itself. the trouble i see with the bumptious american, who claims that he's as good as anybody else, is that he thinks only of forcing himself to the level of the highest; he doesn't begin at the bottom, and cover all the ground between the bottom and the top. i'm going to do that. i shall be at home among the lot of them. to be at home i must _feel_ at home. i mustn't condescend to the boys of two years ago who'll still be driving cars, and i mustn't put on airs to be fit for mrs. ansley's drawing-room. i must be myself. i mustn't be ashamed because i've been in a humble position; and i mustn't be swanky because i've been put in a better one. i must be natural; i must be big. that'll give me the ease of manner pilcher talks about." with these principles as a basis of behavior, his embarrassments sprang from another source. they began at the station in keene. he knew he was to be met; and he supposed it would be by guy. "oh, here you are!" she came on him suddenly in the crowd, tall, free in her movements, always a little older than her age. if in the nearly two years since their last meeting changes had come to him, more had apparently come to her. she was a woman, while he was not yet a man. she was easy, independent, taking the lead with natural authority. from the first instant of shaking hands he felt in her something solicitous and protective. it showed itself in the little things as to which awkwardness or diffidence on his part might have been presumed. so as not to leave him in doubt of what he ought to do, she took the initiative with an air of quiet, competent command. she led the way to the car; she told him to throw his handbags and coat into the back part of it; she made him sit beside her as she drove. "no, i'm going to drive," she insisted, when he had offered to take the wheel. "i want you to see how well i can do it. i like showing off. this is my own car. i drove it all last summer." they talked about cars and their makes because the topic was an easy one. speeding out of keene, they left behind them the meadows of the ashuelot to climb into a country with which nature had been busy ever since her first flaming forces had cooled down to form a world. cooling down and flinging up, she had tossed into the azoic age a tumble of mountains higher doubtless than andes or alps. barren, stupendous, appalling, they would not have been easy for man, when he came, to live with in comfort, had not the great earth-mother gone to some pains to polish them down. taking her leisure through eons of years, she brought from the north her implement, the ice. without haste, without rest, a few inches in a century, she pushed it against the barrier she meant to mold and penetrate. as a dyke before the pressure of a flood, the barrier broke here, broke there, and yet as a whole maintained itself. heights were cut off from heights. valleys were carved between them. what was sharp became rounded; what was jagged was worn smooth. the highest pinnacles crashed down. when after thousands of years the glacial mass receded, only the stumps were left of what had once been terrific primordial elevations. dense forests began to cover them. lakes formed in the hollows. little rivers drained them, to be drained themselves by a nameless stream which fell into a nameless sea. through ages and ages the thrushes sang, the wild bees hummed, and the bear, the deer, the fox, the lynx ranged freely. man came. he came stealthily, unnoted, leaving so light a trace that nothing remains to tell of his first passage but a few mysterious syllables. the river once nameless became the connecticut; the base of a mighty primeval mountain bears the nipmuck name monadnock. in this angle of new hampshire thrust in between massachusetts and vermont names are a living record. the nipmuck disappeared in proportion as the restless english colonists pushed farther and farther from the sea. they came in little companies, generally urged by some religious disagreement with those they had left behind. to escape the "congregational way" they fled into the mountains. there they were free to follow the "episcoparian way." as "episcoparians" they printed the map with names which enshrined their old-home memories. clustering within sight of the blue mass of monadnock are neat white towns--marlborough, richmond, chesterfield, walpole, peterborough, fitzwilliam, winchester--rich with "episcoparian" suggestion. in the early eighteenth century there came in another strain. driven by famine, a thousand pilgrims arrived in these relatively empty lands from the north of ireland, sturdy, strong-minded, protestant. grouping themselves into three communities, they named them with irish names, antrim, hillsborough, dublin. it was to dublin that tom and hildred were on the way. the subject of cars exhausted, she swung to something else. "you like the idea of going with guy?" "it's great." "i like it too. i'd rather he was with you than with anybody. you never make game of him, and yet you never humor him." "what do you mean by that, that i never humor him?" "oh, well! guy's standards aren't very high. we know that. but you never lower yours." "how do you know i don't?" "because guy says so. don't imagine for a minute that he doesn't see. he likes you so much because he respects you." "he respects a lot of other fellows too." a little "h'm!" through pursed-up lips was a sign of dissent. "i wonder. he goes with them, i know, and rather envies them, which is what i mean by his standards not being very high; but--" "oh, guy's all right. the fellows you speak of are sometimes a little fresh; but he knows where to draw the line. he'll go to a certain point; but you won't get him beyond it." "and he owes that to you." "oh, no, he doesn't, not in the least." "well, _i_--" she held the personal pronoun for emphasis--"think he does." in this good opinion she was able to be firm because she seemed older than he. in reality she was two years younger, but life in a larger society had given her something of the tone of a woman of the world. this development on her part disconcerted him. so long as she had been the slip of a thing he remembered, prim, sedate, old-fashioned as the term is applied to children, she had not been a factor in his relations with the ansley family. now, suddenly, he saw her as the most important factor of all. the emergence of personality troubled him. since she was obliged to keep her eyes on the turnings of the road, he was able to study her in profile. it was the first time he had really looked at a woman since he had summed up maisie in nashua. that had been two months earlier. the place which maisie had so long held in his heart had been empty for those two months, except for a great bitterness. it was the bitterness of disillusion, of futility. rage and pain were in it, with more of mortification than there was of either. he would never again hear of a cheap skate without thinking of the figure he had cut in the eyes of the girl whom he thought he was honoring merely in being true. all girls had been hateful to him since that day, just as all boys will be to a dog who has been stoned by one of them. yet here he was already looking at a girl with something like fascination. that was because fascination was the emotion she evoked. she was strange; she was arresting. you wondered what she was like. you watched her when she moved; you listened to her when she talked. once you had heard her voice, bell-like and crystalline, you would always be able to recall it. he noticed the way she was dressed because her knitted silk sweater was of a pattern he had never seen before. it ran in horizontal dog-toothed bands, shading from green to blue, and from blue to a dull red. green was the predominating color, grass-green, jade-green, sea-green, sage-green, but toned to sobriety by this red of old brick, this blue of indigo. indigo was the short plain skirt, and the stockings below it. an indigo tam-o'-shanter was pinned to her smooth, glossy, bluish-black hair with a big carnelian pin. he remembered that he used to think her cambodian. he thought so again. having arrived at the house, they found no one but pilcher to receive them. mrs. ansley had gone out to tea; mr. guy had left word for miss hildred to bring mr. tom to the club, where he was playing tennis. "do you care to go?" knowing that he couldn't spend three weeks in dublin without facing this invitation, he had decided in advance to accept it the first time it came. "if you go." "all right; let's. but you'd like first to go to your room, wouldn't you? pilcher, take mr. whitelaw up. i'll wait here with the car. we'll start as soon as you come down." running up the stairs, he wondered whether it would be the proper thing for him to change to his new white flannels, when, as if divining his perplexity, she called after him. "come just as you are. don't stop to put on other things. i'll go as i am too." this maternal foresight was again on guard as they turned from the road into the driveway to the club. "do you want to come and be introduced to a lot of people, or would you rather browse about by yourself? you can do whichever you like." he replied with a suggestion. as a good many cars would be parked in the narrow space of the club avenues, he thought she had better jump out at the club steps, leaving him to find a space where the car could stand. he would hang around there till guy's game was over and the party was ready to go home. having parked the car, he was in with the chauffeurs, some of whom were old acquaintances. true to his formula, he went about among them, shaking hands, and asking for their news. they were oddly alike, not only in their dustcoats and chauffeurs' caps, but in features and cast of mind. "you got a job?" he was asked in his turn. "been taken on to travel with young ansley. we stay here for three weeks, and then go out west." "loot pretty good?" "oh, just about the same, and, of course, i get my expenses." "pretty soft, what?" came from an englishman. "yes, but then it's only for the summer." these duties done, he felt free to stroll off till he found a convenient rock on which to sit by the lakeside. lighting a cigarette, he was glad of a half hour to himself in which to enjoy the scene. it was a reposeful scene, because all that was human and sporting in it was lost in the living spirit of the background. it was what he had always felt in this particular landscape, and had never been able to define till now--its quality of life. it was life of another order from physical life, and on another plane. you might have said that it reached you out of some phase of creation different from that of earth. these hills were living hills; this lake was a living lake. through them, as in the serene sky, a presence shone and smiled on you. he had often noticed, during the summer at the inn-club, that you could sit idle and silent with that presence, and not be bored. you looked and looked; you thought and thought; you were bathed about in tranquillity. people might be running around, and calling or shouting, as they were doing now in the tennis courts on a ledge of the hillside above him, not five hundred yards away, but they disturbed you no more than the birds or the butterflies. the presence was too immense, too positive, to allow little things to trouble it. rather, it took them and absorbed them, as if the supreme activity, which for millions of years before there was a man had been working to transform this spot into a cup of overflowing loveliness, could use anything that came its way. so he sat and smoked and thought and felt soothed. it was early enough in the summer for the birds to be singing from all the wooded terraces and the fringe of lakeside trees. calls from the tennis courts, cries from young people climbing on the raft in the lake or diving from the spring-board, came to him softened and sweet. it was living peace, invigorating, restful. xxxvi a woman passed along the driveway, and looked at him. he looked at her. the rock on which he sat being no more than a dozen yards from where she walked, they could see each other plainly. it seemed to him that as she went by she relaxed her pace to study him. she was a little woman, pretty, sad-faced, neatly dressed and perhaps fifty years of age. having passed once, she turned on her steps and passed again. she passed a third time and a fourth. each time she passed she gave him the same long scrutinizing look, without self-consciousness or embarrassment. he thought she might be a lady's maid or a chauffeur's wife. he turned to watch a young man taking a swan dive from the spring-board. having run the few steps which was all the spring-board allowed of, he stood poised on the edge, feet together, his arms at his thighs. with the leap forward his arms went out at right angles. when he turned toward the water they bent back behind his head, his palms twisted upward. nearing the surface they pointed downward, cleaving the lake with a clean, splashless penetration. the whole movement had been lithe and graceful, the curve of a swan's neck, the spring of a flying fish. not till she was close beside him did he notice that the little woman had left the roadway, crossed the intervening patch of blueberry scrub, and seated herself on a low bowlder close to his own. her self-possession was that of a woman with a single dominating motive. "you've just arrived with miss ansley, haven't you?" the voice, like the manner, was intense and purposeful. in assenting, he had the feeling of touching something elemental, like hunger or fire, which wouldn't be denied. "and you're at harvard." he assented to this also. "at harvard they call you the whitelaw baby, don't they?" "i've heard so. why do you ask?" "because i'm the nurse from whom the whitelaw baby was stolen nearly twenty years ago. my name is nash." a memory came to him of something far away. he could hear honey saying he had seen her, a pretty little englishwoman, and that nash was her name. looking at her now, he saw that she was more than a pretty little englishwoman; she was a soul in torture, with a flame eating at the heart. he felt sorry for her, but not so sorry as to be free from impatience at the dogging with which the whitelaw baby followed him. "why do you say this to me?" "because of what i've heard from the family. they've spoken of you. they think it--queer." "they think what queer?" "that your name is whitelaw--that your father's name was theodore--that you look so much like the rest of them. mr. whitelaw's name is henry theodore--" "and my father's name was only theodore. my mother's name was lucy. i was born in the bronx. i'm exactly nineteen years of age. i've heard that mr. whitelaw's son if he were living now would be twenty." large gray eyes with silky drooping lids rested on his with a look of long, slow searching. "you're sure of all that?" he tried to laugh. "as sure as you can be of what's not within your own recollection. i've been told it. i've reason to believe it." "i'd no reason to believe that i should ever find my boy again; but i know i shall." "that must be a comfort to you in the trial you've had to face." "it hasn't been a trial exactly, because you bear a trial and live through it. this has been spending every day and every night in the lake of fire and brimstone. i wonder if you've any idea of what it's like." "i don't suppose i have." "if you did have--" he thought she was going to say that if he did have he would allow himself to become the whitelaw baby in order to relieve her anguish, but she struck another note. "i hadn't the least suspicion of what had been done to me till the two footmen had lifted the little carriage up over the steps and into the hall. then i raised the veil to take my baby out, and i--i fell in a dead swoon." he waited for her to go on again. "try to imagine what it is to find in place of the living child you've laid in its bed with all the tenderness in your soul--to find in place of that a dirty, ugly, stuffed thing, about a baby's size.... for days after that i was just as if i was drugged. if i came to for a few minutes i prayed that i mightn't live. i didn't want to look the mother and father in the face." "but hadn't you told them anything about it?" "there was nothing to tell. the baby had vanished. i'd seen nothing; i'd heard nothing. neither had my friend who was with me, and who's married now, in england. if an evil spirit had done it, it couldn't have been silenter, or more secret. it was a mystery then; it's been a mystery ever since." "but you raised an alarm? you made a search?" "the whole country raised the alarm. there wasn't a corner, or a suspicious character, that wasn't searched. we knew it had been done for ransom, and the ransom was ready if ever the baby had been returned. the father and mother were that frantic they'd have done anything. there never was a baby in the world more loved, or more lovable. all three of us--the father, the mother, and myself--would have died for him." he grew interested in the story for its own sake. "and did you never get any idea at all?" "nothing that ever led to anything. for a good five years mr. whitelaw never rested. mrs. whitelaw--but it's no use trying to tell you. it can't be told; it can't be so much as imagined. even when you've lived through it you wonder how you ever did. you wonder how you go on living day by day. it's almost as if you were condemned to eternal punishment. the clues were the worst." "you mean that--?" "if we could have known that the child was dead--well, you make up your mind to that. after a while you can take up life again. but not to know anything! just to be left wondering! asking yourself what they're doing with him!--whether they're giving him the right kind of food!--whether they're giving him _any_ kind of food!--whether they're going to kill him, and how they're going to kill him, and who's to do the killing! to go over these questions morning, noon, and night--to eat with them, and sleep with them, and wake with them--and then the clues!" "you said they were the worst." "because they always made you hope. no matter how often you'd been taken in you were ready to be taken in again. each time they said there was a chance you couldn't help thinking that there _might_ be a chance. it didn't matter how much you told yourself it wasn't likely. you couldn't make yourself believe it. you felt that he'd _have_ to be found, that he couldn't help being found. the whole thing was so impossible that you'd have to go to his room and look at his little empty crib to persuade yourself that he wasn't there." to divert her from going over the ground she must have gone over thousands of times already, he broke in with a new line of thought. "but i've heard that they don't want to find him now--a grown-up man." she stared at him fiercely. "_i_ do. _i_ want to find him. they were not to blame. i was. it makes the difference." "still he was their son." "he was their son, and they've suffered; but they can rest in spite of their suffering. i can't. they can afford to give up hope because they've nothing with which to reproach themselves. if they were me--" he began to understand. "i see. if you could find him and bring him back, even if they didn't want him--" "i should have done _that_ much. it would be something. it's why i pleaded with them to let me stay with them when i suppose the very sight of me must have tortured them. i swore that i'd give my life to trying to--" "but what could you do when even the child's father, with all his money, couldn't--?" "i could pray. they couldn't. they're not like that. praying's all i've ever done which wasn't done by somebody else. i've prayed as i don't think many people have ever prayed; and now i've come to where--" "where what?" the light in her eyes was lambent, leaping and licking like a flame. "where i'm quieter." she made her statement slowly. "i seem to know that he'll be given back to me because the bible says that when we pray believing that we _have_ what we ask for we shall receive it. latterly i've believed that. i haven't forced myself to believe it. it's just come of its own accord--something like a certainty." the claim in the look which without wavering fixed itself upon him prompted another question. "and has that certainty got anything to do with me?" "i wonder if it hasn't." "but i don't see how it can have, when you never saw me in your life till twenty minutes ago." "i never saw you; but i'd heard of you. i meant to see you as soon as i got a chance. i never got it till to-day." "but how did you know?" "that it was you? this way. you see i'm here with miss lily. she's staying for a few nights at the inn-club before going to make some visits." "who's miss lily?" "she was the second of the two children born after my little boy was taken. first there was mr. tad. then there was a little girl. she knows miss ansley. miss ansley told her you were coming up, that you'd very likely be here this afternoon, so i came and waited. even if i hadn't seen you drive up with her--if we'd met in the heart of africa--i'd have known.... you've been taken for mr. tad already. you know that, don't you?" "i know there's a resemblance." "it's more than a resemblance. it's--it's the whole story. mr. whitelaw himself saw it first. when he came back after meeting you, in this very place, nearly two years ago, he was--well, he was terribly upset. if it hadn't been for mr. tad and miss lily--" "and their mother too." "yes, i suppose; and their mother too. but that's not what we're considering. whether they want you or not, if you _are_ the boy--" he tried to speak very gently. "but you see, i couldn't be. i had a mother. i don't remember much about her because i was only six or seven when she died. but two things i recall--the way she loved me, and the way i loved her. if i thought there was any truth in what you--in what you suspect--i couldn't love her any more." "i don't see why." "because i should be charging her with a crime. would you do that--to your own mother--after she was dead?" "if she was dead it wouldn't matter." "not to her. but it would to me." "it couldn't do you any harm." "i'm the only judge of that." there was exasperation in the eyes which seemed unable to tear themselves from his face. "but most people would like to have it proved that they'd been--" "been born rich men's sons. that's what you were going to say, isn't it? i daresay i should have liked it, if.... but what's the use? we don't gain anything by discussing it. you want to find some one who'll pass for the lost boy. i understand that; and i understand how much it would lessen all the grief--" she interrupted quickly. "yes, but i wouldn't try to foist an imposter on them, not if it would take me out of hell. if i didn't believe--" "but you don't believe now; you can't believe. what i've told you about myself must make believing impossible." "oh, if i hadn't believed when believing was impossible i shouldn't have the little bit of mind i've got now. believing when it was impossible was all that kept me sane." "but you won't go on doing it, not as far as i'm concerned?" she rose, with dignity. "why not? i shan't be hurting you, shall i? in a way we all believe it--even the whitelaw family--even miss ansley." he jumped up, startled. "did she tell you so?" "she didn't tell me so exactly. we were talking about it--we've all talked of it more than you suppose--and miss ansley said that you couldn't be what you are unless you were--_somebody_." he tried to take this jocosely. "no, of course i couldn't." "oh, but i know what she meant." she moved away from him, speaking over her shoulder as she crossed the blueberry scrub, "it was more than what's in the words." xxxvii except for a passing glimpse in dublin, tom never saw lily whitelaw till in december he met her at the ball at which hildred ansley came out. as to going to this ball he had his usual fit of funk, but hildred had insisted. "but, tom, you must. you're the one i care most about." "i shouldn't know what to do." "i'll see to that. you'll only have to do what i tell you." "and i haven't got an evening coat with tails." "well, get one. if you look as well in it as you do in your dinner-jacket outfit--and you'd better have a white waistcoat, a silk hat, and a pair of white gloves. what'll happen to you when you get there you can leave to me. now that i know you look so well, and dance so well, you'll give me no trouble at all." her kindness humbled him. he felt the necessity of taking it as kindness and nothing more. knowing too that he must school his own emotions to a sense of gratitude, he imagined that he so schooled them. with the five hundred dollars he had earned through the summer added to what remained of honey's legacy, he had enough for his current year at harvard, with a margin over. the tailed evening coat, the white waistcoat, the silk hat, the gloves, he looked upon as an investment. he went to the ball. it was given at the shawmut, the new hotel with a specialty in this sort of entertainment. the ballroom had been specially designed so as to afford a spectacle. a circular cup, surrounded by a pillared gallery for chaperons and couples preferring to "sit out," you descended into it by one of four broad shallow staircases, whence the _coup d'oeil_ was superb. by being more or less passive, he got through the evening better than he had expected. knowing scarcely anyone, he fell back on his formula. "i mustn't be conscious of it. i must take not knowing anyone for granted, as i should if i were in a crowd at a theater, or the lobby of this hotel. if i feel like a stray cat i shall look like a stray cat. if i feel at ease i shall look at ease." in this he was supported by the knowledge of wearing the right thing. even guy, whom he had met for a minute in the cloakroom, had been surprised into a compliment. "gee whiz! who do you think you are? the old lady's been afraid you'd look like an outsider. now she'll be struck silly. lot of girls here that you'll put their eye out." when he had shaken hands hildred found a minute in which to whisper, "tom, you're the greek god you read about in novels. don't feel shy. all you need do is to stand around and be ornamental. your rôle is the romantic unknown." she returned after the next bout of "receiving." "you and i will have the supper dance. i've insisted on that, and mother's given in. don't get too far out of reach, so that i can put my hand on you when i want you." he danced a little, chiefly with girls whom no one else would dance with and to whom some member of the ansley family introduced him. when not dancing he returned to the gallery, where he leaned against a convenient pillar and looked on. it was what he best liked doing. liking it, he did it well. he could hear people ask who he was. he could hear some harvard fellow answer that he was the whitelaw baby. once he heard a lady say, as she passed behind his back, "well, he does look like the whitelaws, doesn't he?" the new york papers had recalled the whitelaw baby to the public mind in connection with the ball given a few weeks earlier to "bring out" lily whitelaw. once in so often the whole story was rehearsed, making the younger whitelaws sick of it, and their parents suffer again. the fact that tad and lily whitelaw were there that night gave piquancy to the presence of the romantic stranger. his stature, his good looks, his natural dignity, together with the mystery as to who he was, made him in a measure the figure of the evening. from where he stood by his pillar in the gallery he recognized lily in the swirl below, a slim, sinuous creature in shimmering green. all her motions were serpentine. she might have been salome; she might also have been a shop girl, self-conscious and eager to be noticed. whatever was outrageous in the dances of that autumn she did for the benefit of her elders. when she turned toward him he could see that she had an insolent kind of beauty. it was a dark, spoiled beauty that seemed lowering because of her heavy whitelaw eyebrows, and possibly a little tragic. in thought he could hear hildred singing, as she had sung when he stayed with them at dublin in the spring, "is she kind as she is fair? for beauty lives by kindness." lily's beauty would not. it was an imperious beauty, willful and inconsiderate. he saw hildred dancing too. she danced as if dancing were an incident and not an occupation. she had left more important things to do it; she would go back to more important things again. while she was at it she took it gayly, gracefully, as all in the evening's work, but as something of no consequence. she was in tissue of gold like an oriental princess, a gold gleam in her oriental eyes. an ermine stole as a protection against draughts was sometimes thrown over her shoulders, but more often across her arm. he noticed the poise of her head. no other head in the world could have been so nobly held, so superbly independent. its character was in its simplicity. fashion did not exist for it. the glossy dark hair was brushed back from forehead and temples into a knot which made neatness a distinction. distinction was the chief beauty in the profile, with its rounded chin, its firm, small, well-curved lips, and a nose deliciously snub. decision, freedom, unconsciousness of self, were betrayed in all her attitudes and movements. merely to watch her roused in him a dull, aching jealousy for lily. he surprised himself by regretting that lily hadn't been like this. imperious, willful, and inconsiderate lily seemed to him again as she drank champagne and smoked cigarettes at supper. the party at her table, which was near the one at which he sat with hildred, was jovial and noisy. lily's partner, a fellow whom he knew by sight at harvard, drank freely, laughed loudly, and now and then slapped the table. lily too slapped the table, though she did it with her fan. in the early morning--it might have been two o'clock--tom found himself accidentally near her when hildred happened to be passing. "oh, lily! i want to introduce mr. whitelaw. he's got the same name as yours, hasn't he? tom, do ask her to dance." with her easy touch-and-go she left them to each other. without a glance at him, lily said, tonelessly, "i'm not going to dance any more. i'm going to look for my brother and go home." a whoop from the other side of the ballroom, where a rowdy note had come over the company, gave an indication of tad's whereabouts. tom suggested that he might find him and bring him up. lily walked away without answering. hildred hurried back. "i'm sorry. i saw what she did. try not to mind it." "oh, i don't. i decided long ago that one couldn't afford to be done down by that sort of thing. it pays in the end to forget it." "one of these days she'll be sorry she did it. your innings will come then." "i'm not crazy for an innings. but time does avenge one, doesn't it?" he nodded toward the ballroom floor, where lily, with a stalking, tip-toeing tread was pushing a man backward as if she would have pushed him down had he not recovered his balance and begun pushing her. "it avenges one even for that. two minutes ago she said she wasn't going to dance any more." "well, she's changed her mind. that's all. come and take a turn with me." the affectionate solicitude in her tone was not precisely new to him, but for the first time he dared to wonder if it could be significant. by all the canons of life and destiny she was outside his range. she could take this intimate, sisterly way with him, he had reasoned hitherto, because she was so far above him. she was the queen; he was only ruy blas, a low-born fellow in disguise. if he found himself loving her, if there was something so sterling and womanly in her nature that he couldn't help loving her, that would be his own look-out. he had made up his mind to that before the end of his three weeks in dublin in the spring. her tactful camaraderie then had carried him over all the places which in the nature of things he might have found difficult, doing it with a sweet assumption that they had an aim in common. only they had no aim in common! between him and her there could be nothing but pity and kindness on the one side, with humility and devotion on the other. he had felt that till to-night. he had felt it to-night up to the minute of hearing those words, "come and take a turn with me." the difference was in her voice. it had tones of comfort and encouragement. more than that, it had tones of comprehension and concern. she entered into his feelings, his struggles, his sympathies, his defeats. in the very way in which she put one hand on his shoulder and placed the other within his own he thought there might be more than the conventional gesture of the dance. "you don't know how much i appreciate your coming to-night," she said, when she found an opportunity. "if you hadn't come i should have felt it as much as if father, or mother, or guy hadn't come. more, i think, because--well, i don't know why--_because_. i only believe that i should have. it's been an awful bore to you, too." "no, it hasn't. i've seen a lot. i like to get the hang of--of this sort of thing. i don't often get a chance." "i thought of that. it seemed to me that the experience would be something. everything's grist that comes to your mill, so that the more you see of things the better." that was all they said, but when he left her she held his hand, she let him hold hers, till their arms were stretched out to full length. even then her eyes smiled at him, and his smiled down into hers. having seen other people go, he decided to slip away himself. but in the cloakroom he found tad, white and sodden in a chair, his hands thrust into his trousers' pockets, his legs stretched wide apart in front of him. no one was there but the cloakroom attendant who winked at tom, as one who would understand the effect of too much champagne. "too young a head. ought to be got home." "i'll take him. know where he lives. going his way. ask some one to call us a taxi." tad made no remonstrance as they helped him into his overcoat, and rammed his hat on his head. he knew what they were doing. "home!" he muttered. "home bes' place! bed! god, i cou' go to sleep right now." he did go to sleep in the taxi, his head on tom's shoulder. tom held him up, with his arm around his waist. once more he had the feeling that had stirred in him before, of something deeper than the common human depths, primitive, pre-social, antedating languages and laws. "he's not my brother," he declared to himself, "but if he were...." he couldn't end that sentence. he could only feel glad that, since the boy _had_ to be taken home, the task should have fallen to him. at westmorley court, where tad now had his quarters, there was no difficulty of admittance. in his own room he submitted quietly to being undressed. tom even found a suit of pajamas, stuffing the limp form into it. he got him into bed; he covered him up. winding his watch, he put it on the night-table. all being done, he stooped over the bed to lift the arm that had flung aside the bedclothes, and put it under them again. he staggered back. there flashed through his mind some of the stories by which honey had accounted for the loss of his eye. his own left eye felt smashed in and shattered. he was sick; he was faint. he could hardly stand. he could hardly think. the room, the world, were flying into splinters. "you damn sucker! get out of this!" by the time tom had recovered himself tad was settling to sleep. xxxviii nothing but the knowledge that the boy was drunk had kept him from striking back there and then. his temper was a hot one. it came in fierce gusts, which stormed off quickly. the quickness saved him now. before he was home in bed he had reconciled himself to bearing this thing too. it was bigger to bear it, more masculine, more civilized. he would never forget his racking remorse after the last fight. he didn't lose his eye, but he was obliged to see an oculist. the oculist pronounced it a close shave. "where in thunder did you get that?" guy demanded, a day or two after the occurrence. tom thought it an opportunity to learn whether or not the boy had been conscious of what he did. "ask tad whitelaw." "_what?_ you don't mean to say you've had another row with him! gee whiz!" "no, i haven't had another row with him; but all the same, ask him." guy asked him, with no information but that the mucker would get another if he didn't keep out of the way. it was all tom needed to know. he had not been too drunk to strike with deliberate intention, and to remember that he had struck. guy must have told hildred, because she wrote begging tom to come to see her. he wasn't to mind his black eye, because she knew all about it. she was tender, consoling. "i don't believe he's a cad any more than i believe that of lily," she said, while giving him a cup of tea, "but they're both spoiled with money and a sense of self-importance. you see, losing the other child has made their mother foolish about them. she's lavished everything on them, more than anyone, not a born saint, could stand. it would have been a great deal better if they'd had to fight their way--some of their way at any rate--like you." "oh, i'm another breed." "another figurative breed--yes. as to the breed in your blood--" "oh, but, hildred, you don't believe that poppy-cock." her eyes were on the teapot from which she was pouring. "i don't believe it exactly because i don't know. it only strikes me as being very queer." "queer in what way?" "oh, in every way. they think so too." "then why do they seem to hate me so?" "i shouldn't say they did that. they're afraid of you. you disturb them. they're--what do they call it in the bible?--kicking against the pricks. that's all there is to it. when they'd buried the whole thing you come along and make them dig it up again. they don't want to do that. they feel it's too late. you can see for yourself that for tad and lily it would be awkward. when you've been the only two children, and such spoiled ones at that, to have an elder brother you didn't know anything about suddenly hoisted over you--" "of course! i understand that." "mr. whitelaw feels the same, only he feels it differently. _he'd_ accept him, however hard it was." "and mrs. whitelaw?" "oh, poor dear, she's suffered so much that all she asks is not to be made to suffer any more. i don't believe it matters to her now whether he's found or not, so long as she isn't tortured." "and does she think i'd torture her?" "they haven't come to that. it isn't what you _may_ do, but what they themselves _ought_ to do that troubles them." "i wish if you get a chance you'd tell them that they needn't do anything." "they wouldn't take my word for it, or yours either. it rests with themselves and their own consciences." "a good deal of it rests with me." "yes, if you were willing to take the first step; but since you're not--" [illustration: mrs. ansley took him as an affliction] they dropped it at that because mrs. ansley lilted in, greeting tom with that outward welcome and inward repugnance he had had to learn to swallow. he knew exactly where he stood with her. she took him as an affliction. affliction could visit the best families and ignore the highest merits. guy, dear boy, was extravagant, and this was the proof of his extravagance. he was infatuated with this young man, who had neither means, antecedents, nor connections. she had heard the whitelaw baby theory, of course; but so long as the whitelaws themselves rejected it, she rejected it too. the best she could do was to be philanthropic. philip, guy, hildred, were all convinced that this young man was to make his mark. very well! it was in her tradition, it was in the whole tradition of old boston, to help those who were likely to get on. it was part of what you owed to your standing in the world, a kind of public duty. you couldn't slight it any more than royalty can slight the opening of bazaars. an aunt of her own had helped a poor girl to take singing lessons; and the girl became one of the great prima donnas of the world. whenever she sang in opera in boston it was always a satisfaction to the family to exhibit her as their protégée. so it might one day be with this young man. she hoped so, she was sure. she didn't like him; she thought the fuss made over him by hildred and guy, more or less abetted by their father, an absurdity; but since she was obliged to play up to the family standard of beneficence, up to it she would play. she bore with tom, therefore, wisely and patiently, never snubbing him except when they chanced to be alone, and hurting him only as a jellyfish hurts a swimmer, by clamminess of contact. clamminess of contact being in itself a weapon of offense, tom ran away from it, but only to fall into contact of another kind. it was a cloudy afternoon with christmas in the near future. all over town there were notes of christmas, in the shop windows, in the christmas trees exposed for sale, in the way people ran about with parcels. he never approached this season without going back to that fatal christmas eve when he and his mother had been caught shop-lifting. he could still feel as he felt at the minute when he turned his face to the angle of the police-station wall, and wept silently. he wondered what hildred would think of him if he were to tell her that tale. he wondered if he ever should. partly for the exercise, partly to find space to breathe and to think, he followed the boston embankment of the charles, making his way to the harvard bridge, and so toward cambridge. in big quietly dropping flakes it had begun to snow. presently it was snowing faster. the few pedestrians fled from the esplanade. he tramped on alone, enjoying the solitude. the embankment lamps had been lit when he noticed, coming toward him, two young men, their collars turned up about their ears. they were laughing and smoking cigarettes. drawing nearer, he recognized them as tad whitelaw and the fellow who had slapped the table at the dance. it was not hard to guess that they were on their way to see hildred. he hoped that under cover of the darkness and the snow he might slip by unobserved. but tad stopped squarely in front of him. "let's look at your eye." the tone was so easy and friendly that tom thought he might be going to apologize. he let him look. "well, you got that," tad went on. "another time you'll get worse. by god, if you don't keep away from me i'll shoot you." tom was surprised, but it was the sort of situation in which he could be cool. he smiled into the arrogant young face turned up toward his. "what's the good of that line of talk? you know you wouldn't shoot me; you wouldn't have the nerve. besides, you haven't anything to shoot me _for_. i'll leave it to this fellow." he turned to tad's companion, who stood as a spectator, slightly to one side. "i found him dead drunk the other night. i took him home in a taxi, and put him to bed. that's no more than the common freemasonry among men. any man would do the same at a pinch for any other man." the companion played up nobly. "that's the straight dope, tad. take it and gulp it down. this guy is a good guy or he wouldn't have--" "go to hell," tad interrupted, insolently. "i'm only warning him. if he hangs round me any more--" tom kept his temper by main force, addressing himself still to the companion. "i've never hung round him. he knows i haven't. two or three times i've run into him, as i've done to-day. twice i've stepped in, to keep him from getting the gate, this time as a drunk, the other time as a damn fool. i'd do that for anyone. i'd do it for him, if i found him in the same mess again." "that's fair enough, tad," the referee approved. "you can't kick against it." tad tried to speak, but tom went on with quiet authority. "so that since he likes warnings he can take that one. i shan't let him be chucked out of harvard if i can help it." tad sprang. "the devil you won't!" tom continued to speak only to the third party. "no, the devil i won't! i don't know why i feel that way about him, but that's the way i feel. and anyhow, now he knows." still addressing the companion only, he uttered a curt "good-night." the companion responded civilly with "good-night" on his side. he neither looked at tad, nor flung a word at him. wheeling to face what had now blown into a snowstorm, he walked off into its teeth. but as he went he repeated the question he had put to hildred ansley. "why do they seem to hate me so?" he thought of lily, slippery, snake-like, perverted; he thought of the mother as he had seen her on that one day, in that one glimpse, a quivering bundle of agony; he thought of the father, human, sympathetic, with the iron in his soul. then he saw them with their heaped up money, their luxuries, their pride, their domineering self-importance. he knew just enough of the lives they led, the exemptions they enjoyed, to feel honey's protest on behalf of the dispossessed. near an arc-light he stopped abruptly. the snow made a tabernacle for him, so that he was all alone. as he looked upward and outward millions and millions of sweet soft white things flew silently across the light. out of his heart, up to his lips, there tore the kind of prayer which in times of temptation the tollivant habit sometimes wrung from him: "o god, keep me from ever wanting to be one of them!" xxxix in january, , it began to occur to tom whitelaw that he might have to go and fight. he might possibly be killed. worse than that, he might be crippled or blinded or otherwise rendered helpless. he had followed the war hitherto as one who looks on at tragedies which have nothing to do with himself. europe was to him no more than a geographical term. intense where his own aims and duties were concerned, but lacking the imaginative faculty, he had never been able to take england, france, and germany as realities. the horrors of which he read in newspapers moved him less than a big human story on the stage. that the struggle might suck him into itself, smashing him as a tornado smashes a tree, came home to him first at a sunday evening supper with the ansleys. "if it does come," philip ansley said, complacently, "a lot of you young fellows will have to go and be shot up." "i'm on," guy announced readily. "if it hadn't been for the family i'd have enlisted in canada long ago." his mother took this seriously. "well that, thank god, can't happen to us. darling, with your--" "oh, yes, with my fat! same old bunk! but, mother, i'm losing weight like a snowbank in april. it's _running_ away. i'm exercising; i'm taking turkish baths; i don't hardly eat a damn thing. i weighed two-fifty-three six weeks ago, and now i'm down to two-forty-nine." "don't worry," his father assured him. "you'll get there. you'll make a fine target for big bertha. couldn't miss you any more than she would a whole platoon." "philip, how can you!" "oh, they're all crazy to go." he looked toward tom. "suppose you are too. exactly the big husky type they like to blow into hash." turning to help himself from the dish pilcher happened to be passing, tom's eyes encountered hildred's. seated beside him, she had veered round on hearing her father's words. the alarm in her face was a confession. "oh, i can wait," he tried to laugh. "if i've got to go i will, but i'm not tumbling over myself to get there." a half hour later mrs. ansley and the three younger members of the party were in the music room, where guy was at the piano. the mother sat on a gilded french canapé, making an excuse for keeping hildred beside her. tom had already begun to guess that the friendship between hildred and himself was making mrs. ansley uneasy. for all these years she had taken him as guy's protégé with whom "anything of that kind" was impossible. but lately she had so maneuvered as not to leave hildred and himself alone. whether hildred noticed it or not he couldn't tell, since she never made a counter-move. if she was not unconscious of her mother's strategy she let it appear as if she was. all the while guy chimed out the _carillon de cythère_ of couperin le grand mrs. ansley patted hildred's hand, and rejoiced in her two children. guy's touch was velvety because it was guy's; couperin le grand was a noble composer because guy played him. her amorphous person quivered to the measure, with a tremor here and a dilation there, like the contraction and expansion of a medusa floating in the sea. but when guy had tinkled out the final notes she bubbled to her feet. "darling, i don't think i ever heard you play as well as you're doing this winter. i think if you were to give a private recital...." in the general movement tom lost the rest of this suggestion, but caught on again at a whisper which he overheard. "hildred, i simply must go and take my corsets off. i've had them on ever since i dressed for church. it's nellie's evening out. i'll have to ask you to come and help me." but as her mother was kissing guy good-night hildred managed to say beneath her breath, "don't go away. i'll try to come back. there's something i want to speak about." left to themselves, the two young men exchanged bits of college gossip while guy twirled on the piano stool. they had the more to say to each other since they met less often than in their year at gore hall. guy was now in westmorley court, and tom in one of the cheaper residential halls in the yard. their associations would have tended to put them apart, had not guy's need of moral strengthening, to say nothing of a dog-like loyalty, driven him back at irregular intervals upon his old friend. now and then, too, when his mother insisted on his coming home for the sunday evening meal, hildred suggested that he bring tom. "let's hike it in by the embankment," was guy's way of extending this invitation. "i don't mind if you come along, and hildred likes it. dad don't care one way or another. he isn't democratic like hildred and me; but he's only a snob when it comes to his position as one of the grand panjandrums of boston. mother kicks, of course; but then she'd accept the devil himself if i was to tote him behind me." long usage had enabled tom to translate these sentiments into terms of eagerness. guy really wanted him. he was guy's haven of refuge as truly as when they had been growing boys. every few weeks guy turned from his "bunch of sports," or his "bunch of sports" left him in the lurch, so that he came back like a homing pigeon to its roost. tom was fond of him, was sorry for him, bore with him. moreover, beyond these tactless invitations there was hildred. they fell to talking of tad whitelaw. guy swung round to the piano, beating out a few bars of throbbing, deep-seated grief. "one more little song and dance and tad'll get this. know what it is?" confessing that he didn't know, tom learned that it was händel's dead march in "saul." "played at all the british military funerals, to make people who feel bad enough already feel a damn sight worse. be our morning and evening hymn when we get into the trenches." tom was anxious. "you mean that tad's on probation?" "i don't know what he's on. hear the dean's been giving him a dose of kill-or-cure. that's all." he pounded out the heartbreaking chords, with the deep bass note that sounded like a drum. "ever see a fellow named thorne carstairs?" "seen him, yes. don't know him. yale chap, isn't he?" "was." the drumbeat struck sorrow to the soul. "kicked out. hanging round tad till he gets him kicked out too. lives at tuxedo. stacks of dough, just like tad himself." there was some personal injury in guy's tone, as he added, "like to give him the toe of my boot." it was perhaps this feat of energy that sent him into the martial phrases of the chopin polonaise in a major, making the room ring with joyous bravery. having dropped into mrs. ansley's corner of the gilded canapé, tom found hildred silently slipping into a seat beside him. "no, don't get up." she put her hand on his arm in a way she had never done before. "i can only stay a few minutes. there's something i want to say." guy was passing to the d major movement. his back was turned to them. they sat gazing at each other. they sat gazing at each other in a new kind of avowal. all the things he dared not say and she dared not listen to were poured from the one to the other through their eyes. she spoke hurriedly, breathlessly. "i want you to know that if we enter the war, and you're sent over there, i'll find a way to go too." he began some kind of protest, but she silenced him. "i know how i could do it. there's a woman in paris who'd take me on to work with her. you see, i'm used to europe. you're not. i can't bear to think of you--with no family--so far away from everyone--and all alone. i'll go." before he could seize anything like the full import of what she was telling him she had slipped away again. guy was still playing, martially and majestically. tom sat wrapt in a sudden amazed tranquillity. now that she had told him, told him more, far more, than was in her words, he was not surprised; he was only reassured. he realized that it was what he had expected. he had not expected it in the mind, nor precisely with the heart. if the heart has reasons which the reason doesn't know, it was something beyond even these. the nearest he could come to it, now that he tried to express it by the processes of thought, was that between him and her there existed a community of life which they had only to take for granted. she was taking it for granted. to find out if she loved him he would never have to ask her; she would never have to ask him. _they knew!_ he wondered if the knowledge brought to her the peace it brought to him. he felt that he knew that too. having ended his polonaise, guy let his fingers run restlessly up and down the keys. he had not turned round; he had heard nothing; he hadn't guessed that hildred had come and gone. that was their secret. they would keep it as a secret. one of them at least had no wish to make it known. he had no wish that it should go farther, even between him and her, till the future had so shaped itself that he could be justified. that it should remain as it was, unspoken but understood, would for a long, long time to come be joy and peace for them both. suddenly guy broke into a strain enraptured and exultant. it flung itself up on the air as easily as a bird's note. it was lyric gladness, welling from a heart that couldn't tire. caught by his own jubilance, guy took up the melody in a tenor growing liquid and strong after the years of cracked girlishness. "guy, for heaven's sake, what's that?" the singer cut into his song long enough to call back over his shoulder: "schumann! 'to the beloved'!" he began singing again, his head thrown back, his big body swaying. all the longing for love of a fellow on the edge of twenty, but for him made shamefaced by his fat, found voice in that joyousness. tom had not supposed that in the whole round of the universe there was such expression for his nameless ecstasies. it was not guy whom he heard, nor the piano; it was the morning stars singing together; it was the sons of god shouting for joy; it was all the larks and all the thrushes and all the nightingales that in all the ages had ever trilled to the sun and moon. "don't stop," he shouted, when the song had mounted to its close. "let's have it all over again." so they had it all over again, the one in his wordless, mumbled tenor, and the other singing in his heart. xl during the next week or ten days tom worried over tad whitelaw. he wondered whether or not he ought to go to see the boy. if he didn't, tad's harvard career might end suddenly. if he did, he would probably have humiliation for his pains. he wouldn't mind the humiliation if he could do any good; but would he? one thing that he could do was to take himself to task for thinking about the fellow in one way or the other. it was the fight he put up from day to day. what was tad whitelaw to him? nothing! and yet he was much. it was beyond reasoning about. he was a responsibility, a care. tom couldn't help caring; he couldn't help feeling responsible. if tad went to the bad something in himself would have gone to the bad. he might argue against this instinct every minute of the day, yet he couldn't argue it down. he remembered that tad went often to see hildred. he had been on his way to see her that afternoon before christmas when they had met on the esplanade. she might be able to get at him more easily than anybody else. he rang her up. her life as a débutante was so crowded that she found it hard to give him a half hour. "i'm dead beat," she confessed on the wire. "if it weren't for mother i'd call it all off." she made him a suggestion. she was driving that morning to lunch with a girl who lived in one of the big places beyond jamaica pond. if he could be at a certain corner she could pick him up. he could drive out with her, and come back by the trolley car. then they could talk. that this proposal didn't meet the wishes of some one near the telephone he could judge by the aside which also passed over the wire. "he wants to see me about tad, mother. i can't possibly refuse." getting into the car beside her, he had another of those impressions, now beginning to be rare, of the difference between her way of living and all that he was used to. much as he knew about cars, it was the first time he had actually driven in a rich woman's limousine. the ease of motion, the cushioned softness, the beaver rug, the blue-book, the little feminine appointments, the sprig of artificial flowers, subdued him so that he once more found it hard to believe that she took him on a footing of equality. but she did. her indifference to the details which overpowered him was part of the wonder of the privilege. having everything to bestow, she seemed unaware of bestowing anything. she took for granted their community of life. she did it simply and without self-consciousness. had they been brother and sister she could not have been easier or more matter-of-course in all that she assumed. except for the coming-out ball it was the first time, too, that he had seen her as what he called "dressed up." her costume now was a warm brown velvet of a shade which toned in with the gold-brown of her eyes and the nut-brown of her complexion. she wore long slender jade earrings, with a string of jade beads visible beneath her loosened furs. the furs themselves might have been sables, though he was too inexperienced to give them a name. except for the jade, she wore, as far as he could see, nothing else that was green but a twist of green velvet forming the edge of her brown velvet toque. her neat proud head lent itself to toques as being simple and distinguished. he himself was self-conscious and shy. he could hardly remember for what purpose she had been willing to pick him up. a queen to her subjects is always a queen, a little overwhelming by her presence, no matter how human her personality. now that he was before her in his old harvard clothes, and the marks of the common world all over him, he could hardly believe, he could _not_ believe, that she had uttered the words she had used on sunday night. all the ease of manner was on her side. she went straight to the point, competent, businesslike. "the thing, it seems to me, that will possibly save tad is that he's got to keep himself fit in case war breaks out." that was her main suggestion. tad couldn't afford to throw himself away when his country might, within a few weeks, have urgent need of him. he couldn't, by over indulgence let himself run down physically, as he couldn't by neglecting his work put himself mentally at a disadvantage. he must be fit. she liked the word--fit for his business as a soldier. "that's just what would appeal to him when nothing else might," tom commended. "i wish you'd take it up with him." "i will; but you must too." "if i get a chance; but i daresay i shan't get one." she had a way of asking a leading question without emphasis. any emphasis it got it drew from the long oblique regard which gave her the air of a woman with more experience than was possible to her years. "why do you care?" he had to hedge. "oh, i don't know. he's just a fellow. i don't want to see him turn out a rotter." "if he turned out a rotter would you care more than if it was anybody else?" "m-m-m! perhaps so! i wouldn't swear to it." "i would. i know you'd care more. and i know why." he tried to turn this with a laugh. "you can't know more about me than i do myself." "oh, can't i? if i didn't know more about you than you do yourself...." he decided to come to close quarters. "you mean that you do think i'm the lost whitelaw baby?" "i know you are." "how do you know?" "miss nash told me so, for one thing." "and for another?" "for another, i just know it." "on what grounds?" "on no grounds; on all grounds. i don't care anything about the grounds. a woman doesn't have to have grounds--when she knows." "well, what about my grounds when i know to the contrary?" "but you don't. you only know your history back to a certain point." "i've only _told_ you my history back to a certain point. i know it farther back than that." "how far back?" "as far back as anyone can go, from his own knowledge." "oh, from his own knowledge! but some of the most important things come before you can have any knowledge. you've got to take them on trust." "well, i take them on trust." "from whom?" "from my mother." she was surprised. "you remember your mother?" "very clearly." "i didn't know that. what do you remember about her?" "i remember a good many things--how she looked--the way she talked--the things she did." "what sort of things were they?" "that's what i want to tell you about. it's what i think you ought to know." she allowed her eyes to rest on his calmly. "if you think knowing would make any difference to me--" "i think it might. it's what i want to find out." "then i can tell you now that it wouldn't." "oh, but you haven't heard." "i don't want to hear, unless you'd rather--" "that you did. that's just what i do. i don't think we can go any farther--i mean with our--" the word was difficult to find--"i mean with our--friendship--unless you do hear." "oh, very well! i want you to do what's easiest for you, and if it does make a difference i'll tell you honestly." "thank you." for a second, not more, he laid his hand on her muff, the nearest he had ever come to touching her. "we were talking about the things my mother did. well, they weren't good things. the only excuse for her was that she did them for me, because she was fond of me." "and you were fond of her?" "very; i'm fond of her still. it's one of the reasons--but i must tell you the whole story." he told as much of the story as he thought she needed to know. beginning with the stealing of the book from which he had learned to read, he touched only the points essential to bringing him to the christmas eve which saw the end; but he touched on enough. "oh, you poor darling little boy! my heart aches for you--all the way back from now." "so you see why i became a state ward. there was nothing else to do with me. i hadn't anybody." "of course you hadn't anybody if...." "if my mother stole me. but you see she didn't. i was her son. i don't want to be anybody else's." "only--" she smiled faintly--"you can't always choose whose son you want to be." "i can choose whose son i don't want to be. that's as far as i go." "oh, but still--" she dismissed what she was going to say so as not to drive him to decisions. "at any rate we know what to do about tad, don't we? and you must work as well as i." "i will if he gives me a look-in, but very likely he won't." and yet he got his look-in, or began to get it, no later than that very afternoon. he had gone to westmorley court to give guy a hand with some work he was doing for his mid-years. on coming out again, a little scene before the main door induced him to hang back amid the shadows of the hall. thorne carstairs was there with his machine, a touring car that had seen service. in spite of his residence in tuxedo park, and what guy had called his stacks of dough, he was a seedy, weedy youth, with the marks of the cheap sport. tad was there also, insisting on being taken somewhere in the car. spit castle being on the spot as a witness to a refusal accompanied by epithets of primitive significance, tad waxed into a rage. even to tom, who knew nothing of the cause of the breach, it was clear that a breach there was. tad sprang to the step of the car. thorne carstairs pushed him off, and made spurts at driving away. before he could swing the wheel, tad was on him like a cat. curses and maulings were exchanged without actual blows, when a shove from carstairs sent tad sprawling backward. before he could recover himself to rush the car again its owner had got off. there was a roar of laughter from spit, as well as some hoots from spectators who had viewed the scuffle from their windows. tad's self-esteem was hurt. not only had his intimate friend refused to do what he wanted, but he was being laughed at by a good part of westmorley court. he turned to spit, his face purple. "by god, i'll make that piker pay for this before the afternoon's out." hatless as he was, without waiting for comment, he started off on the run. where he was running nobody knew, and tom least of all. by the time he had reached the street tad was nowhere to be seen. for the rest of the day the incident had no sequel. tom had almost dismissed it from his mind, when on the next day, while crossing the yard, he ran into guy ansley. guy was brimming over. "heard the row, haven't you?" tom admitted that he had not. guy gave him the version he had heard, which proved to be the correct one. he gave it between fits of laughter and that kind of sympathetic clapping on the back which can never be withheld from the harum-scarum dare-devil playing his maddest prank. when tad had run from the door of westmorley court he had run to the police station. there he had laid a charge against an unknown car-thief of running off with his machine. he could be caught by telephoning the traffic cops on the long street leading from cambridge to boston. he gave the number of the car which was registered in the state of new york. his own name, he said, was thorne carstairs; his residence, tuxedo park; his address in boston, the hotel shawmut, where he was known and could be found. having lodged this complaint, and put all the forces of the law into operation, he had dodged back to westmorley court, had his dinner sent in from a restaurant, locked his door against all comers, and turned into bed. in the morning, according to guy, there had been the devil to pay. as far as tad was concerned, the statement was literally true. thorne carstairs had been locked in the station all night. not only had he been caught red-handed with a stolen car, but his lack of the license he had neglected to carry on his person, as well as of registration papers of any kind, confirmed the belief in the theft. his look of a cheap sport, together with his tendency to use elementary epithets, had also told against him. where another young fellow in his plight might have won some sympathy he roused resentment by his howlings and his oaths. "we know you," he was assured. "been on the look-out for you this spell back. you're the guy what pinched dr. pritchard's car last week, and him with a dyin' woman. just fit the description--slab-sided, cock-eyed, twisted-nosed fella we was told to look for, and now we've got our claw on you. sure your father's a gintleman! sure you live at the hotel shawmut! but a few months in a hotel of another sort'll give you a pleasant change." in the morning thorne had been brought before the magistrate, where two officials of the shawmut had identified him as their guest. piece by piece, to everyone's dismay, the fact leaked out that the law of the land, the zeal of the police, and the dignity of the court had been hoaxed. thorne himself gave the clue to the culprit who had so outraged authority, and tad was paying the devil. guy didn't know what precisely had happened, or if anything definite had happened as yet at all; he was only sure that poor tad was getting it where the chicken got the ax. he deserved it, true; and yet, hang it all! only a genuine sport could have pulled off anything so audacious. with this tom agreed. there were spots in guy's narrative over which he laughed heartily. he condemned tad chiefly for going too far. it was his weakness that he didn't know when he had had enough of a good thing. anyone in his senses might know that to hoax a policeman was a crime. a policeman's great asset was the respect inspired by his uniform. under his uniform he was a man like any other, with the same frailties, the same sneaking sympathy with sinners; but dress him up in a blue suit with brass buttons on his breast, and you had a figure to awe you. if you weren't awed the fault was yours. yours, too, must be the penalty. the saving element was that beneath the brass buttons the heart was kindly, as a rule, and humorous, patient, generous. tom had never got over the belief, which dated from the night when his mother was arrested, of the goodness of policemen. he trusted to it now. he was not long in making up his mind. leaving guy, he cut a lecture to go to see the dean. he went to the dean's own house, finding him at home. the dean remembered him as one of two or three young fellows who in the previous year had adjusted a bit of friction between the freshmen and the faculty without calling on the higher authorities to impose their will. he was cordial, therefore, in his welcome. he was a big, broad-shouldered dean, human and comprehending, with a twinkle of humor behind his round glasses. there was no severity in the tone in which he discussed tad's escapade; there was only reason and justice. tad had given him a great deal of trouble in the eighteen months in which he had been at harvard. he had written to his father more than once about the boy, had advised his being given less money to spend, and a stricter calling to account at home. the father was distressed, had done what he could, but the mischief had gone too far. tad was the typical rich man's son, spoiled by too easy a time. he had been so much considered that he never considered anybody else. he was swaggering and conscienceless. the dean was of the opinion now that nothing but harsh treatment would do him any good. tom put in his plea. the matter, as he saw it, was bigger than one fellow's destiny; it involved bigger issues. it was his belief that the country would soon be at war. if the country was at war, tad whitelaw's father would be one of the first of the bankers the president would consult. the dean knew, of course, that the bankers would have to swing as much of the war as the army and navy. henry t. whitelaw was a man, as everyone knew, already terribly tried by domestic tragedy. you wouldn't want to add to that now, just at the time when he needed to have a mind as free as possible. this boy was the apple of his eye; and if disgrace overtook him.... but that was only one thing. should the country go to war, it would call for just such young fellows as tad whitelaw; fellows of spirit, of daring, of physical health and strength. didn't the dean think that it might be well to nurse him along for a few weeks--it wasn't likely to be many--so that he could answer to the country's call with at least a nominal honorable record, instead of being under a cloud? if the dean did think so, he, tom, would undertake to keep the fellow straight till he was wanted. he wasn't vicious; he was only foolish and headstrong. though he didn't make a good student, he had in him the very stuff to make a soldier. tom would answer for him. he would be his surety. in the long run the dean allowed himself to be won by tom's own earnestness. he would do what he could. at the same time tom must remember that if the college authorities stayed their hand the civil authorities might not. the indignation at police headquarters was unusually bitter. unless this righteous wrath were pacified.... having thanked the dean, tom ran straight to the police station. the chief of police received him, though not with the dean's cordiality. he too was a big, broad-shouldered man, but frigid and stern through long administration of law, discipline, and order. he impressed tom as a mechanical contrivance which operates as it is built to operate, and with no power of showing mercy or making exceptions to a rule. outwardly at least he was grave and obdurate. the victory lay once more with tom's earnestness. the chief of police made no secret of the fact that they were already considering the grounds on which "the crazy fool" could most effectively be prosecuted. the law was not, however, wholly without a heart, and if in the present instance the country could be served, even in the smallest detail, by giving the blamed idiot the benefit of clemency it could be done. tom must understand that the nonsense had not been overlooked; it was only left in abeyance. if his protégé got into trouble again he would be the more severely dealt with because of the present lenity. tom ran now to westmorley court, where he knocked at tad's door. to a growling invitation he went in. the room was a cloud of tobacco smoke, through which the shapes of half a dozen fellows loomed dimly in the deepening winter twilight. tad tilted back in the revolving chair before the belittered desk which held the center of the room. his coat was off, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his feet on the edge of the desk. a cigar traveled back and forth from corner to corner of the handsome, disdainful mouth. tom marched straight to the desk, speaking hurriedly. "can i have a word with you in private?" the owner of the room neither moved nor took the cigar from his lips. "no, you can't." he nodded toward the door. "you can sprint it out again." "i shall sprint it out when i'm ready. if i can't speak in private i shall speak in public. you've got to hear." the insolent immobility was maintained. "didn't i tell you the last time i saw you that if you ever interfered with me again--?" "that you'd shoot me, yes. well, get up and shoot. if you can't, or if you don't mean to, why make the threat? but i've come to talk reason. you've got to listen to reason. if you don't i'll appeal to these chaps to make you. they don't want to see you a comic valentine any more than i do. now climb down from your high horse and let's get to business." it was guy ansley who cleared the room. "say, fellows--" with a stealthy movement, which their host was too preoccupied to observe, they slipped out. he knew, however, when he and his enemy were alone, and still without lifting his feet from the desk or taking the cigar from his mouth, made the concession of speaking. "well, if business has brought you here, cough it up." "i will. i come first from the dean, and then from the chief of police." "oh, you do, do you? so you're to be the hangman." "no; there's not to be a hangman. they've given you a reprieve--because i've begged you off." the feet came off the desk. the cigar was taken from the lips. tad leaned forward in his chair, tense and incredulous. "you've done--_what_?" tom maintained his sang-froid. "i've begged you off. i went and talked to them both. i said i'd answer for you, that you'd stop being a crazy loon, and try to be a man." incredulity passed into angry amazement. "and who in hell gave you authority to do that?" "nobody. i did it on my own. when a fellow gets his life as a gift he takes it. he doesn't kick up a row as to who's given it. for the lord's sake, try to have a little sense." "what's it to you whether i've got sense or not?" "nothing." "then why in thunder do you keep butting in--?" "because i choose to. i'll give you no other answer than that, and no other explanation. what you've got to do is to knuckle under and show that you're worth your keep. you're not a _born_ fool; you're only a made fool. you're good for something better than to be a laughing-stock as you are to everyone in college. buck up! be a fellow! after being a jackass for a year and a half, i should think you'd begin to see that there was nothing to it by this time." never in his life had tad whitelaw been so hammered without gloves. it was why tom chose to hammer him. nothing but thrashing, verbal or otherwise, would startle him out of the conviction of his self-importance. already it was shaking the foundations of his arrogance. in his tone as he retorted there was more than a hint of feebleness. "what i see and what i don't see is my own affair." "oh, no, it isn't. it's a class affair. there's such a thing as _esprit de corps_. we can't afford to have rotters, now especially." tad grew still feebler. "i'm not the only rotter in the bunch. why do you pick on me?" "i've told you already. because i choose to. you might as well give in to me first as last, because you'll not get rid of me any more than you will of your own conscience." tad sprang to his feet, his eyes flashing, in a new outburst. "i'll be damned if i'll give in to you." "and i'll be damned if you don't. if i can't bring you round by persuasion i'll do it as i did it once before. i'll wale the guts out of you. i'm not going to have you a disgrace." "ah!" tad started back. "now i've got you. a disgrace! you talk as if you were a member of the family. that's what you're after. that's what you've been scheming for ever since--" "look here," tom interrupted, forcefully. "let's understand each other about this business once and for all." looking from under his eyelids he measured tad up and down. "i wouldn't be a member of the family that has produced _you_ for anything the world could give me." tad bounded, changing his note foolishly. "oh, you wouldn't wouldn't you! how do you know that you won't damn well have to be?" walking up to him, tom laid a hand on his shoulder, paternally. "don't let us talk rot. we both know the nickname the fellows have stuck on me in harvard. but what's that to us? you don't want me. i don't want you. at least i don't want you that way. i'll tell you straight. i've got a use for you. that's why i keep after you. but it's got nothing to do with your family affairs." they confronted each other, tad gasping. "you've got a use for me? greatly obliged. but get this. i've no use for you. don't make any mistake--" withdrawing his hand, tom gave him a little shove. "oh, choke it back. piffle won't get you anywhere. i'm going to make something of you of which your father and mother can be proud." it was almost a scream of fury. "make something of _me_--?" "yes, a soldier." the word came like a douche of cold water on hysteria, calming the boy suddenly. he tapped his forehead. "say, are you balmy up here?" "possibly; but whether i'm balmy or not, a soldier is what you'll have to be. don't you read the papers? don't you hear people talking? why, man alive, two or three months from now every fellow of your age and mine will be marching behind a drum." the boy's haggard face went blank from the sheer shock of it. the idea was not brand new, but it was incredible. tad whitelaw was not one of those who took much interest in public affairs or kept pace with them. "oh, rot!" "it isn't rot. can't you see it for yourself? if this country pitches in--" "oh, but it won't." "ask anyone. ask your own father. that's my point. if we do pitch in your father will be one of the big men of the two continents. you're his only son. you'll _have_ to play up to him." tom watched the hardened, dissipated young face contract with a queer kind of gravity. the teeth gritted, the lips grew set. it gave him the chance to go on. "there aren't a half dozen men in the country who'd be able to swing what your father'll be swinging. listen! i know something about banking. been studying it for years. when it comes to war the banker has to chalk-line every foot of the lot. they can't do anything without him. they can't have an army or a navy or any international teamwork. you'll see. the minute war is declared, _before_ war is declared, the president'll be sending for your father to talk over ways and means. now then, are you to put a spoke in the country's wheel? you can. you're doing it. the more you worry him the less good he'll be. get chucked out of college, as you would have been in a day or two, if i hadn't stepped in, and begged to have you put in my charge--" once more tad revolted. "put in your charge! the devil i'll be put in your charge!" "all right! it's the one condition on which you stay at harvard. jump your bail, and you'll see your father pay for it. he'll have his big international job, and he won't be able to swing it because he'll be thinking of you. you'll see the whole country pay for it. i daresay we shan't know where we pay and how we pay; but we'll be paying. say, is it worth your while? what do you gain by being the rotten spot in the beam that may bring the whole shack about our ears? everybody knows that your father has lost one son. can't you try to give him another of whom he won't have to be ashamed?" tad stood sulkily, his hands in his trousers' pockets, as he tipped on his toes and reflected. since he made no answer, tom went on with his appeal. "and that's not the only thing. there's yourself. you're not a bad sort. you've got the makings of a decent chap, even if you aren't one. you could be one easily enough. all you've got to do is to drop some of your fool acquaintances, cut out drinking, cut out women, and make a show of doing what you've been sent to harvard to do, even if it's only a show. you won't have to keep it up for more than a few weeks." the furrow in the forehead when the eyebrows were lifted was also a mark of dissipation. "more than a few weeks? why not?" tom pounded with emphasis. "because, i tell you, we'll be in the war. _you'll_ be in the war. we fellows of the class of are not going to walk up on commencement day and take our degrees. we'll get them before that. we'll get them in batteries and trenches and graves. i heard a girl say, in speaking of you a day or two ago, that she hoped, when the time came for that, you'd be fit. she said she liked the word--fit for the job that'd be given you. you couldn't be fit if you went on--" his curiosity was touched. "who was that?" "i'm not going to tell you. i'll only say that she likes you, and that--" "was it hildred ansley?" "well, if you're bound to know, it was. if you want to talk to someone who wishes you well, go and--" "did she put you up to this?" "no, she didn't. you put me up to it yourself. i tell you again, i'm going to see you go straight till i see you go straight into the army. you ought to go in with a commission. but if you're fired out of harvard they'll be shy of enlisting you as a private. if you won't play the game of your own accord, i'll make you." with hands thrust into his trousers' pockets, tad began to pace the room, doing a kind of goose-step. his compressed lips made little grimaces like those of a man forcing himself to decisions hard to swallow. for a good four or five minutes tom watched the struggle between his top-loftiness and his common-sense. while common-sense insisted on his climbing down, top-loftiness told him that he must save his face. when he spoke at last his voice was hoarse, his throat constricted. "if it's going to be war i'll be in it with both feet. but i'll do it on my own. see? you mind your business, and i'll mind mine." tom was reasonable. "that'll be all right--if you mind it." "and if you think i'm giving in to you--" "i don't care a hang whether you're giving in to me or not so long as you--_keep fit_." "i'll be the judge of that." "and i'll help you." "you can go to hell." tad used these words because he had no others. they were fine free manly words which begged all the questions and helped him to a little dignity. if he was surrendering he would do it, in his own phrase, with bells on. the mucker shouldn't have the satisfaction of thinking he had done anything. it saved the whole situation to tell him in this offhand way the place that he could go to. but a little thing betrayed him, possibly before he saw its significance. his points being won for the minute, tom had reached the door. beside the door stood a low bookcase, on which was open a package of cigarettes. tad's goose-step brought him within reach of it. he picked it up and held it toward tom. he did it carelessly, ungraciously, unthinkingly, and yet with all sorts of buried implications in the little act. "have one?" tom was careful to preserve a casual, negligent air as he drew one out. tad struck a match. as the one held the thing to his lips and the other put the flame to it, the hands of the brothers, for the first time except in a fight, touched lightly. xli "i can't see," hildred reasoned, "why you should find the idea so terrible." "and i can't see," tom returned, "what it matters how i find the idea, so long as nobody is serious about it." "oh, but they will be. it's what i told you before. they'd made up their minds they didn't want to find him; and now it's hard to unmake them again. but they're coming to it." "i hope they're not taking the trouble on my account." "they're taking it on their own. tad as much as said so. he said they'd stuck it out as long as they could; but they couldn't stick it out forever." "stick it out against what?" "against what's staring them in the face, i suppose." "did he tell you what i said to him, that nothing would induce me to belong to the family that had produced him?" she laughed. "oh, yes. he told me the whole thing, how you'd come into his room, how guy had got the other fellows out, and the pitched battle between you." "and did he say how it had ended?" "he said--if you want to know exactly i'll tell you exactly--he said that when it came to talking about the war and the part he would have to play in it, you weren't as big a damn fool as he had thought you." "and did he say how big a damn fool he was himself?" "he admitted he had been one; but with his father on his hands, and the war, and all that, he'd have to put the brakes on himself, and pretend to be a good boy." laughing to himself tom stretched out his legs to the blaze of the fire. hildred had sent for him because mrs. ansley was out of the way at her mothers' club. there was nothing underhand in this, since she would not conceal the fact accomplished. it avoided only a preliminary struggle. if she needed an excuse, the necessities of their good intentions toward tad would offer it. tea being over, hildred, who was fond of embroidery, had taken up a piece of work. like many women, she found it easier to be daring in an incidental way while stitching. stitching kept her from having to look at tom as she reverted to the phase of the subject from which they had drifted away. "the whitelaws are a perfectly honorable family. they may even be called distinguished. i don't see what it is you've got against them." "i've got nothing against them. they rather--" he sought for a word that would express the queer primordial attraction they possessed for him--"they rather cast a spell on me. but i don't want to belong to them." "but why not, if it was proved that--?" "for one reason, it couldn't be proved; and for another, it's too late." the ring in his voice was strange; it made her look up at him. "too late? why do you say that?" "because it is. you told me some time ago that it was what they thought themselves. even if it _were_ proved, it would still be--too late." "i don't understand you." "i'm not sure that i understand myself. i only know that the life i've lived would make it impossible for me to go and live their life." "oh, nonsense! their life is just the same as our life." "well, i'm not sure that i could live yours. i could conform to it on the outside. i could talk your way and eat your way; but i couldn't think your way." "when you say _my_ way--" "i mean the way of all your class. mind you, i'm not against it. i only feel that somehow--in things i can't explain and wouldn't know how to remedy--it's wrong." "oh, but, tom--" "it seems to be necessary that a great many people shall go without anything in order that a very few people may enjoy everything. that's as far as i go. i don't draw any conclusions; and i'm certainly not going in for any radical theories. only i can't think it right. i want to be a banker; but even if i _am_ a banker--" "i see what you mean," she interrupted, pensively. "i often feel that way myself. but, oh, tom, what can we do about it that--that wouldn't seem quite mad?" he smiled ruefully. "i don't know. but if you live long enough--and work hard enough--and think straight enough--and don't do anything to put you off your nut--why, some day you may find a way out that will be sane." "yes, but couldn't you do that and be harry whitelaw--if you _are_ harry whitelaw--at the same time?" "suppose we wait till the question arises? as far as i know, no one who belonged to harry whitelaw, or to whom harry whitelaw belonged, has ever brought it up." but only a few weeks later this very thing seemed about to come to pass. it was toward the end of march. on returning to his room one morning tom was startled by a telegram. telegrams were so rare in his life that merely to see one lying on his table gave him a thrill, partly of wonder, partly of fear. opening it, he was still more surprised to find it from philip ansley. would tom be in louisburg square for reasons of importance at four that afternoon? that something had betrayed himself and hildred would have been his only surmise; only that there was nothing to betray. except for the few hurried words hildred had spoken on that sunday night, anything they had said they had said in looks, and even their looks had been guarded and discreet. the things most essential to them both were in what they were taking for granted. they had exchanged no letters; their intercourse was always of the kind that anyone might overhear. without recourse to explanation each recognized the fact that it would be years before either of them would be free to speak or to take a step. in the meantime their only crime was their confidence in each other; and you couldn't betray that. nevertheless, it was with uneasiness that he rang at the door, and asked pilcher if mr. ansley were at home. pilcher was mysterious. mr. ansley was not at home, but if mr. tom would come in he would find himself expected. tea being served in the library, mr. tom was shown upstairs. it was a gloomy afternoon outside; the room was dim. all tom saw at first was a tall man standing on the hearth rug, where the fire behind him had almost gone out. he had taken a step forward and held out his hand before tom recognized the distinguished stranger who had first hailed him in the new hampshire lake nearly three years earlier. "do you remember me?" "yes, sir." they stood with hands clasped, each gazing into the other's face. tom would have withdrawn his hand, would have receded, but the other held him with a grasp both tense and tenacious. the eyes, deep-set like tom's own, and overhung with bushy outstanding eyebrows, studied him with eager penetration. not till that look was satisfied did the tall figure swing to someone who was sitting in the shadow. "this is the boy, onora. look at him." she was sitting out of direct range in a corner of the library darkened by buildings standing higher on the hill. the man turned tom slightly in her direction, where the daylight fell on him. the degree to which the woman shrank from seeing him was further marked by the fact that she partly hid her face behind a big black-feather fan for which there was no other use than concealment. she said nothing at all; but even in the obscurity tom could perceive the light of two feverish eyes. it was the man who took the lead. "won't you sit down?" he placed a chair where the woman could observe its occupant, without being drawn of necessity into anything that might be said. the man himself drew up another chair, on which he sat sidewise in an easy posture close to tom. tom liked him. he liked his face, his voice, his manner, the something friendly and sympathetic he recalled from the earlier meetings. whether this were his father or not, he would have no difficulty in meeting him at any time on intimate and confidential terms. "my wife and i wanted to see you," he began, simply, "in order to thank you for what you've done for tad." tom was embarrassed. "oh, that wasn't anything. i just happened--" "the dean has told me all about it. he says that tad has given him no trouble since. before that he'd given a good deal. i wish i could tell you how grateful we are, especially as things are turning out, with a war hanging over us." tom saw an opportunity of speaking without sentiment. "that's what i thought. it seemed to me a pity that good fighting stuff should be lost just through--through too much skylarking." "yes, it would have been. tad _has_ good fighting stuff." there was a catch of the woman's breath. tom recalled the staccato nervousness of their first brief meeting in gore hall. he wished they hadn't brought him there. they were strangers to him; he was a stranger to them. whatever link might have been between him and them in the past, there was no link now. it would be a mistake to try to forge one. but in on this thought the man broke gently. "i wonder if you'd mind telling us all about yourself that you know? i presume that you understand why i'm asking you." "yes, sir, i do; but i don't think i can help you much." the woman's voice, vibrating and tragic, startled him. it was as if she were speaking to herself, as if something were being wrung from her in spite of her efforts to keep it back. "the likeness is extraordinary!" taking no notice of this, the man began to question him, "where were you born?" "in the bronx." he made a note of this answer in a little notebook. "and when?" "in ." "what date?" it was the crucial question, but since he meant to tell everything he knew, tom had no choice but to be exact. "i'm not very sure of the date, because my mother changed it at three different times. at first my birthday used to be on the fifth of march; but afterward she said that that had been the birthday of a little half-sister of mine who died before i was born." "what was her name?" "grace coburn." "and her parents' names?" "thomas and lucy coburn." "and after your birthday was changed from the fifth of march--?" "it was shifted to september, but not for very long. later my mother told me i was born on the tenth of may, and we always kept to that." from the woman there was something like a smothered cry, but the man only took his notes. "the tenth of may, . did she ever tell you why she selected that date?" "no, sir." "did she ever say anything about it, about what kind of day it was, or anything at all that you can remember?" tom hesitated. the reflection that the wisest course was to make a clean breast of everything impelled him to go on. "she only said that it was a day when all the nursemaids had had their babies in the park, and the lilacs were in bloom." there followed the question of which he was most afraid, because he often put it to himself. "why should she have said that, when, if you were born in the bronx, she and her baby were miles away?" "i don't know, sir." "what was your mother's maiden name?" "i don't know, sir." "she was married to thomas coburn before she was married to theodore whitelaw, your father?" "yes, sir." "where were she and your father married?" "i don't know, sir." "what _do_ you know about your father?" "nothing at all. i never heard his name till she gave it at the police station, the night before she died." "oh, at the police station! why there?" tom told the whole story, keeping nothing back. the man's only comment was to say, "and you never heard the name of whitelaw in connection with yourself till you heard it on that evening?" "yes, sir, i'd heard it before that." "when and how?" "always when my mother was in a--in a state of nerves. you mustn't forget that she wasn't exactly in her right mind. that was the excuse for what she--she did in shops. so, once in so often, she'd say that i was never to think that my name was whitelaw, or that she'd stolen me." there was again from the woman a little moaning gasp, but the man was outwardly self-possessed. "so she said that?" "yes, sir." "and have you any explanation why?" "i didn't have then; i've worked one out. you see, my name really being whitelaw, and her mind a little unbalanced, she was afraid she might be suspected of--your little boy's case had got so much publicity--and she a friendless woman, with no husband or relations--" "so that you don't think she did--steal you?" he answered firmly. "no, sir. i don't" "why don't you?" "for one thing, i don't want to." "oh!" it was the woman again. the sound was rather queer. you could not have told whether it meant relief or indignation. the man's sad penetrating eyes were bent on him sympathetically. "when you say that you don't want to, exactly what do you mean?" "i'm not sure that i can say. she was my mother. she was good to me. i was fond of her. i never knew any other mother. i don't think i could--" he looked over at the woman in the shadow, letting his words fall with a certain significant spacing--"know--any other--mother--now--and so--" rising, she took a step toward him. he too rose so that as she stood looking up at him he stood looking down at her. there and then her face was imprinted on his memory, a face of suffering, but of suffering that had not made her strong. the quivering victim of self-pity, she begged to be allowed to forget. she had suffered to her limit. she couldn't suffer any more. everything in her that was raked with the harrow protested against this bringing up again of an outlived agony. her beautiful eyes, brimming with unspilled tears, gazed at him reproachfully. as plainly as eyes could tell him anything, they told him that now, when life and time had dug between them such a gulf, she didn't want him as her son. she might have to accept him, since so many things pointed that way, but it would be hard for her. taking back a little boy would have been one thing; taking back a grown man, none of whose habits or traditions were the same as theirs, would be another. she would do it if it were forced on her, but it couldn't recompense her now for past unhappiness. it would be only a new torture, a torture which, if he hadn't drifted in among them, she might have escaped. when swiftly and silently she had left the room the man put his hand on tom's arm. "sit down again. you mustn't think that my wife doesn't feel all this. she does. it's because she does that she's so overwrought." tom sat down. "yes, sir, of course!" "she's been through it so often. for a good ten years after our child was lost boys used to be brought to us to look at every few months. and every time it meant a draining of her vitality." "i understand that, sir; and i hope mrs. whitelaw doesn't think i've come of my own accord." "no, she knows you haven't. we've asked you to come because--but i must go back. when my wife had been through so much--so many times--and all to no purpose--she made me promise--the doctors made me promise--that she shouldn't be called on to face it again. whenever she had to interview one of these claimants--" "_i'm_ not a claimant," tom put in, hastily. "i know you're not. that's just it. it's what makes the difference. but whenever she had to do it--and decide whether a particular lad was or was not her son--it nearly killed her." tom made an inarticulate murmur of sympathy. "the worst times came after we'd turned down some boy of whom we hadn't been quite sure. that was as hard for me as it was for her--the fear that our little fellow had come back, and we'd sent him away. it got to be so impossible to judge. you imagined resemblances even when there were none, and any child who could speak could be drilled about the facts, as we were so well known. it was hell." "it must have been." "then there were our two other children. it wasn't easy for them. they grew up in an atmosphere of expecting the older brother to come back. at first it gave them a bit of excitement. but as they grew older they resented it. you can understand that. a stranger wouldn't have been welcome. whenever a new clue had to be abandoned they were glad. if the boy had been found they'd have given him an awful time. that was another worry to my wife." "yes, it would be." "so at last we made up our minds that he was dead. it was the only thing to do. self-protection required it. my wife took up her social life again, the life she's fond of and is fitted for. things went better. she didn't forget, but she grew more normal. in spite of the past there were a few things she could still enjoy. she'd begun to feel safe; and then--in that lake in new hampshire--i happened to see you." "if i were you, sir, i shouldn't let that disturb me." "it does disturb me. when i went back that year to our house at old westbury and spoke to my wife and children about it, they all implored me not to go into the thing again." "if i could implore you, too--" he shook his head. "it wouldn't do any good. i've come to the point where i've got to see it through. i have all the data you've given me--as well as some other things. if you're not--not my son--" he rose striding to the fireplace, where he stood pensively, his back to the smouldering fire--"if you're not my son, at least we can find out pretty certainly whose son you are." tom also rose, so that they stood face to face. "and if you can't find out pretty certainly whose son i am--?" "i shall be driven to the conclusion that--" he didn't finish this sentence. tom didn't press for it. during the silence that followed it occurred to him that if there was a war the question might be shelved. it was what, he thought, he would work for. the same idea might have come to the older man, for looking up out of his reverie, he said, with no context: "what do you mean to be?" "i've always hoped, sir, to go into a bank. it's what i seem best fitted for." there came into the eyes that same sudden light, like the switching on of electricity, which tom remembered from their meeting in the water. "i could help you there." "oh, but it would only be in a small way, sir. i'd have to begin as something--" "all the same i could help you. i want you to promise me this, that when you're free--either after harvard, or after the war--you'll come to me before you do anything else. is that a bargain?" to tom it was the easiest way out. "yes sir, if you like." "then our hands on it!" their right hands clasped. once more tom found himself held. the man's left hand came up and rested on his shoulder. the eyes searched him, searched him hungrily, with longing. whether they found what they sought or merely gave up seeking tom could hardly tell. he was only pushed away with a little weary gesture, while the tall man turned once more toward the dying fire. xlii in the april of , nearly eighteen months after the signing of the armistice, tom whitelaw came back to boston, demobilized. he had crossed a good part of europe almost in a straight line--brest, paris, château-thierry, belleau wood, fère-en-tardennois, reims, luxembourg, coblenz--and more or less in the same way had come back again. now, if he had been able to forget it all, he would gladly have forgotten it. since it couldn't be forgotten it inspired him with an aim in life. more exactly, perhaps, it made definite the aim he had been vaguely conscious of already. what he felt was not new; it was only more fixed and clear. he knew what he meant to do, even though he didn't see how he was to do it. he might never accomplish anything; very likely he never would; but at least he had a state of mind, and he was not going to be in a hurry. if for the ills he saw he was to work out a cure, or help to work out a cure, or even dream of working out a cure, he must first diagnose the disease; and diagnosis would take a good part of his lifetime. he was twenty-three, according to his count, but, again according to his count he had the seriousness of forty. with the advantage of a varied experience and an early maturity, he had also that of age. his achievements in the war had given him the kind of importance interesting to newspapers. they had begun writing him up from the days of the action at belleau wood. his picture had appeared in their sunday editions as on the staff of general pershing during his visit to the grand duchess of luxembourg. to tom himself the only satisfaction in this was the possible diminishing of the distance between him and hildred ansley. it would not have been the first time in history when war had helped a lover out of his obscurity to put him on the level of the loved one. to hildred herself it would make no difference; but by her father and mother, especially by her mother, a son-in-law who had worn with some credit his country's uniform might be pardoned his presumption. public approval also brought him one other consideration that meant much to him. the man who thought he might be his father wrote to him. he wrote to him often. he wrote to him partly as a friend might write, partly as a father might write to his son. between the lines it was not difficult to read a yearning and sense of comfort. the yearning was plainly for assurance; just as plainly the sense of comfort lay in the knowledge that somewhere in the world there was a heart that beat to the measure of his own. it was as if he had written the words: "my two acknowledged children are of no help to me; my wife is crushed by her sorrow; you and i, even if there is no drop of common blood between us, understand each other. whether or not we are father and son, we could work together as if we were." the letters were full of a fatherly affection strange in view of the slight degree of their acquaintanceship. the man's heart cleared that obstacle with a bound. tom's heart cleared it with an equal ease. to be needed was the call to which, with his strong infusion of the feminine, he never failed to answer instantaneously. as readily as the banker divined him, he divined the banker. if there was no fatherhood or sonship in fact there was both sonship and fatherhood in essence. whitelaw wrote as if he had been writing to his boy for years, with a matter-of-course solicitude, with offers of money, with scraps of news. he talked freely of the family, as if tom would care to hear of them. a few words in one of his letters showed that he knew more than tom had hitherto supposed. "if tad and lily have been uncivil to you it was not because of personal dislike. in their situation some hostility toward the outsider, as they would call him, whom they might be forced to acknowledge as their older brother must be forgiven as not unnatural." during all the three years of tom's soldiering this was the only reference to the question that had been left suspended by the war. whether or not it would ever be taken up again tom had no idea. he hoped it would not be. for him an undetermined situation was enough. though during this period henry whitelaw was frequently in london and paris they never met. when the one proposed that he should use his influence to get the other leave, tom thought it wiser to stay, as he expressed it, on the job. only once did he ask permission to run up for forty-eight hours to paris, and that was to see hildred. she was then helping to nurse guy, who, while working with the y.m.c.a., had come down with typhoid fever. convalescent by this time, he would sail for america in a month or two, hildred going with him. tom himself being on the eve of marching into germany, the moment was one to be seized. they dined in a little restaurant near the madeleine. with the table between them they scanned each other's faces for the traces left by nearly two years of separation. except that she was tired tom found little change in her. always lacking in temporary, girlish prettiness, her distinction of line and poise was that which the years affect but slowly, and experience enhances. he could only say of her that she was less the young girl he had last seen in boston, and more the woman of the world who, having seen the things that happen as they happen most brutally, has grown a little heartsick, and more than a little weary. "it's all so futile, tom. it's such waste. it should never have been asked of the people of the world." his lips had the dim disillusioned smile which had taken the place of the radiance of even a year or two earlier. "what about the war to end war? what about making the world safe for democracy?" she put up a hand in protest. "oh, don't! i hate that clap-trap. the salt which was good enough to put on birds' tails is sickening when you see the poor creatures lying with their necks wrung. oh, tom, what can we do about it if we ever get home?" "do about what?" "about the whole thing, about this poor pitiful, pitiable human race that's got itself into such an awful mess?" "the human race is a pretty big problem to handle." "yes, but you don't think the bigness ought to stop us, do you?" "stop us from--?" "from trying to keep the world from going on with its frightful policy of destruction. isn't there anyone to show us that you can't destroy one without by that much destroying all; that you can't make it easier for one without by that much making it easier for everyone? are we never going to be anything but fools?" his dim smile came and went again. "we'll talk about that when i get home. we can't do it now. even if we could it's no us trying to reason with a world that's gone insane. we must let it have time to recover. i want to hear about you." she threw herself back in her chair, nervously crumbling a bit of bread. "oh, i'm all right. never better, as far as that goes. i've only grown an awful coward. now that the fighting's over i seem to be more afraid than when it was going on. as far as pep goes i'm a rag." "it'll do you good to get home." "oh, i want to get farther away than home. i want to get somewhere--to a desert island perhaps--where there won't be any people--" "none?" "oh, well, dad and mother and guy and--" "and nobody else?" "yes, and you. i see you want me to say it, so i might as well. i want you there--and _then_ nobody else--not a soul--not the shadow of a soul--except servants, of course--" he grew daring as he had never been before. "perhaps before many years we may find that island--with the servants all the time--but with your father and mother and guy as visitors--very frequent visitors--but--" "oh, don't talk about it. it's too heavenly for a world like this." she looked him in the eyes, despairingly. "do you suppose it _ever_ could come true?" "stranger things have." "but better things haven't." he put down his knife and fork to gaze at her. "hildred, do you really feel like that?" "well, don't you?" her tone was a little indignant. "if you don't for pity's sake tell me, so that i shan't go on giving myself away." "of course, i feel that way, only it seems to me queer that you should." "why queer?" "because you're you, and i'm only me." "you can't reason in that way. you can't really reason about the thing at all. the most freakish thing in the world is whom people'll fall in love with." "it must be," he said humbly. "oh, cheer up; it isn't as bad as all that. there's no disgrace in my being in love with you. if you'll just be in love with me i'll take care of myself." they laughed like children. to neither was it strange to have taken their love for granted, since they had done it for so long. it was as if it had grown with them, as if it had been born with them. its flowers had opened because it was their springtime; there was nothing else for it to do. it was a stormy springtime, with only the rarest bursts of sunshine; but for that very reason they must make the most of such sunshine as there was. they had not met for two years; it might be two years more before they met again. they could only throw their hearts wide open. she talked of her work. in her mood of reaction it seemed to her now a stupid, foolish work, not because it hadn't done good, but because it had done good for such useless purposes. a new york woman whom she knew, whose son had been killed fighting with the british in the earlier part of the war, had opened a sort of club for the cheering up of young fellows passing through paris, or there for a short leave. "we bucked them up so that they'd be willing to go back again, and be blown to bits. it was like giving the good breakfast and the cigarette to the man going out to the electric chair. my god, what a nerve we had, we girls! we'd laugh and dance with those poor young chaps, who a few days later would be in their graves, if the shells left anything to bury. we didn't think much about it then. it's only now that it comes over me. i feel as if i'd been their executioner." "you're tired. you need a rest." "rest won't reconcile me to belonging to a race of wild beasts. oh, tom, couldn't we make a little life for ourselves away from everyone, and from all this cheap vindictiveness? i shouldn't care how humble or obscure it was." he laughed, quietly. "there are a good many hurdles to take before we come even to the humble and obscure." "hurdles? what kind of hurdles?" "your father and mother for one." she admitted the importance of this. "but you won't find that hurdle hard to take if you're harry whitelaw." "but if i'm not?" "i'm sure from what mother writes that you can be." "and i'm sure from what i feel that i can't." "oh, but you haven't tried." she hurried on from this to give him the gist of her mother's letters on the subject. "she and mr. whitelaw have the most tremendous confabs about you, every time he comes to boston. the fact that he can't talk to mrs. whitelaw--she's all nerves the minute you're mentioned--throws him back on mother. that flatters the dear old lady like anything. she begins to think now she adopted you in infancy. you were her discovery. she gave you your first leg-up. and after all, you know, we've got to admit that during the whole of these seven years she might have been a great deal worse." he agreed with her gratefully. "as a matter of fact," she went on, in her judicial tone, "you must hand it to us boston people that, while we can be the most awful snobs, we're not such snobs that we don't know a good thing when we see it. it's only the second-cut among us, those who don't really _belong_, who are supercilious. once you concede that we're as superior as we think ourselves, we can be pretty generous. if you've got it in you to climb up we not only won't kick you down, but we'll put out our hands and pull you. that's boston; that's dad and mother. when you've made all the fun of them you like, the poor dears still have that much left which you can't take away from them." something of this tom was to test by the time he and hildred met again. it was not another two years before they did that, but it was a year. demobilized in washington, he traveled straight to boston. he had made his plans. before seeing hildred again he would see her father. "it's the only straight thing to do," he told himself. after all the years in which they had been good to him he couldn't begin again to go in and out of their house while they were ignorant of what he hoped for. hildred might have told them something; he didn't know; but the details of most importance were those which only he himself could give them. having written for a very private appointment, ansley had told him to come to his office immediately on his arrival in boston. he reached that city by half-past three; he was at the office by a little after four. it was a large office, covering most of a floor of an imposing office building. on a glass door were the names of the partners, that of philip ansley standing first on the list and in bigger letters than the rest. in the anteroom an impersonal young lady reading a magazine said, by telephone, "mr. whitelaw to see mr. ansley." the business of the day was over. as tom passed through a corridor from which most of the private offices opened he saw that they were empty. the only one still occupied was at the most distant end, and there he found philip ansley. he found also his wife. the purpose of tom's visit having been made clear by letter, both of hildred's parents were concerned in it. they welcomed him cordially, making the comments permissible to old friends on his improved personal appearance. they asked for his news; they gave their own. guy was back at harvard at the law school; hildred was at home, somewhat at loose ends. like most girls who had worked in france, she found a life of leisure tedious. "eating her head off," ansley complained. "can't settle down again." mrs. ansley was more heroic. "we accept it. it's part of what we offered up to the great cause. we gave our all, and though all was not taken from us we should not have murmured if it had been." taking advantage of this turn of the talk, tom launched into his appeal. for the last time in his life, as he hoped, he told the story of his mother. as he had told it to hildred and to henry whitelaw so now he gave it to philip and sunshine ansley. hating the task, he was upheld in carrying it through by the knowledge that everyone who had a right to know it knew it now. he finished with the minute at which guy first spoke to him. from that point onward they had been able to follow the course of his life for themselves. they had in a measure entered into it, and helped him to his opportunities. he thanked them; but before he could accept their goodwill again he wanted them to know exactly what he had sprung from. hildred did know. she had known it for several years. it had made no difference to her; he hoped so to make good in the future that it would make no difference to them. they listened attentively, with no sign of being shocked. now and then, at such points as the stealing of the first little book, or the final arrest, one or the other would murmur a "dear me!" but sympathy and pity were plainly their sentiments. they didn't condemn him; they didn't even blame him. he had been an unfortunate child. there was nothing to be thought of him but that. after he had finished there was a silence that seemed long. ansley sat at his desk, leaning back in his revolving chair. mrs. ansley was near a window, where she could to some extent shield herself by looking out. she left to her husband the duty of speaking the first word. "it all depends, my dear fellow, on your being accepted by henry whitelaw as his son." there was another silence. "is that final, sir?" "i'm afraid it is." "is there no way by which i can be taken as myself?" mrs. ansley turned from her contemplation of the lion and the unicorn on the old state house. "no one is ever taken as himself. we all have to be taken with the circumstances that surround us." ansley enlarged on this, leaning forward and toying with a paperweight. "my wife is quite right. nobody in the world is just a human being pure and simple. he's a human being plus the conditions which go to make him up. you can't separate the conditions from the man, nor the man from the conditions. if you're henry whitelaw's son, stolen and brought up in circumstances no matter how poor and criminal, you're one person; if you're the son of this--this woman, whom i shan't condemn any more than i can help, you're another. you see that, don't you?" "can't i be--what i've made myself?" "you can't make yourself anything but what you've been from the beginning. you can correct and improve and modify; but you can't change." "so that if i'm the son of--of this woman, you wouldn't want me. is that it?" "how could we?" came from mrs. ansley. "but i know from mr. whitelaw himself that--" ansley smiled, paternally. "suppose we leave it there. after all, the last word rests with him." "i don't think so, sir. it rests with me." this could be dismissed as of no importance. "oh, with you, of course, in a certain sense. they can't force you. but if they're satisfied that you're--" "and if i'm not satisfied?" "oh, but, my dear fellow, you wouldn't make yourself difficult on that score." "it's not a question of being difficult; it's one of what i can do." they got no farther than that. tom's reluctance to deny the woman he had always regarded as his mother was not only hard for them to seize, it was hard for him to explain. he couldn't make them see that the creature who for them was only a common shoplifter was for him the source of tender and sacred memories. to accuse her of a greater crime than theft would be to desecrate the shrine which he himself had built of love and pity; but he was unable to put it into words, as they were unable to understand it. he himself worded it as plainly as he could when, rising, he said: "so that i must renounce my mother or renounce hildred." ansley also rose. "that's not quite the way to express it. if she _was_ your mother, there can be no question of your renouncing her. but then, too, there can be no question of--of hildred. i'm sure you must see." "and if i see, would hildred also see?" leaving her window, mrs. ansley, bulbous and quivering, lilted forward. "we must leave that to your sense of honor. in a way we're in your hands. it's within your power to make us suffer." "i should never do that," he assured her, hastily. "hildred wouldn't want me to. after all you've done for me neither she nor i--" "quite so, my dear fellow, quite so." ansley held out his hand. "we trust you both. but the situation is clear, i think. if you come back to us as harry whitelaw, you'll find us eager to welcome you. if you don't, or if you can't--" a wave of the hand, a shrug of the shoulders, expressing the rest, tom could only bow himself out. xliii on the part of philip and sunshine ansley the confidence was such that hildred was permitted to take a walk with tom before his departure for new york. "we're not engaged," hildred reported as part of her mother's conditions, "and we can't be engaged unless you're proved to be harry whitelaw. mother thinks you're going to be. so apparently the question in the long run will be as to whether or not you want me." "it won't be that. i'm crazy about you, hildred, more than any fellow ever was before." "and that's the way i feel about you, tom. i don't care a bit about the things dad and mother think so important. you're you; you're not your father or your mother, whoever they may have been. i shouldn't love you any the better if you became the son of mr. and mrs. whitelaw. it would only make it easier." it was a windy afternoon in april, with the trees in new leaf. all along the fenway the bridal-veil made cascades of whiteness whiter than the hawthorns. pansies, tulips, and forget-me-nots brightened all the foot-paths. the two tall, supple figures bent and laughed in the teeth of the lusty wind. rather it was she who laughed, since she had the confidence in life, while he knew only life's problems. he had always known life's problems, and though there had never been a time when he was free from them, he never had had one to solve so difficult as this. "but that's where the shoe pinches," he declared, "that i'm myself, so much more myself than many fellows are; and yet, unless i turn into some one else, i shall lose you." she threw back her answer with a kind of radiant honesty. "you couldn't lose me, tom. i couldn't lose you. we've grown together. nothing can cut us asunder. one can't win out against two people who're as willing to wait as we are." he was not comforted. "oh, wait! i don't want to wait." "neither do i; but we'd both rather wait than give each other up." "wait--for how long?" "how can i tell how long? as long as we have to." "till your father and mother die?" "oh, gracious, no! i'm not killing the poor lambs. till they come round. they'll _come_ round." "how do you know?" "because fathers and mothers always do. once they see how sad i'll be--" "oh, you're going to play that game." she was indignant. "i shan't play a game. i shall _be_ sad. i'm all right now while you're here; but once you're gone--well, if dad and mother want a martyr on their hands they'll have one. i shan't be putting it on either. i'll not be able to help myself." "i'd rather they came around for some other reason than to save your life." "i'm not particular about the reason so long as they come round. but you see i'm talking as if the worse were coming to the worst. as a matter of fact, i believe the better is coming to the best." "which means that you think the whitelaws...." "i know they will." "and that i...." "oh, tom, you'll be reasonable, won't you?" he was silent. even hildred couldn't see what his past had meant to him. a wretched, miserable past from some points of view, at least it was his own. it had entered into him and made him. it was as hard to take it now as a hideous mistake as it would have been to take his breathing or the circulation of his blood. the farther it drifted behind him the more content he was to have known it. each phase had given him something he recognized as an asset. honey, the quidmores, the tollivants, mrs. crewdson, the "mudda," had all left behind them experiences which time was beginning to consecrate. hildred couldn't understand any more than anybody else what it cost him to disclaim them. he often wondered whether, had he been born the son of henry and eleonora whitelaw, and never been stolen away from them, he would have grown to be another tad. he thought it very likely. not that tad hadn't justified himself. he had. his record in the war had gone far to redeem him. he had come through with sacrifice and honor. having fought without a scratch for a year and a half, he had, on the very morning of the day when the armistice was signed, received a wound which, because of the infection in his blood, had resulted in the loss of his right arm. this maiming, which the chance of a few hours would have saved him, he took, according to hildred, with splendid pluck, though also with an inclination to be peevish. lily, so tom's letters from henry whitelaw had long ago informed him, had married a man named greenshields, had had a baby, had been divorced, and again lived at home with her parents. tom pondered on the advantages they, tad and lily, were assumed to have enjoyed and which he himself had been denied. everyone, hildred included, took it for granted that ease and indulgence were blessings, and that he had suffered from the loss of them. perhaps he had; but he hadn't suffered more than tad and lily on whom they had been lavished. tad with his maimed body, lily with her maimed life, were not of necessity the product of wealth and luxury; but neither did a blasted soul or character come of necessity from poverty and hardship, or even from an origin in crime. he couldn't explain this to hildred, partly because she didn't care, partly because he had not the words, and mostly because her assumptions were those of her society. she would love him just the same whether he were the son of a woman who had killed herself in jail, or that of a banker known throughout the world; but the advantages of being the latter were to her beyond argument. so they were to him, except that.... thus with hildred he came to no conclusions any more than with her parents. with her as with them it was an object to keep him from making any statement that might seem too decisive. if they left it to henry whitelaw and himself the scales could but dip in one direction. and yet when actually face to face with the banker, tom doubted if the subject was going to be raised. he had written, reminding whitelaw of the promise he himself had exacted, that on looking for work, tom should apply first of all to him. like ansley, the banker had made an appointment at his office. the office was in the ponderous and somewhat forbidding structure which bore the name of meek and brokenshire in wall street. the room into which tom was shown was shabby and unpretentious. square, low-ceiled, lighted by two windows looking into yards or courts, its one bit of color lay in the green and red of a turkey rug, threadbare in spots, and scuffed into wrinkles. against the walls were heavily carved walnut bookcases, housing books of reference. a few worn leather armchairs made a rough circle about a wide flat-topped desk, which stood in the center of the room. on the desk were some valuable knickknacks, paper weights, paper cutters, pen trays, and other odds and ends, evidently gifts. a white-marble mantelpiece clumsily sculptured in the style of was adorned above by the lithographed head of the first j. howard brokenshire, also of , and one of the founders of the firm. for the first few minutes the room was empty. tom stood timidly close to the door through which he had come in. the banker entered from a room adjoining. "ah, here you are!" he crossed the floor rapidly. for a long minute tom found himself held as he had been held before, the man's right hand grasping his, the left hand resting on his shoulder. there was also the same searching with the eyes, and the same little weary push when the eyes had searched enough. "sit down." tom took the armchair nearest him; the man drew up another. he drew it close, with hungry eagerness. tom was apologetic. "i must beg your pardon, sir, for asking you to see me--" "oh, no, my dear boy. i should have been hurt if you hadn't. i've been expecting you ever since i read that you'd landed. what made you go to boston before coming here?" there was confession in tom's smile. "i had to see some one." "was it hildred ansley?" tom found himself coloring, and without an answer. "oh, you needn't tell me. i didn't mean to embarrass you. the ansleys are very good friends of mine. known them well for years. if it hadn't been for them you and i might never have got together. now give me some account of yourself. it must be nearly two months since i last heard from you." tom gave such scraps of information as he hadn't told in letters, and thought might be of interest. with some use of inner force he nerved himself to ask after mrs. whitelaw, and "the other members of the family," a phrase which evaded the use of names. the banker talked more freely than he had written. he talked as to one with whom he could open his heart, and not as to an outsider. mrs. whitelaw was stronger and calmer, less subject to the paralyzing terrors which had beset her for so long. tad was doing with himself the best he could, but the best in the case of a fellow of his age and tastes who had lost his right arm was not very good. he could ride a little, guiding his horse with his left hand, but he couldn't drive a car, or hunt, or play polo, or use his hand for writing. he could hardly dress himself; he fed himself only when everything was cut up for him. in the course of time he would probably do better, but as yet he couldn't do much. lily had made a mess of things. it was worse than what he had told tom in his letters. she had eloped with a worthless fellow, whom he, her father, had forbidden her to know, and who wanted nothing but her money. it was a sad affair, and had stunned or bewildered her. he didn't like to talk of it, but tom would see for himself. he reverted to tom's own concerns. "you wrote to me about a job." "yes, sir; but i'm afraid it's bothering you too much." "don't think that. i've got the job." the young man tried to speak, but the other hurried on. "i hope you'll take it, because i've been keeping it for you ever since i saw you last." tom's eyes opened wide. "over three years?" "oh, there was no hurry. easy enough to save it. i want you to be one of the assistants to my own confidential secretary. this will keep you close to myself, which is where i want to have you for the first year at least. you'll get the hang of a lot of things there, and anything you don't understand i can explain to you. later, if you want to go into the study of banking more scientifically--well, i shall be able to direct you." he sat dazzled, speechless. it was the future!--hildred!--happiness!--honor!--the big life!--the conquest of the world! he could have them all by sitting still, by saying nothing, by letting it be implied that he renounced his loyalties, by being passive in the hand of this goodwill. he would be a fool, he told himself, not to yield to it. everyone in his senses would consider him a fool. the father of the whitelaw baby believed that he had found his child. why not let him believe it? how did he, tom whitelaw, know that he wasn't his child? the woman who had told him he was never to think so was dead and in her grave. judged by all reasonable standards, he owed her nothing but a training in wicked ways. he would give her up. he would admit, tacitly anyhow, even if not in words, that she had stolen him. he would be grateful to this man--and profit by his mistake. he began to speak. "i hardly know how to thank you, sir, for so much kindness. i only hope--" he was trying to find the words in which to express his ambition to prove worthy of this trust, but he found himself saying something else--"i only hope that you're not doing all this for me because you think i'm--i'm your son." leaning toward him, the banker put his hand on his knee. "suppose we don't bring that up just yet? suppose we just--go on? as a matter of fact--i'm talking to you quite frankly--more frankly than i could speak to anyone else in the world--but as a matter of fact i--i want some one who'll--who'll be like a son to me--whether he's my son or not. i wonder if you're old enough to understand." "i think i am, sir." "i'm rather a lonely man. i've got great cares, great responsibilities. i can swing them all right. there are my partners, fine fellows all of them; there are as many friends as i can ask for. but i've nobody who comes--who comes very close to me--as a son could come. i've thought--i've thought it for some time past--that--whoever you are--you might do that." as he leaned with his hand on tom's knee his eyes were lower than tom's own. tom looked down into them. it was strange to him that this man who held so much of the world in his grasp should be speaking to him almost pleadingly. his memories filed by him with the speed and distinctness of lightning. he was the little boy moving from tenement to tenement; he was in the big shop on that christmas eve; he was walking with his mother in front of the policeman; he was watching her go away with the woman who was like a fate; he was staring at the christmas tree; he was being pelted on his first day at school; he was picking strawberries for the quidmores; he was sleeping in the same room with honey; he was acting as chauffeur at the inn-club in dublin, new hampshire, and picking up this very man at keene. and here they were together, the instinct of the father calling to the son, while the instinct of the son was scarcely, if at all, articulate. the struggle was between his future and his past. "i must be his son," he cried to himself. but another voice cried, "and yet i can't be." aloud he said, modestly, "i'm not sure, sir, that i could fill the bill for you." "that would be up to me. it isn't what you can do but what i'm looking for that matters in a case like this." he stood up. "i'm sorry i must go back to a conference inside, but i shall see you soon again. what's your address in new york?" tom gave him the name of the hotel at which he was putting up. whitelaw had never heard of it. "can't you do better than that?" "oh, it isn't bad, sir. i'm not used to luxury, and i manage very well. i'm quite all right." "is it money?" "only in the sense that everything is money. i've a little saved--not much--and i like to keep on the weather side of it. the man who did more for me than anybody else--the ex-burglar i told you about--always taught me to be economical." "all the same i don't like to have you staying in a place like that. you must let me--" "oh, no, sir! i'd a great deal rather not." he spoke in some alarm. "i've got to be on my own. i _must_ be." "oh, very well!" the tone was not precisely cold; it was that of a man whose good intentions were sensitive. tom did something which he never had supposed he would have dared to do. he went up to this man, and laid his hand gently on his arm. instantly the man's free hand was laid on the one which touched him, welcoming the caress. tom tried to explain himself. "it isn't that i'm not grateful, sir. i hope you don't think that. but--but i'm myself, you see. i've got to stand on my own feet. i know how to do it. i've learned. i--i hope you don't mind." "i want you to do whatever you think best yourself. you're the only judge." they had separated now, and the banker held out his hand. "oh, and by the way," he continued, clinging to tom's hand in the way he had done on earlier occasions. "my wife wants to see you. she told me to ask you if you couldn't go and lunch with her to-morrow." since there was no escape tom could only brace himself. "very well, sir. it's kind of mrs. whitelaw. i'll go with pleasure. at one o'clock?" "at one o'clock." he picked up a card from the desk. "this is our address. you'll find mrs. whitelaw less--less emotional than when you saw her last and more--more used to the idea." without explaining the idea to which she was more used, the banker released tom's hand with his customary little push, as if he had had enough of him, hurrying out by the door through which he had come in. xliv before turning into bed that night tom had fought to a finish his battle with himself. the victory rested, he hoped, with common sense. he could no longer doubt that before very long an extraordinary offer would be made to him. to repulse it would be insane. "as far as my personal preferences go," he wrote to hildred, "i would rather remain as i am. remaining as i am would be easier. i'm free; i've no one to consider; i know my own way of life, and can follow it pretty surely. but i'm not adaptable. you yourself must often have noticed that my mind works stiffly, and that i find it hard to see the other fellow's point of view. i'm narrow, solitary, concentrated, and self-willed. but as long as i've no one to consult i can get along. "to enter a family of which i know nothing of the ways or traditions or points of view is going to be a tough job. it will be much tougher than if i merely married into it. in that case i should be only an adjunct to it, whereas in what may happen now i shall have to become an integral part of it. i must be as a leg instead of as a crutch. i don't know how i shall manage it. "i'm not easily intimate with anyone. perhaps that's the reason why, as you say, i haven't enough of the lover in me. i'm not naturally a lover. i'm not naturally a friend. i'm a solitary. a solitude _à deux_, with the servants, as you always like to stipulate, is my conception of an earthly paradise. "to you the normal of life is a father, a mother, a brother, a sister. to me it isn't. to have a father seems abnormal to me, or to have a sister or a brother. if i can see myself with a mother it's because of a poignant experience of the kind that burns itself into the memory. but i can't see myself with _another_ mother, and that's what i've got to do. mind you, it isn't a stepmother i must see, nor an adopted mother, nor a mother-in-law; it's a real mother of my own flesh and blood. i must see a real brother, a real sister. they think that all they have to do is to fling their doors open, and that it will be a simple thing for me to walk in. but i must fling open something more tightly sealed than any door ever was--my life, my affections, my point of view. they are four, and need only make room for one. i'm only one, and must make room for four. "but i'm going to do it. i'm going to do it for a number of reasons which i shall try to give you in their order. "first, for your sake. you want it. for me that is enough. i see your reasons too. it will help us with your father and mother, and all our future life. so that settles that. "then, i want to conform to what those who care anything about me would expect. i don't want to seem a fool. it's what i should seem if i turned such an offer down. nobody would understand my emotional and sentimental reasons but myself; and when it comes to the emotional and sentimental there is a pro side as well as a con to the whole situation. "because if i _must_ have a father there's no one whom i could so easily accept as a father as this very man. he seems to me like my father; i think i seem to him like his son. more than that, he looks like my father, and i must look like the kind of son he would naturally have. i'm sure he likes me, and i know i like him. if i was choosing a father he's the very one i should pick out. "next, and you may be surprised to hear me say it, i could do very well with tad as a brother. that he couldn't do with me is another thing; but there's something about the chap which has bewitched me from the day i first laid eyes on him. i haven't liked him exactly; i've only felt for him a kind of responsibility. i've tried to ignore it, to laugh at it, to argue it down; but the thing wouldn't let me kill it. if there's such a thing as an instinct between those of the same flesh and blood i should say that this was it. i've no doubt that if we come to living in one menagerie we shall be the same sort of friends as a lion and a tiger--but there it is. "the women appall me. i can't express it otherwise. with the father i could be a son as affectionate as if i'd never left the family. with tad i could establish--i've established already--a sort of fighting fraternity. to neither the mother nor the daughter could i ever be anything, so far as i can see now. they wouldn't let me. they wouldn't want me. if they yield to the extent of admitting me into the family they'll always bar me from their hearts. the limit of my hope is that, since i generally get along with those i have to live with, the hostility won't be too obvious. i also have the prospect that when you and i are married--and that's my motive in the whole business--i shall get a measure of release." he purchased next morning a pair of gloves and an inexpensive walking stick so as to look as nearly as might be like the smart young men he saw on the pavements of fifth avenue. it was not his object to be smart; it was to be up to the standard of the house at which he was to lunch. to reach that house he went on the top of a bus like the one on which he had ridden with honey nearly ten years earlier. he did this with intention, to make the commemoration. honey's suspicions and predictions had then seemed absurd; and here they were on the eve of being verified. he got off at the corner at which, as he remembered, honey and he had got off on that august sunday afternoon. he crossed the road to see if he could recognize the home of the whitelaw baby as it had been pointed out to him. recognition came easily enough because in the whole line of buildings it was the only one which stood detached, with a bit of lawn on all sides of it. a spacious brownstone house, it had the cheery, homey aspect which comes from generous proportions, and masses of spring flowers, daffodils, tulips, and hyacinths, banked in the bow-windows. being a little ahead of his time, he walked up the street, trying to compose himself and recapture his nerve. the story, first told to him by honey, and repeated in scraps by many others, returned to him. too far away to be noticed by anyone who chanced to be looking out, he stood and gazed back at the house. if he was really harry whitelaw he had been born there. the last time he had come forth from it he had been carried down those steps by two footmen. he had been wheeled across the street and into the park by a nurse in uniform. within the glades of the park a change had somehow been wrought in his destiny, after which there was a blank. he emerged from that blank into consciousness sitting on a high chair in a kitchen, beating on the table with a spoon, and asking the question: "mudda, id my name gracie, or id it tom?" the memory was both vague and vivid. it was vague because it came out from nowhere and vanished into nowhere. it was vivid because it linked up with that bewilderment as to his identity which haunted his early childhood. the discovery that he was a little boy forced on a woman craving for a little girl was the one with which he first became aware of himself as a living entity. to his present renunciation of that woman he tried to shut his mind. there was no help for it. he had long kept a veil before this sad holy of holies; he would simply hang it up again. he would nail it up, he would never loosen it, and still less go behind it. what was there would now forever be hidden from any sight, even from his own. at a minute before one he recrossed the avenue, and went down the little slope. in the rôle of harry whitelaw which he was trying to assume going up the steps was significant. the long, devious, apparently senseless odyssey had brought him back again. it was only to himself that the odyssey seemed straight and with a purpose. the middle-aged man who opened the door raised his eyebrows and opened his eyes wide in a flash of perturbation. it was only for an instant; in the half of a second he was once more the proper stiffened image of decorum. and yet as he took from the visitor the hat, stick, and gloves, tom could see that the eyes were scanning his face furtively. it was a big dim hall, impressive with a few bits of ancient massive furniture, and a stairway in an alcove, partially hidden by a screen which might have been torn from some french cathedral. tom, who had risen to the modest standard of the ansleys, again felt his insufficiency. following the butler, he went down the length of the hall toward a door on the right. but a door on the left opened stealthily, and stealthily a little figure darted forth. "so you've come! i knew you would! i knew i shouldn't go down to my grave without seeing you back in the home from which twenty-three years ago you were carried out. i've said so to dadd times without number, haven't i, dadd?" "you have indeed, miss nash," dadd corroborated, "and none of us didn't believe you." "dadd was the second footman," miss nash explained further. "he was one of the two who lifted you down that morning. now he's the butler; but he's never had my faith." she glided away again. dadd threw open a door. tom found himself in a large sunny room, of which the bow-window was filled with flowers. there was no one there, which was so far a relief. it gave him time to collect himself. except for apartments in museums, or in some château he had visited in france, he had never been in a room so stately or so full of costly beauty. he knew the beauty was costly in spite of his lack of experience. on the wall opposite the bow-window stretched a blue-green flemish tapestry, with sad-eyed, elongated figures crowding on one another within an intricate frame of flowers, foliage, and fruits. a white-marble mantelpiece, bearing in shallow relief three garlanded groups of dancing cupids, supported a clock and a pair of candelabra in _biscuit de sèvres_ mounted in ormolu. above this hung a full-length eighteenth-century lady--reynolds, romney, gainsborough--he was only guessing--looking graciously down on a cabinet of european porcelains, on another of miniatures, and another of old fans. bronzes were scattered here and there, with bits of iridescent spanish luster, and two or three plaques of limoges enamel intense in color. since there was room for everything, the profusion was without excess, and not too carefully thought out. a work-basket filled with sewing materials and knitting stood on a table strewn with recent magazines and books. he was so long alone that he was growing nervous when lily dropped into the room as if she had happened there accidentally. she sauntered up to him, however, offering her hand with a long, serpentine lifting of the arm, casual and negligent. "how-d'ye-do? mamma's late. i don't know whether she's in the house or not. perhaps she's forgotten. she often does." she picked up a silver box of cigarettes. "have one?" on his declining she lighted one for herself, dropping into a big upright chair and crossing her legs. it was the year when young ladies liked to display their ankles and calves nearly up to the knee. lily, whose skirt was of unrelieved black, wore violet silk stockings, with black slippers which had bright red buckles set in paste. over her shoulders a violet scarf, with bright red bars, hung loosely. in sitting, her sinuous figure drooped a little forward, the elbow of the hand which held the cigarette supported on her knee. though she hadn't asked him to sit down, he took a chair of his own accord, waiting for her to speak again. when she did so, after an interval of puffing out tiny rings of blue smoke, her voice was languid and monotonous, and yet with overtones of passionate self-will. "you've been in the army, haven't you?" he said he had been. "did you like it?" "i never had time to think as to whether i did or not. i just had to stick it out." "did you ever see tad over there?" "no, i never did." as she was laconic he too would be laconic. she didn't look at him, or show an interest in his personality. if she thought him the brother who after long disappearance was coming home again she betrayed no hint of the possibility. he might have been a chance stranger whom she would never see again. lapses of silence did not embarrass her. she sat and smoked. he decided to assume the right to ask questions on his own side. "you've been married since i saw you last, haven't you?" "yes." she didn't resent this, apparently, and after a long two minutes of silence, added: "and divorced." there was still a noticeable passage of time before she continued, in her toneless voice: "i've a baby too." "do you like him?" a flicker of a smile passed over a profile heavy-browed, handsome, and disdainful. "he's an ugly little monster so far." she had a way of stringing out her sentences as after-thoughts. "i daresay he's all right." there followed a pause so long and deep that in it you could hear the ticking of the clock. he was determined to be as apathetic as herself. she had no air of thinking. she scarcely so much as moved. her stillness suggested the torrid, brooding calm before volcanic or seismic convulsion. without a turning of the head or a change in her languid intonation, she said, casually: "you're our lost brother, aren't you?" the emotion from which she was so free almost strangled him. he could barely breathe the words, "would you care if i were?" "what would be the use of my caring if papa was satisfied?" "still, i should think, that one way or the other, you might care." to this challenge she made no response. she was not hostile in any active sense; he was sure of that. she impressed him rather as exhausted after terrific scenes of passion, waywardness, and disillusion. a little rest, and she would be ready for the same again, with himself perhaps to take the consequence. mrs. whitelaw came in with the rapid step and breathless, syncopated utterance he remembered. "so sorry to be late. i'd been for a long drive. i wanted to think. i had no idea what time it was. i suppose you must be hungry." she gave him her hand without looking him in the face, helped over the effort of the meeting by the phrases of excuse. "so this is my mother!" it was his single thought. in the attempt to realize the fact he had ceased to be troubled or embarrassed. he could only look. he could only wonder if he would ever be able to make himself believe that which he did not believe. he repeated to himself what he had already written to hildred: he could believe the man to be his father; but that this woman was his mother he rejected as an impossibility. not that there was anything about her displeasing or unsympathetic. on the contrary, she had been beautiful, and still had a lovely distinction. features that must always have been soft and appealing had gained by the pathos of her tragedy, while a skin that could never have been anything but delicate and exquisite was kept exquisite and delicate by massage and cosmetics. veils protected it from the sun and air; gauntlets, easy to pull on and off, preserved the tenderness of hands wearing many jeweled rings, but a little too dimpling and pudgy. the eyes, limpid, large, and gray with the lucent gray of moonstones, had lids of the texture of white rose petals just beginning to shrivel up and show little _bistré_ stains. the lashes were long, dark, and curling like those of a young girl. tom couldn't see the color of her hair because she wore a motoring hat, with a sweeping brown veil draped over it and hanging down the back. heather-brown, with a purplish mixture, was the harris tweed of her coat and skirt. the blouse of a silky stuff, was brown, with blue and rose lights in it when she moved. a row of great pearls went round her neck, while the rest of the string, which was probably long, disappeared within the corsage. dadd appeared on the threshold, announcing lunch. "come on," mrs. whitelaw commanded, and lily rose listlessly. "is tad to be at home?" lily dragged her frail person in the wake of her mother. "i don't know anything about him." tom followed lily, since it seemed the only thing to do, crossing the hall and passing through the door by which miss nash had darted out to speak to him. the dining room, on the north side of the house, was vast, sunless, and somber. tom was vaguely aware of the gleam of rich pieces of silver, of the carving of high-backed chairs as majestic as thrones. one of these thrones dadd drew out for mrs. whitelaw; a footman drew out a second for lily; another footman a third for himself. "sit there, will you?" mrs. whitelaw said, in her offhand, breathless way, as if speaking caused her pain. "this room is chilly." she pulled her coat about her, though the room had the temperature suited to the great plant of cattleya, on which there might have been thirty blooms, which stood in the center of the table. with rapid, nervous movements she picked up a spoon and tasted the grapefruit before her. a taste, and she pushed it away, nervously, rapidly. nervously, rapidly, she glanced at tom, glancing off somewhere else as if the sight of him hurt her eyes. "how long have you been back?" he gave her the dates and places connected with his recent movements. "did you like it over there?" he made the reply he had given to lily. "were you ever wounded?" he said he had once received a bad cut on the shoulder which had kept him a month in hospital, but otherwise he had not suffered. "tad's lost his right arm. did you know that?" he had first got this news from guy ansley. he was very sorry. at the same time, when others had been so horribly mangled, it was something to escape with only the loss of a right arm. she gave him another of her hurried, unwilling glances. "how did you come to know the ansleys so well?" he told the story of his early meetings with the fat boy on the sidewalk of louisburg square. "wasn't it awful living with that burglar?" tom smiled. "no. it seemed natural enough. he was a very kind burglar. i owe him everything." to tom's big appetite the lunch was frugal, but it was ceremonious. he was oppressed by it. that three strong men should be needed to bring them the little they had to eat and drink struck him as ridiculous. and this was his father's house. this was what he should come to take as a matter of course. he would get up every morning to eat a breakfast served with this magnificence. he would sit every day on one of these thrones, like an apostle in the apocalypse. he thought of breakfasts in the tenements, at the tollivants', at the quidmores', or with honey in the grimy eating-places where they took their meals, and knew for the first time in many years a pang something like that of homesickness. it was not altogether the ceremony against which he was rebellious. it had elements of beauty which couldn't be decried. what he felt was the old ache on behalf of the millions of people who had to go without, in order that the few might possess so much. it was the world's big wrong, and he didn't know what caused it. his economic studies, taken with a view to helping him in the banking profession, had convinced him that nobody knew what caused it, and that the cures proposed were worse than the disease. without thinking much of it actively, it was always in the back of his mind that he must work to eliminate this fundamental ill. sitting and eating commonplace food in this useless solemn stateliness, the conviction forced itself home. somewhere and somehow the world must find a means between too much and too little, or mankind would be driven to commit suicide. during the meal, which was brief, lily scarcely spoke. as they recrossed the hall to go back to the big sunny room, she sloped away to some other part of the house. tom and his mother sat down together, embarrassed if not distressed. pointing to the box of cigarettes, she said, tersely, "smoke, if you like." in the hope of feeling more at ease he smoked. still wearing her hat and coat, she drew her chair close to the fire, which had been lighted while they were at lunch, holding her hands to the blaze. "do you think you're our son?" the question was shot out in the toneless voice common to lily and herself, except that with the mother there was the staccato catch of breathlessness between the words. tom was on his guard. "do you?" turning slightly she glanced at him, quickly glancing away. "you look as if you were." "but looks can be an accident." "then there's the name." "that doesn't prove anything." "and my husband knows a lot of other things. he'll tell you himself what they are." he repeated the question he had put to lily, "would you care if i were your son?" making no immediate response, she evaded the question when she spoke. "if you were, you'd have to make your home here." "couldn't i be your son--and make my home somewhere else?" "i don't see how that would help." "it might help me." the large gray eyes stole round toward him. "do you mean that you wouldn't want to live with us?" "i mean that i'm not used to your way of living." "oh, well!" she dismissed this, continuing to spread her jeweled fingers to the blaze. "you said once--a long time ago--when i saw you in boston--that you couldn't get accustomed to another--to another mother--now--or something like that. do you remember?" he said he remembered, but he said no more. "well, what about it?" since it was precisely to another mother that he was now making up his mind, he found the question difficult. "it was three years ago that i said that. things change." "what's changed?" "perhaps not things so much as people. i've changed myself." "changed toward us--toward me?" "i've changed toward the whole question--chiefly because mr. whitelaw's been so kind to me." "i don't suppose his kindness makes any difference in the facts. if you're our son you're our son whether he's kind to you or not." "his kindness may not make any difference in the facts, but it does make a difference in my attitude." "mine can't be influenced so easily." though he wondered what she meant by that he decided to find out indirectly. "no, i suppose not. after all, you're the one to whom it's all more vital than to anybody else." "because i'm the mother? i don't see that. they talk about mother-instinct as if it was so sure; but--" she swung round on him with sudden, unexpected flame--"but if they'd been put to as many tests as i've been they'd find out. why, almost any child can seem as if he might have been the baby you haven't seen for a few years. you forget. you lose the power either to recognize or to be sure that you don't recognize. if anyone tries hard enough to persuade you...." "has anyone tried to persuade you--about me?" he began to see from whence tad and lily had drawn the stormy elements in their natures. "not in so many words perhaps; but when some one very close to you is convinced...." "and you yourself not convinced...." she rose to her feet tragically. "how _can_ i be convinced? what is there to convince me? resemblances--a name--a few records--a few guesses--a few hopes--but i don't _know_. who can prove a case of this kind--after nearly twenty-three years?" in his eagerness to reassure her he stepped near to where she stood. "i hope you understand that i'm not trying to prove anything. i never began this." "i know you didn't. i feel as if a false position would be as hard on you as it would be on ourselves." "then you think the position would be a false one?" "i'm not saying so. i'm only trying to make you see how impossible it is for me to say i'm sure you're my boy--_when i don't know_. i'm not a cold-hearted woman. i'm only a tired and frightened one." "would it be of any help if i were to withdraw?" "it wouldn't be of help to my husband." "oh, i see! we must consider him." "i don't see that you need consider anyone but yourself. we've dragged you into this. you've a right to do exactly as you please." "oh, if i were to do that...." "what i don't want you to do is to misjudge me. not that it would matter whether you misjudged me or not, unless--later--we were compelled to see ourselves as--as son and mother." "i shouldn't like to have either of us do that--under compulsion." restlessly, rapidly, she began to move about, touching now this object and now that. her hands were as active as if they had an independent life. they were more expressive than her tone when they tossed themselves wildly apart, as she cried: "what else could it be for me--but compulsion?" he was about to speak, but she stopped him. "do me justice. put yourself in my place. my boy would now be twenty-four. they bring me a man who looks like thirty. yes, yes; i daresay you're not thirty, but you look like it. it's just as hard for me as if you _were_ thirty. i'm only forty-four myself. they want me to think that this man--so big--so grave--so _old_--is my little boy. how _can_ i? he may be. i don't deny that. but for me to _think_ it ...!" he watched her as she moved from table to table, from chair to chair, her eyes on him reproachfully, her hands like things in agony. "it's as hard for me to think it as it is for you." the words arrested her. her frenzied motions ceased. only her eyes kept themselves on him, with their sorrowful, fixed stare. "what do you mean by that?" he tried to explain. "my only conception of a mother is of some one poor--and hard-worked--and knocked about--and loving--and driven from pillar to post--whereas you're so beautiful--and young--young almost--and--and expensive--and--" a flip of his hand included the room--"with all this as your setting--and everything else--i can't credit it." she came up to him excitedly. "well, then--what?" "the only thing we can do, it seems to me, is to try to make it easier for each other. may i ask one question?" she nodded, mutely. "would you rather that your little boy was found?--or that he wasn't found?" she wheeled away, speaking only after a minute's thought, and from the other side of the room. "i'd rather that he was found--of course--if i could be sure that he _was_ found." "how would you know when you were sure?" she tapped her heart. "i ought to know it here." "that's the way i'd know it too." "and you don't?" in a long silence he looked at her. she looked at him. each strove after the mystery which warps the child to the mother, the mother to the child. where was it? what was it? how could you tell it when you saw it? and if you saw it, could you miss it and pass it by? he sought it in her eyes; she sought it in his. they sought it by all the avenues of intuitive, spiritual sight. she tapped her heart again. her utterance was imperious, insistent, and yet soft. "and you _don't_--feel it there?" he too spoke softly. "no, i don't." in reluctant dismissal he turned away from her. with her quick little gasp of a sob she turned away from him. xlv to tom whitelaw this was the conclusion of the whole matter. a son must have a mother as well as a father. if there was no mother there was no son. the inference brought him a relief in which there were two strains of regret. he would be farther away from hildred. they would have more trials to meet, more bridges to cross. very well! he was not accustomed to having things made easy. for whatever he possessed, which was not much, he had longed and worked and worked and longed till he got it. but he got it in the end. in the end he would get hildred. better win her so than to have her drop as a present in his arms. if not wholly content, he was sure. in the matter of his second regret he was only sorry. it began to grow clear to him that a father needs a son more than a son needs a father. of this kind of need he himself knew nothing. he was what he was, detached, independent, assured. he never asked for sympathy, and if he craved for love, he had learned to stifle the craving, or direct it into the one narrow channel which flowed toward hildred. the paternal and filial instinct, having had no function in his life, seemed to have shriveled up. but the instinct of response to the slightest movement of goodwill, to the faintest plea for help, was active with daily use. it leaped forth eagerly; if it couldn't leap forth something within him fretted and cried like a hound when the scent leads to earth. as paul the apostle, he could be all things to all men, if by any means he might help some. if henry whitelaw needed a son, he could be a son to him. the tie of blood was in no small measure a matter of indifference. his impulse was like honey's "next o' kin." he remembered, as he had learned in school, that kin and kind were words with a common origin. whitelaw's truest kinship with himself was in his kindness. his kinship with whitelaw could as truly be in his devotion. devotion was what he could offer most spontaneously. if only that could satisfy the father yearning for his son! it could do it up to a point, since the banker identified kindness and kinship much as he did himself. but beyond that point there was the cry of the middle-aged man for some one who was part of himself on whom he could lean now that his strength was beginning to decline. that his two acknowledged children were nothing but a care sent him groping all the more eagerly for the son who might be a support to him. the son who was not a son might be better than no one, as he himself confessed; and yet nothing on earth could satisfy his empty soul but his own _son_. not to be that son made tom sorry; but without a mother, how could he be? otherwise, to remain as what life had made him was unalloyed relief. he was himself. in his own phrase, he was more himself than most men. but to enter the whitelaw family, _and belong to it_, would turn him into some one else. he might have a right there; an accident such as happens every day might easily make him the head of it; and yet he would have to put forth affections and develop points of view which could only come from a man with another kind of past. to be the son of that mother, and the brother of that sister, sorry for them as he was, would mean the kind of metamorphosis, the change in the whole nature, of which he had read in ancient mythology. he would make the attempt if he was called to it; but he shrank from the call. nevertheless, he took up his job as assistant to the great man's confidential secretary. this was a mr. phips whom tom didn't like, but with whom he got on easily. he easily got on with him because mr. phips himself made a point of it. a rubicund, smiling man, he had to be seen twice before you gave him credit for his unctuous ability. there was in him that mingling of honesty and craft which go to make the henchman, and sometimes the ecclesiastic. while he couldn't originate anything, he could be an instrument accurate and sharp. always ready to act boldly, it was with a boldness of which some one else must assume the responsibility. he could be the power behind the throne, but never the power sitting on it publicly. with an almost telepathic gift for reading whitelaw's mind, he could carry out its wishes before they were expressed. from sheer induction he could, in a secondary way, direct affairs from which he never took a penny of the profits over and above his salary. again like the ecclesiastic and the henchman, he had neither will nor conscience beyond the cause he served. a born factotum, with no office but to carry out, he accepted tom without questioning. without questioning he set him to those duties which, as a beginner, would be within his grasp. he didn't need to be told that when a message or a document was to be sent to the most private of all offices, it should be through the person of this particular young man. without having invented for tom the soubriquet of the whitelaw baby, he didn't frown at it on hearing it pass round the office, as it did within a few days. tom found whitelaw welcoming, considerate, but at first a little distant. he might have been conscious of the anomalies in the situation; he might have been anxious not to rush things; he might even have been shy. except to ask him, toward the end of each day, how he was getting along, he didn't speak to him alone. then, on the fourth morning, whitelaw sent for him. as tom entered he was standing up, a packet in his hand. "i want you to take a taxi and go up to my house. ask for my wife, and give her this." he made the nature of the errand clearer. "it's the anniversary of our wedding. she thinks i've forgotten it. i've only been waiting to send this--by you." the significance of the mission came to tom while he was on the way. the thing in the packet, probably a jewel, was the token of a marriage of which he was the eldest born. it was to mark his position in the husband's mind that he was made the bearer of the gift. he had no opinion as to this, except that in the appeal to the wife there was an element of futility. in the big dim hall he met the second born. to answer the door dadd had left the task of helping the one-armed fellow into his spring overcoat. as tom came in the poor left arm was struggling with the garment viciously. tad broke into a greeting vigorous, but non-committal. "hello, by gad!" tom went straight to his business. "your father has sent me with a message to mrs. whitelaw. i understand she's at home." "so you've got here! i knew you'd work it some day." "you were very perspicacious." "i was. and there's another thing i'll tell you. you've got round the old man. well, i'm not going to stand for it. see?" "i see; but it's got nothing to do with me. your father's given me a job. if you don't want him to do it you ought to tackle him." whatever war had done for tad it had not ennobled him. the face was old and seamed and stained with a dark red flush. it was scowling too, with the helpless scowl of impotence. tom was sorrier for him than he had ever been before. having taken his hat and stick, tad strode off, turning only on the doorstep. "but there's one thing i'll say right now. if you've got a job at meek and brokenshire's i'll damn well have a better one. i'm going to keep my eye on you." tom laughed, good-naturedly. "that's the very best thing you could do. nothing would please your father half so well. you'd buck him up, and at the same time get your knife into me." as the door closed behind tad miss nash came forward from somewhere in the obscurity. she was in that tremulous ecstasy which the mere sight of tom always roused in her. she was so very sorry, but mrs. whitelaw wasn't able to receive him. if tom would leave his package with her she would see that it was delivered. on the next afternoon as tom was leaving the office whitelaw offered him a lift uptown. in the seclusion of the limousine the father spoke of tad. "he's a great care to me, but somehow i feel that you might do him good." "he wouldn't let me. i can't get near him, except by force." "but force is what he respects. in the bottom of his heart he respects you." "what he needs is a job--the smallest job you could offer him in the bank. if you could put it to him as a sporting proposition that he was to get ahead of me...." "that's what i'll try to do." in the course of a few days the lift uptown had become a custom. though he had never received instructions to that effect, mr. phips so shaped tom's duties that he found himself leaving the office at the same moment as the banker. once or twice when things did not so happen whitelaw came into the room where tom was at work to look for him. if no one else saw it mr. phips did, that the lift uptown was the big minute of the banker's day. "i've got a son," the secretary pondered to himself, "but i'll be hanged if i feel about him like that. i suppose it's because i never lost him." "tad's applied to me for a job," the father informed tom in the limousine one day. "the next thing will be to make him stick to it." "i believe i could manage that, once we get him there," tom said confidently. "i can't always make him drink, but i can hold his head to the water. i did that at college more than once." "i know you did. i can't tell you...." a tremor of the voice cut short this sentence, but tom knew what would have been said: "i can't tell you what it means to me now to have some one to fall back upon. the children have given me a good deal of worry which their mother couldn't share because of her unhappiness. but now--i've got you." tom was glad, however, that it had not been put into words. xlvi they came into may, the joyous, exciting, stimulating may of new york, with its laughing promise of adventure. to tom whitelaw that sense of adventure was in the happy sunlight, in the blue sky, in the scudding clouds, in winds that were warm and yet with the tang of salt and ice in them, in the flowers in the park, in the gay dresses in the avenue, in the tall young men already beginning to look summery, in the shop windows with their flowers, fruit, jewels, porcelains, and brocades, in the opulent crush of vehicles, and in his own heart most of all. never before had he known such ecstasy of life. it was more than vigor of limb or the strong coursing of the blood. it was youth and love and expectation, with their call to the daring, the reckless, and the new. they reached a saturday. business was taking whitelaw to boston. tom went with him to the station, to carry his brief-case, to hand him his ticket, to check his bags, and perform the other small services of a clerk for the man of importance. "i shall come back on wednesday," the banker explained to him, before entering the train. "on thursday i shall not be at the office. it's a day on which i never leave my wife. though i often have to go abroad and leave her behind, i always manage it so that we may have that particular day together. i shall see you then on friday." he saw him, however, on thursday, since mr. phips willed it so. at least, it was mr. phips who willed it, as far as tom ever knew. about three on that day he came to tom with a brief-case stuffed with documents. "the chief may want to run his eyes over these before he comes to the office to-morrow. ask for himself. don't leave them with anybody else." to the best of tom's belief there was no staging of what happened next beyond that which was set by phips's intuitions. by the time he rang at the house in fifth avenue it was a little after four. admitted to the big dim hall, he heard a hum of voices coming from the sitting room. in dadd's manner there was some constraint. "will you step in here, sir, and i'll tell the master that you've come?" the library was on the same side of the house as the dining room, but it got the afternoon sun. the sun woke its colors to a burnished softness in which red and blue and green and gold melted into each other lovingly. a still, well-ordered room, little used by anyone, it gave the impression of a place of rest for ancient beauty and high thought. rich and reposeful, there was nothing in it that was not a masterpiece, but a masterpiece which there was no one but some chance visitor to care anything about. in the four who made up the whitelaw family there were too many aching human cares for knowledge or art to comfort. tom's eyes studied absently the profile of a woman on an easel. she might have been a botticelli; he didn't know. she only reminded him of hildred--neatly piled dark hair, long slanting eyes, a small snub nose, and lips deliciously _moqueur_. the colors she wore were also hildred's, subdued and yet ardent, umber round the shoulders, with a chain of emeralds that almost sparkled in the westering light. whitelaw entered with his quick and eager tread, his quick and eager seizing of the young man's hand. again the left hand rested on his shoulder; again there was the deep and earnest searching of the eyes, as if a lost secret had not yet been found; again there was the little weary push. "come." taking the brief-case into his own hands, he left tom nothing to do but follow him. diagonally crossing the hall, tom noticed that the hum of voices had died down. without knowing why he nerved himself for a test. the test came at once. whitelaw, having preceded him into the room, had carried his brief-case to a table, and at once went to work on the contents. perhaps he did this purposely, to throw tom on his own resources. in any case, it was on his own resources that he felt himself thrown the instant he appeared on the threshold. he judged from the face of anguish and protest which mrs. whitelaw turned on him that he was not expected. dimly he perceived that tad and lily were in the room, and some one else whom as yet he hadn't time to see. all his powers were focused on the meeting of the woman who was not his mother, and didn't want him there. he thought quickly. he would be on the safest side. he had come there as a clerk; as a clerk shown in among the family he would conduct himself. he bowed to mrs. whitelaw, who let him take her hand, though that too seemed to suffer at his touch; he bowed to lily; he nodded respectfully to tad. he turned to salute distantly the other person in the room, and found her coming towards him. he knew her free swinging motion before he had time to see her face. "oh, tom!" "why, hildred!" her manner was the protecting one he had often seen in other years, when she thought he might be hurt, or be ignorant of small usages. she was subtle, tactful, and ready, all at once. "come over here." she drew him to a seat on a sofa, beside herself. "mrs. whitelaw won't mind, will you, mrs. whitelaw? you know, tom and i are the greatest friends--have been for years." he forgot everyone else who was present in the joy and surprise of seeing her. "when did you come? why didn't you let me know?" "i didn't know myself till late last night, did i, mrs. whitelaw? mrs. whitelaw only wired to invite me after mr. whitelaw came back from boston. of course i wasn't going to miss a chance like that. i don't see new york oftener than once in two years or so. then there was the chance of seeing you. i was ready in an hour. i took the ten o'clock train this morning, and have just this minute arrived." only when these first few bits of information had been given and received did tom feel the return of his embarrassment. he was in a room where three of the five others were troubled by his presence. he wasn't there of his own free will, and since he was a clerk he couldn't leave till he was dismissed. he would not have known what to do if hildred hadn't kept a small conversation going, drawing into it first one and then another, till presently all were discussing the weather or something of equal importance. in spite of her emotion mrs. whitelaw did her best to sustain her rôle of hostess, tad and lily speaking only when they were spoken to. at a given minute tad got up, sauntering toward the door. he was stopped by his father. "don't go, tad. tea will be here in a minute." the voice grew pleading. "stay with us to-day." lighting a cigarette, tad sank back into his chair, doing it rather sulkily. whitelaw continued to draw papers from the brief-case, arranging them before him on the table. when dadd appeared with the tea-tray tom made a push for escape. "if you've nothing else for me to do, sir...." whitelaw merely glanced up at him. "wait a minute. sit down again." tom went back to his seat beside hildred, where he watched mrs. whitelaw as she poured the tea. it was the first time he had seen her in indoor dress, all lace and soft lavender, her pearls twisted once around her neck and descending to her waist, a great jewel on her breast. it was the first time, too, that he had seen her hair, which was fair and crinkly, like his own. except for a slight portliness, she was too young to seem like the mother of lily and tad, while she was still less like his. that she should be his mother, this woman who had never known anything but what love and money could enrich her with, was too incongruous with everything else in life to call for so much as denial. and as for the hundredth time he was saying this to himself whitelaw spoke. he spoke without looking up from his papers except to take a sip of tea from the cup on the table beside him. he spoke casually, too, as if broaching something not of much importance. "now that we're all here i think that perhaps it's as good a time as any to go over the matter we've talked about separately--and settle it." there was no one in the room who didn't know what he meant. tad smoked listlessly; lily set down her cup and lighted a cigarette; mrs. whitelaw's jeweled fingers played among the tea-things, as if she must find something for her hands to do or shriek aloud. tom's heart seemed turned to stone, to have no power of emotion. hildred was the only one who said anything. "hadn't i better go, mr. whitelaw? i haven't been up to my room yet." "no, hildred. i'd rather that you stayed, if you don't mind. it's the reason we've asked you to come." he looked at no one. his face was a little white, though he was master of himself. "this is the tenth of may. it's twenty-three years ago to-day since we lost our little boy. i want to ask the family, now that we're all together, what they think of the chances of our having found him again." though he knew it was an anniversary in the family, it was tom's first recollection of the date. in as far as it was his birthday, birthdays had been meaningless to him, except as he remembered that they had come and gone, and made him a year older. "personally," whitelaw went on, "i've fought this off so long that i can't do it any longer. it will be five years this summer since i first saw him, at dublin, new hampshire, and was struck with his looks and his name, as well as with the little i learned of his history." "why didn't you do something about it then," tad put in, peevishly, "if you were going to do anything at all?" "you're quite right, tad. it's what i should have done. i was dissuaded by the rest of you. i must confess, too, that i was afraid to take it up myself. we'd followed so many clues that led to nothing! but perhaps it's just as well, as it's given me time to make all the investigation that, it seems to me, has been possible." apart from the motion of tad's and lily's hands as they put their cigarettes to their lips, everyone sat motionless and tense. even mrs. whitelaw tamed her feverish activity to a more feverish stillness. hildred put her hand lightly on tom's sleeve to remind him that she was there, but the power of feeling anything had gone out of him. while whitelaw told his facts he listened as if the case had nothing to do with himself. his agents, so the banker said, had probably unearthed every detail in the story that was now to be known. on august , , thomas coburn had been married in the bronx, to lucy speight. coburn was a carpenter who had fallen from a roof in the following october, and had died a few days later of his injuries. their child, grace coburn, had been born in the bronx on march , , and had died on april , . after that all trace of the mother had been lost, though a woman who killed herself by poisoning in the female house of detention in the suburb of new rotterdam, after having been arrested for shop-lifting, on december , , might be considered as the same person. this woman had been known to such neighbors as could remember her as mrs. lucy coburn, though at the time of her arrest she had claimed to be the widow of theodore whitelaw, after having married thomas coburn as her first husband. the wardress who had talked to her on taking her to a cell recalled that she had been incoherent and contradictory in all her statements about herself, her husband, and her child. as a matter of fact, the early history of lucy speight had been traced. she was the daughter of a laboring man at chatham, in the neighborhood of albany. her mental inheritance had been poor. her father had been the victim of drink, her mother had died insane. one of her sisters had died insane, and a brother had been put at an early age in a home for the feeble-minded. a brother and two sisters still lived either at chatham or at pittsfield. he had in his hand photographs of all the living members of the family, and copies of photographs of those deceased, including two of lucy speight as she was as a young girl. he turned toward tom. "would you like to look at them?" the power of emotion came back to him with a rush. he remembered his mother, vividly in two or three attitudes or incidents, but otherwise faintly. a flush that stained his cheek with the same dark red which dissipation stamped on tad's made the brothers look more than ever alike as he crossed the room to take the pictures from his father's hand. there were a dozen or fourteen of them, all of poor rustic boys and girls, or men and women, feebleness in the cast of their faces, the hang of their lips, the vacancy of their eyes. standing to sort them out, he put aside quickly the two of lucy speight. one of them must have dated from , or thereabouts, because of the big sleeves; the other, with skin-tight shoulders, was that of a girl perhaps in . in their faded simper there was almost nothing of the wild dark prettiness with which he saw her in memory, and yet he could recreate it. he stood and gazed long, all eyes fixed on him. moving to the table where mrs. whitelaw sat behind the tray, he held the two pictures before her. "that's my mother." though he said this without thought of its significance, and only from the habit of thinking of lucy speight as really his mother, he saw her shrink. with a glance at the photographs, she glanced up at him, piteously, begging to be spared. even such contact as this, remote, pictorial only, with people of a world she had never so much as touched, hurt her fastidiousness. that the son of this poor half-witted creature, this lucy speight, should also be her son ... but the only protest she could make was in her eyes. tom did not sit down again as whitelaw continued with his facts; he stood at the end of the mantelpiece, with its candelabra in _biscuit de sèvres_. leaning with his elbow on the white marble edge, he had all the others facing him, as all the others had him. the attitude seemed best to accord with the position in which he felt himself, that of a prisoner at the bar. "we've found no record in any state in the union," whitelaw went on, "or in any province in canada, of a marriage between a theodore whitelaw and a lucy coburn or speight. the search has been pretty thorough. moreover, we find no birth recorded in the bronx of any thomas whitelaw during all the decade between and . no such birth is recorded in any other suburb of new york, or in manhattan. in years past i've been on the track of three men of the name of theodore whitelaw, one in portland, maine, one in new orleans, and one in vancouver; but there's reason for thinking that all three were one and the same man. he was a scotch sailor, who died on the pacific coast, and was never known to be in or about new york longer than the two or three days in which his ship was in port." he came to the circumstances, largely gathered from tom himself, of the association of the woman with the child. she had harped on the statements, first, that she had not stolen him; secondly, that he was not to think that his name was whitelaw. and yet on the night before her death she had not only given him that very name, but claimed it as legally her own. the boy--the man, as he was now--could remember that at different times she had called herself by different names, chiefly to escape detection for her thefts; but never before that night had she taken that of whitelaw. those who had worked on the case, the most skilful investigators in the country, were driven to a theory. it was a theory based only on the circumstantial, but so broadly based that the one unproven point, that which absolutely showed identity, seemed to prove itself. lucy coburn, feeble in mind from birth, half demented by the death first of her husband and then of her child, had prowled about the park, looking for a baby that would satisfy her thwarted mother-love. any baby would have done this, though she preferred a girl. "my son, henry elphinstone whitelaw, was born on september , . he was eight months old when on may , , he was wheeled into the park by miss nash, who is still with us. what happened after, as she supposed, she wheeled him back, we all know about." but the theory was that, at some minute when miss nash's attention was diverted, the prowling woman got possession of the child, through means which were still a matter of speculation. she had money, since it was known that five thousand dollars had been paid to her by a life-insurance company on her husband's death, and, therefore, the power of flitting about, and covering up her traces. discovering that she had a boy and not a girl, she had given him the first name she could think of, which was that of her late husband. she could easily have learned from the papers that the child she had stolen was the son of henry theodore whitelaw, though the full name may or may not have remained in a memory probably not retentive at its best. but on the night of her arrest, knowing that she was about to forsake the child for whom she had come to feel a passionate affection, she had made one last wild effort to connect him with his true inheritance. why she had done this but partially was again a matter of conjecture. she may have given all of the name she remembered; she may have been kept from giving the full name through fear. it was impossible to tell. but she gave the name--with some errors, it was true--but still the name. the name taken with the extraordinary family resemblance--everyone would admit that--was one of the main points in the reconstruction of the history. he reviewed a few more of the proofs and the half-proofs, asking at last, timidly, and as if afraid of the family verdict: "well, what does everyone say?" the silence was oppressive. the only movement on anyone's part came when lily stretched out her hand to a tray and with her little finger knocked off the ash from her cigarette. it seemed to tom as if none of them would speak, as if he himself must speak first. "i vote we take him in." this was tad. "since we all know you want him, father--well, that settles it. as far as i'm concerned i'll--i'll crawl down." lily shrugged her slim shoulders. "i don't care one way or another. i've got my own affairs to think of. if he doesn't interfere with me i won't interfere with him." again she knocked off the ash of her cigarette. "have him, if you want to." it was mrs. whitelaw's turn. she sat still, pensive. the clock could be heard ticking. her husband gazed at her as if his life would depend on what she had to say. tom himself went numb again. she spoke at last. "if you're satisfied, henry, i'm satisfied. all i ask in the world is that you--" she gasped her little sob--"is that you shall be happy." rising she walked straight up to tom. "i want to kiss you." when he had bent his head she kissed him on the forehead, formally, sacramentally. she went back to her seat. without moving from his place at the table, whitelaw smiled across the room at tom, a smile of relief and tenderness. "well, what do you say?" tom looked down at hildred, noting her strange expression. it was not a satisfied expression; rather it was challenging, defiant of something, he didn't know of what. but he couldn't now consider hildred; he couldn't consider anyone but himself. he did not change his position, leaning on the white marble mantelpiece; nor was his tone other than conversational. "i'm awfully sorry, sir--i'm sorry to say it to you especially--but it's--it's not good enough." with the slightest possible movement of the head hildred made him a sign of proud approval. whitelaw's smile went out. "what's not good enough?" "the--the welcome--home." tad spluttered, indignantly. "what the devil do you want? do you expect us to put up an arch?" "no; i don't expect anything. i should only like you to understand that though it isn't easy for you, it's easier for you than for me." tad turned to his father. "now you're getting it! i could have told you beforehand, if you'd consulted me." "you see," tom continued, paying no attention to the interruption, "you're all different from me. you're used to different things, to different standards and ways of thinking. if i were to come in among you the only phrase that would describe me is the homely one of the fish out of water. i should be gasping for breath. i couldn't live in your atmosphere." tad was again the only one to voice a comment. "well, i'll be damned!" tom's legs which had quaked at first, began to be surer under him. "please don't think i'm venturing to criticize anyone or anything. this is your life, and it suits you. it wouldn't suit me because it isn't mine. the past makes me as it makes you, and it's too late now to unmake us. it's possible that i may be harry whitelaw. when i hear the evidence that can be produced i can almost think i am. but if i _am_ harry whitelaw by birth, i'm _not_ harry whitelaw by life and experience. i can't go back and be made over. i'm myself as i stand." still having in his hand the pictures of lucy speight, he held them out. "to all intents and purposes this is--my mother." "and i kissed you!" tom smiled. "yes, but you don't know how she kissed me. i do. she loved me. i loved her. i've tried--i've tried my very best--to turn my back on her--to call her a thief--and any other name that would blacken her--and--and i can't do it." the sleeping lioness in the mother was roused suddenly. leaving her place behind the tea-table, she advanced near enough to him to point to the two photographs. "do you mean to say that--having the choice between--that--and me--you choose--that?" "i don't choose. i can't do anything else. it isn't what you think that rules your life; it's what you love. i'm one of the people to whom love means more than anything else. i daresay it's a weakness--especially in a man--but that's the way it is." "if your first stipulation is love...." "wouldn't it be yours, onora?" "i'd try to be reasonable--when so many concessions have been made." "yes," tom hastened to say, "but that's just my point. i'm not asking for concessions. the minute they must be made--well, i'm not there. i couldn't come into your family--on concessions." whitelaw spoke up again. "i don't blame you." tom tried to make his position clearer. "it's a little like this. a long time ago i was coming along by the hudson in the train. i was on my way to new york with the man who had adopted me, after i'd been a state ward. there was a steamer on the river, and i watched her--coming _from_ i didn't know where--going _to_ i didn't know where. and it came to me then that she was something like myself. i didn't know what port i'd sailed from; nor what port i was making for. but now that i'm twenty-three--if that's my age--i see this: that once in so often i touched at some happy isle, where the people took me in and were good to me. it was what carried me along." the mother broke in, reproachfully. "happy isles--full of convicts and murderers!" "yes; but they were happy. the convicts and murderers were kind. a homeless boy doesn't question the moral righteousness of the people who give him food and shelter and clothes, and, what's more, all their best affection. what it comes to is this, that having lived in those happy isles--awhile in one, awhile in another--i don't want to go ashore at an unhappy one, even though i was born there." springing to his feet, tad bore down on him. "do you know what i call you? i call you an ass." "very likely. i'm only trying to explain to you why i can't be your brother--even if i am--your brother." "it's because you don't want to be--and you damn well know it." "that may be another way of putting it; but i'm not putting it that way." lily rose languidly, throwing out her words to nobody in particular. "i think he's a good sport, if you ask me. i wouldn't come into a family like us--not the way we are." "wait, lily," whitelaw cried, as she was sauntering out. he too got to his feet. "you've all spoken. you've done the best you could. i'm not blaming anyone. now i want you all to understand--" he indicated tom--"that this is _my son_. i know he's my son. i claim him as my son. not even what he says himself can make any difference to me." tom strode across the room, grasping the other's hand. "yes, sir; and you're my father. i know that too, and i claim you on my side. but we'll stop right there. it's as far as we can go. i'll be your son in every sense but that of--" he looked round about on them all--"but that of being your heir or a member of your family. i can't do that; but--between you and me--everything is understood." he got out of the room with dignity. passing tad, he nodded, and said, "thanks!" to lily he said, "thank you too. it was bully, what you said." reaching the mother whom he didn't know and who didn't know him, he bowed low. sitting again behind the tea-table, she lifted her hand for him to take it. he took it and kissed it. her little soblike gasp followed him as he passed into the big dim hall. he had taken no leave of hildred, because he knew she would do what actually she did; but he didn't know that she would speak the words he heard spoken. "i'm going with him, dear mrs. whitelaw; but i shan't be long. i just don't want him to go away alone because--because i mean to marry him." xlvii as they went down the steps she took his arm. "tom, darling, i'm proud of you. now they know where we stand, both of us." "it was splendid of you, hildred, to play up like that. it backs me tremendously that you're not afraid to own me. but, you know, what i've just said will put us farther apart." "oh, i don't know about that. father said we couldn't be engaged unless you were acknowledged as mr. whitelaw's son; and you have been. he never said anything about your being mrs. whitelaw's son. this is a case in which it's the father that counts specially." "but i couldn't take any of his money beyond what i earned." "oh, but that wouldn't make any difference." they crossed the avenue and entered the park. they entered the park because it was the obvious place in which to look for a little privacy. all the gay sweet life of the may afternoon was at its brightest. riders were cantering up and down the bridle-path; friends were strolling; children were playing; birds were flying with bits of string or straw for the building of their nests. to tom and hildred the gladness was thrown out by the deeper gladness in themselves. "but you don't know how poor we'll be." "oh, don't i? where do you think i keep my eyes? why, i expect to be poor when i marry--for a while at any rate. i expect to do my own housework, like most of the young married women i know." "oh, but you've always talked so much about servants." "yes, dear tom, but that was to be on a desert island where we were to be all alone. we shan't find that island except in our hearts." "but even without the island, i always supposed that when a girl like you got married she...." "she began with an establishment on the scale of ours in louisburg square, at the least. yes, that used to be the way, twenty or thirty years ago. but i'm sorry to say it isn't so any longer. talk about revolution! we've got revolution as it is. with rents and wages as they are, and all the other expenses, why, a young couple must begin with the simple life, or stay single. i'd rather begin with the simple life, and i know more about it than you think." he laughed. "so i see." "oh, i can cook and sew and make beds and wash dishes...." they sauntered on, without noticing where they were going, till they came to a dell, where in the shade of an elm there was a seat, and another near a heart-shaped clump of lilacs, all in bloom. they sat in the shade of the elm. they were practical young lovers, and yet they were young lovers. they were lovers for whom there had never been any lovers but themselves. the wonderful thing was that each felt what the other felt; the discoveries by which they had come to the knowledge of this fact were the first that had ever been made. "oh, tom, do you feel like that? why, that's just the way i feel." "is it, hildred? well, it shows we were made for each other, doesn't it, because i never thought that anyone felt like that but me?" "well, no one ever did but me. only tom, dear, tell me when it was that you first began to fall in love with me." "it was the night--a winter's night--five, six, seven years ago--when i found guy in a mix-up with a lot of hoodlums in the snow." "and you brought him home. that was the first time you ever saw me." "yes, it was the first time i ever saw you that i began...." "and i began then, too. since that evening, there's never been anybody else. oh, tom, was there ever anybody else with you?" tom thought of maisie. "not--not really." "well, unreally then?" as he made his confession she listened eagerly. "yes, that _was_ unreally. and you never heard anything more about her?" "oh, yes. when i was in boston a few weeks ago i went to see her aunt. she told me that maisie had been married for the last two years to a traveling salesman she'd been in love with for a long time, and that she had a baby." the thought of maisie brought back the thought of honey; and the thought of honey woke him to the fact that he had been on this spot before. "why--why, hildred! this is the very bench on which miss nash and the other nurse were sitting--" "when you were stolen?" "when somebody was stolen." he looked round him. "and there's miss nash over there!" on the bench near the lilacs miss nash was seated with a book. "we ought to go and speak to her," hildred suggested. miss nash received them with her beatific look. "i saw you leave the house. i thought you'd come here. i followed you. i had something to do, something i swore to god i'd do the day my little boy came back. i'd--" she held up a novel of which the open pages were already yellowing--"i'd finish this. _juliet allingham's sin_ is the name of it. i was just at the scene where the lover drowns when my little boy was taken. i've never opened the book since; but i've kept it by me." she rose, weeping. "now i can finish it--but i'll go home." sitting down on the seat she had left free for them, they began to talk of the scene of the afternoon, which as yet they had avoided. "i hope i didn't hurt their feelings." "they didn't mind hurting yours." "they didn't mean to. they thought they were generous." "which only shows...." "but _he's_ all right. hildred, he's a big man." "and you really think he's your father, tom?" "i know he is. everything makes me sure of it." "well, then, if he's your father, she must be your mother." "yes, but i don't go that far. it isn't what must be that i think about; it's what _is_." she persisted in her logic. "and tad and lily must be your brother and sister." "they can be what they like. i don't care anything about them." "it's only your mother that you don't...." he got up, restlessly. it was easier to reconstruct the scene which honey had described to him than to let her bring what she was saying too sharply to a point. "it was over here that the baby carriage stood, right in the heart of this little clump." she followed him into it. "miss nash and the other nurse were over there, where we were sitting first. and right here, just where i'm standing, the queer thing must have happened." "are you sorry it happened, tom?" "you mean, if it actually happened to me. why, no; and yet--yes. i can't tell. i'm sorry not to have grown up with--with my father. and yet if i had, i should have missed--all the other things--honey--and perhaps you." "oh, you couldn't have missed me, i couldn't have missed you. we might not have met in the way we did meet, but we'd have met." he hardly heard her last words, because he was staring off along the path by which they themselves had come down. his tone was puzzled, scarcely more than a whisper. "hildred, look!" "why, it's mr. and mrs. whitelaw. she's changed her dress. how young she looks with that kind of flowered hat. i remember now. they always come here on the tenth of may. they've been here already this morning. lily told me so. i know what it is. they're looking for you. miss nash has told them where we are. i'm going to run." "don't run far," he begged of her. "i can't imagine what's up." he stood where he was, watching their advance. it was not his place to go forward, since he wasn't sure that he was wanted. he only thought he must be when, as they reached the bench beneath the elm, whitelaw pointed him out and let his wife go on alone. she came on in the hurried way in which she did everything, her great eyes brimming, as they often were, with unshed tears. at the entrance among the lilacs she held out both her hands, their diamonds upward, as if he was to kiss them. he took the hands, but lightly, barely touching them, keeping on his guard. "harry!" the staccato sentences came out as little breathless cries torn from a heart that tried to keep them back. "harry! you--you needn't--love me--or be my son--or live with us--unless--unless you like--but i want you to--to let me kiss you--just once--the way--the way your other--mother--used to." [illustration: chickens and "poetry." page .] the martin and nelly stories. nelly's first schooldays. by josephine franklin. author of "nelly and her friends." boston: fred'k a. brown & co., publishers, cornhill. . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by brown and taggard, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. riverside, cambridge: stereotyped and printed by h. o. houghton and company. list of the "martin and nelly stories." i. nelly and her friends. ii. nelly's first schooldays. iii. nelly and her boat. iv. little bessie. v. nelly's visit. vi. zelma. vii. martin. viii. cousin regulus. ix. martin and nelly. x. martin on the mountain. xi. martin and the miller. xii. trouting, or gypsying in the woods. contents. page chapter i. milly chapter ii. "melindy" chapter iii. comfort's neffy chapter iv. "let's make friends!" chapter v. chickens and "poetry" chapter vi. getting lost nelly's first school-days. chapter i. milly. not very far from nelly's home, stood a small, time-worn, wooden house. it was not a pleasant object at which to look. a few vines that had been trained over one of the front windows, and a stunted currant-bush which stood by the door, were the only green things within the broken fence. in summer, the cottage looked bald and hot, from its complete exposure to the sun (no trees grew near to shade it), and in winter, the rough winds rattled freely around its unprotected walls. in this house lived a family by the name of harrow. it consisted of the widowed mother, a woman who had once moved in a far higher sphere of life, and her two daughters, milly and elinor. there was a son, too, people said, but he did not live at home, having had the ingratitude, some time before the harrows moved to the village, to desert his home and run away to sea. mrs. harrow and her children were very poor. no one knew but themselves how hard they found it to get work enough to earn their daily bread. the neighbors, among whom they were much respected, had long supposed from many outward signs that the family had no means to spare, but they were far from conjecturing that often, the mild, patient-looking mrs. harrow, and her two gentle girls, were losing their strength from actual famine. the little money they had, came to them through their own exertions; their needle-work was celebrated far and near for its delicacy and exquisite finish. in that small neighborhood, however, the sewing which was brought to them to undertake, did not amount to much, and the prices, too, were low, and provision-rates very high. at last, just as despair was dawning on the household, elinor, the eldest daughter, heard of a situation as domestic in the family of a farmer, who lived over the mountains, near nancy's old home. the poor girl's pride was dreadfully wounded at the thought of applying for such a place, she a lady born and bred, but necessity knew no law, and a few days only elapsed before pretty miss elinor was located at the farm as a servant. it was a hard trial; mournful tears forced themselves from her eyes whenever she gave herself time to think about such a state of affairs. the farmer was a poor, hard-working, painstaking man, and his wife was quite as thrifty and industrious, so that between them they managed to lay by a little money, every year, in the savings bank. when elinor came to them, the bustling farmer's wife could not realize that the tall, pale, elegant-looking creature was not quite as able to rub and scrub from morning to night as she was herself. she did not take into consideration that the girl was unaccustomed to much hard labor, and that her frame was not equal to the burdens that were put upon it. the consequence was that when elinor went to her room at night, she was too completely worn out to sleep, and in the mornings, rose feeling sick and weary. she did not complain, however, but went about her duties day after day, growing gradually more pale and feeble, and storing in her system the seeds of future disease. when the farmer's wife saw her moving slowly around her tidy, spotless kitchen, she thought her a lazy girl, and often told her so in a loud, sharp tone, that was a very great trial to hear patiently, which elinor always did, and then set about working more steadily than ever. so the weeks went on, till, one morning, the maid of all work was missing from her place. she had been seized with a sickness, that had long been secretly hanging over her, and now she could not rise from her bed. martin, a boy who lived at mr. brooks', told nelly that miss elinor fell at her post like a sentinel wounded on duty. when the doctor came, he informed the farmer and his wife that their servant had lost the use of her limbs, through an affection of the spine, which had been brought on by lifting too heavy burdens, and she was indeed as unable to move hand or foot to help herself as a baby could be. her mind, however, was not impaired. the farmer thought it would have been fortunate if it had been, for she seemed to suffer such terrible mental anguish about her misfortune, and the new care and misery she was bringing on her mother and sister. the farmer took her home in his wagon, a confirmed cripple. her mother and milly helped him to carry her up to her old bedroom, and there she lay, suffering but little pain, it is true, but at the time of our story, having no hope of recovery. the days were very long to elinor now. she despised herself for ever having repined at fate before. what was all she had endured previously, to this trial? there was no light work of any kind, not even sewing, which she could do, as she lay on her bed, and this made the time seem longer. she was forced to be idle from daylight till dark. she could have read, it is true, but she had no books, and to buy any was an extravagance, of which, with the scanty means of the family, she did not allow herself to dream. the neighbors were shocked to hear of elinor's misfortune. they visited her, and at first, sent her little delicacies to tempt her appetite, but by and by, although they pitied her as much as ever, they forgot her in the events of their own domestic circles. one very cold winter night milly came into mrs. brooks's kitchen, and asked comfort, a colored woman who worked for the family, where her mistress was. comfort promptly led the way to the sitting-room, where grouped coseyly around the centre-table were the different members of the farmer's family. a bright fire blazed on the hearth, and the woolen curtains were tightly drawn to keep out the winds that whistled around the farm-house. at the sight of this picture of comfort, milly's pretty lips quivered. she took kind-hearted mrs. brooks aside. "dear mrs. brooks," said milly, "i _must_ say it; we are starving! elinor lies dying with cold and hunger, in her bed. mother has not tasted a mouthful since yesterday, and she is so proud she would not let me beg. what _are_ we to do? i have run over here to ask your sympathy and aid, for we have not one friend to whom we feel as though we might apply." tears gathered in milly's eyes. "and pray," said the farmer's wife, "what do you consider _me_, milly, if not a friend? you ought not to have delayed so long in this matter. i feel really hurt. why did you not come to me before?" she led the way into the kitchen that the young girl's sad tale might not draw upon her too close attention from the children. milly harrow sank upon a seat, before the fire on the hearth, and wept such bitter, heart-breaking tears as it is to be hoped no one who reads her story has ever known. she was a gentle, refined, well-educated girl of twenty, and had met much more sorrow than happiness. "milly," said the farmer's wife kindly, and advancing as she spoke, from the open door of the pantry, "come here to the table and see how a bit of this roast fowl tastes. and try this glass of currant wine,--you need not be afraid of it, it is home-made. while you are busy with it, i'll get a little basket ready, and put on my cloak to run over with you when you go back." milly blushed crimson. it was difficult to her to learn the hard lessons of poverty. nevertheless, she ate some bread and cold chicken, and was quite ready to praise the delicate wine for the grateful warmth it sent thrilling throughout her frame. when she had finished, mrs. brooks was ready to accompany her, and comfort too, having received private instructions, stood with her shawl over her head, and a large basket of wood in her hand. so they set out together, milly leading the way, the snow crunching under their feet, along the path. in a short time, a bright fire was burning in patient elinor's room, while the remains of a little feast on a table in the centre, showed that the family suffered no longer from the pangs of actual starvation. elinor was bolstered up in bed, looking like a wan, despairing woman of fifty, instead of a girl of twenty-two. care and sickness had aged her before her time. a faint, sweet flush was dawning on her cheeks to-night, however, for she was not now enduring hunger, and mrs. brooks sat there by the cheerfully blazing hearth with her mother and sister, and talked hope into all their hearts. "i tell you what it is, mrs. harrow," said the farmer's wife, in a pleasant, hearty tone, "we must set this milly of yours to work. things ought not to go on this way with your family any longer." "work!" echoed milly, a little bitterly. "i've seen the time, dear mrs. brooks, when i would have given anything for a month's work. only tell me something to do, and see how grateful i shall be." "well," said the farmer's wife, "the darkest hour is just before day, milly; who knows but that yours is now over, and dawn is coming. i have been thinking about your opening a school." mrs. harrow clasped her hands eagerly. "oh, if she could! oh, if she could!" she cried. "but who would think of sending their children to us, when there are already two or three other schools in the village?" "miss felix is just giving hers up, and is going to the city," said mrs. brooks. "i know it to be a fact, because i went to see her about taking nelly last week. that will be quite an opening. i can go to her to-morrow, get a list of her pupils, and call on the parents to secure their good-will, if you say so, milly." milly could scarcely answer for sobbing. at last she said in a broken voice, "dear, dear mrs. brooks, this is more than i have any reason to hope. how can i ever repay you for your kindness?" "by taking good care of nelly when i send her to you as your first pupil," was the cheerful reply. "and now let me see what are your accommodations. you must have our martin for a day or two, to knock you together some long benches with backs, and comfort can help you cover and cushion them with some old green baize that i have in the garret. what room can you give to the use of the schoolmistress, mrs. harrow?" "well," said the old lady, smiling for the first time in a month, "the front room, down-stairs, is best, i think, because it opens directly on the road. i can take the furniture out, (what there is of it!) and clean it up like a june pink, in a day or two." "the carpet is rather shabby and threadbare," suggested milly. "and little pegged shoes will soon spoil it completely," added mrs. brooks. "i should say a better plan will be to take it up entirely. a clean board floor, nicely swept and sanded every morning, is plenty good enough. what books have you, milly?" "all my old school-books, and brother's, and elinor's too," said the young girl. "that will do to begin on till the pupils purchase their own." "i could teach french," put forth elinor's voice from the bed,--"that is, if it would answer for the class to come up here. you know, mother, i used to speak it fluently when i was at madame thibault's. don't you think i might try? my voice and my patience are strong, if _i_ am not;" and she smiled, oh, such a smile! it brought tears into the eyes of all in that poor, little, desolate apartment. "try!" said the farmer's wife; "why, elinor, that is just the thing for you! you may count _me_ as one in your class. it was only yesterday i was regretting having no opportunity to practise what little of the language i know already. we must arrange your room a little, ellie, and have everything looking spruce, and frenchified, eh?" at this elinor herself began to cry. "you are so, s-o-o g-o-o-o-d," she exclaimed. "good! not at all!" said mrs. brooks; and by way of proving how far from good she was really, she hopped up like a bird, and was at the bedside in a minute, smoothing out the pillows and kissing elinor's pale forehead. "i'll take my first lesson to-morrow afternoon," she said, "if you have no objections; and your kind mother here, can begin to profit herself at once by your labor, and send over to our meal-bag and dairy as often as she pleases." chapter ii. "melindy." mrs. brooks fulfilled her promise, and so faithfully did she work in the good cause, that a dozen little pupils were engaged for miss milly's school before preparations were fairly made to open it. these did not take long, however, as miss felix, the teacher, who was going away, sent to mrs. harrow's house two long forms of desks and benches, with her compliments and best wishes to milly for her future success. milly fairly began to dance around the room, in the new joy of her heart, on receiving this, to her, valuable present. "everybody," she said, "must not be so kind to us, or i shall have a sickness brought on by too much happiness." poor milly! she had so long had a "sorrow-sickness," that the present good fortune was almost too much to endure. for a week she went about cleaning, and sweeping, and dusting, and making ready generally, for the great event, the opening of her school. singing as gayly as a lark, she moved furniture up-stairs and down, and debated over and over again upon the best arrangement for effect. the front room was to be especially devoted to the use of her class. the carpet was removed, and thoughtful miss felix's desks and benches placed in it, along the walls. mrs. brooks sent an old white muslin dress to be made into window-curtains, and martin spent a whole day in forming a little platform out of boards, on which, when covered with green baize, the teacher's table and chair were to rest. even elinor's sick-chamber assumed a different aspect. one day, when mr. brooks was in the village on business, he stepped into a paper-hanger's, and chose a cheap, but pretty paper for the lime-washed wall. it was very cheerful-looking, being formed of alternate stripes of white and rose-color; "for," said the farmer, when he reached home, "i warrant miss elinor grows tired of seeing the same cracks in the plaster, year in and year out. she must have something new and gay, like this, that will help to keep her spirits up!" mrs. harrow and the farmer's wife pasted this paper on the walls themselves, with a little assistance from nelly, who stood ready to lift benches, hand the scissors back and forth, and give any other slight aid of which she was capable. the house was only one-story high, with a garret, so elinor's room had a slanting roof and a dormer window. mrs. brooks said it would be a great improvement, if the striped paper were pasted on the ceiling too, and joined in the peak with a wood-colored border resembling a heavy cord or rope. this made the place look, when it was done, like a pink canvas tent. the change was wonderful. an imitation of a pair of tassels of the same color and style as the rope border, which the paper-hanger, hearing of the design, sent to the house as a present to miss elinor, when pasted carefully at each end of the peak, against the wall, made the illusion perfect. elinor said she lived in the tent of kindness. the neighbors who came in to inspect all these preparations, said elinor's was the very prettiest dormer-room they had ever seen. there was enough left of the old dress to curtain the single window, which being done, everything was at last pronounced to be in a state of readiness. and now we must go back to nelly, who, i suppose, some of my readers remember, is the adopted daughter of mr. and mrs. brooks. nelly had known much sorrow in her short life, as will be seen on reference to the little story called "nelly and her friends." she had never experienced what it was to be loved by father and mother till now; and when the farmer and his wife began to teach her to call them by those sacred titles, she felt herself a very happy little girl. she was delighted at the prospect of attending school. she had never been to one, and, therefore, perhaps, the novelty of the thing was half the attraction. when the important day arrived, and the child found herself seated in the class-room with twelve or fourteen other little folks, she was filled with awe and dismay, so much so, that she scarcely dared turn around to take a good look at her next neighbor, a girl of twelve, in the shy dread that she might be caught in the act, which circumstance would, doubtless, have occasioned her much confusion. miss harrow did not give her pupils any lessons to learn this first morning. she said, as no one had books, it should be a day of pleasure and not of work, and on the morrow they would begin to study in earnest. so, during the whole morning, the children drew funny little pictures on slips of paper, which were handed them for the purpose of amusing them; and in the afternoon, the teacher made them pull their benches close to the fire, in cosy rows, while she told them stories. as, with the deepest interest, nelly gravely listened, she came to the conclusion that this was just the best school of which she had ever heard, everything was _so_ pleasant. there was a little dark-haired boy in a blue jacket, who sat near, and who whittled her pencil, oh _so_ sharp, every time she blunted it! she told comfort, in confidence, when she went home, that this little boy's pictures were quite as good as any martin could make. he drew ships under full sail, oh, beautiful! and as for those men, squaring off to fight, up in the corner of the paper, they made you think at once of uz and buz the two roosters, that quarrelled every morning in the barnyard, about which should have the most corn. in a week or two, however, nelly's rapture abated somewhat; and one day she came home with her books in her hands, and threw herself on one of the chairs in the kitchen, crying heartily. "heyday," cried comfort, looking up from the fire, over which she was broiling a fish. "heyday, what ar's the matter now?" "o comfort," cried nelly, "she struck me, she struck me, before them all!" "what!" cried comfort, standing erect with surprise. "miss nelly's been for whippin' a'ready? why, nelly, shame, shame! dis yer conduct is oncommon bad of yer." "it wasn't miss harrow, at all," said nelly, reddening; "it was that horrid, old thing, melindy." "oh, melindy," echoed comfort, in a tone of relief. "yes," continued nelly, "she tries to get me to laugh in school, every day. she makes eyes at me, big, round ones, _so_, comfort." comfort chuckled. "i don't wonder yer laugh, if she does that way, chile." "but that isn't all," added nelly indignantly. "she chews paper-balls, and sends them over the room, right at the tip of my nose. sometimes they stick there a second or so, till i can put up my hand; and then the scholars giggle-like. oh, you've no idea, comfort, what an awful girl melindy is. she punches me, too." "punches, nelly?" "yes, and to-day, when school was out, she gave me _such_ a whack,--right in my ribs; shall i show you how, comfort?" "no, thank yer," answered the old woman, laughing. she had a cause for being good-humored that day. "but why whack such a little critter as you be, nell?" "oh," said nelly, hesitating, "_she_ knows." something in her manner made comfort suspicious. she sat down and called nelly to her. taking hold of both her hands, she looked her full in the eyes. "speak the truff," she said; "didn't yer whack melindy _fust_?" "yes," said nell, with a curious mixture of honesty and triumph, "i did, comfort; i gave her a _good_ one, _i tell you_! i didn't stop to think about what i was doin' till i felt her whackin' o' _me_ back again." "then she sarved yer right," said the old colored woman, going back to her fish, "and i hope she'll treat yer so every time yer begin the aggrawation." "but she snowballed _me_ first, and called out that i was nobody's child, and was taken out of the streets, and such like. i couldn't stand _that_, anyhow. i _had_ to whack her, comfort." "no you hadn't," said comfort, sternly, and at the same time gesticulating earnestly with the fish-fork. "it wasn't your part to do any punishin', whatsomever. leastways, no punishment but one." "and what's that?" demanded nelly, making large a's and o's in the steam that had settled on the windows. here martin suddenly put down a big newspaper he had been reading in a corner, and which had hidden him entirely from view. "have you so soon forgotten your old rule of good for evil, nell?" he asked. "don't you know that is what comfort means?" comfort nodded at him approvingly. "but melindy is ugly, _powerful_ ugly, martin," said nell, coloring, "and anyway she _will_ knock all us little girls. it's born in her. i think she must have been meant for an indian, that pulls the hair off your head, like mother told us about. doing good to melindy is just of no account at all." "did you ever try it?" asked martin. "well, no-o. you see i could tell it was of no use. and miss harrow, she stands melindy on a chair with a paper cap on her head, every day, at dinner-time." "poor girl," said martin, "i am sorry for her." "i'm not," said nell, promptly, "it keeps her from mischief, you know." martin was silent. comfort began to sing a tune over her fish, interrupting herself at times with a low, quaint laugh, as though particularly well pleased with some thought. "what's the matter, comfort?" asked nelly. "oh, nuthin'," was the answer; "i guess i'm not very miserable to-day, that's all;" and off she went in a chuckle again. "nelly," said martin, after another grave pause, "you used to be a better girl than you are now. last summer, about the time marm lizy died, you tried ever so hard to be good, and you improved very much indeed." "i know it," said nell, a little sadly, "and i would be good now, if it wasn't for melindy porter. ever since i've been to school i've felt hard and wicked. she torments and worries me so, that i think sometimes there's no use in tryin' to be good at all. i do and say wrong things, just when i don't mean to, all along o' melindy." "if you and melindy were friends, you wouldn't feel so, would you?" "i s'pose not, but who wants to be friends with anybody like _that_?" was the ready retort. "still, you would rather be friends than enemies, nell, wouldn't you? you would prefer that this little girl"-- "big one, ever so big," interrupted nelly, quickly. "you would prefer that this big girl, then, should bear you no malice, even if you didn't like her, and she didn't like you. isn't it so?" "well, yes. i would like to have her stop pinchin' and pullin' the hairs of all o' us little ones. that's what i'd like, martin." "that's easy done, nelly," said martin in a confident tone. "easy, martin? how easy?" "_be kind to her._ show her that you bear her no ill feeling." "but i _do bear her ill feeling_, martin! what's the good of fibbing about it to her? i can't go to her and say, 'melindy, i like you ever so much,' when all the time i despise her like poison, can i? i am sure that wouldn't be right." "no," broke in comfort, "that ar wouldn't be right, martin, for sartain." martin looked a little puzzled. "but, comfort," he said at length, "i don't want her to speak pleasantly to melindy till she _feels_ pleasantly. _that's_ the thing. i wouldn't have nell _act_ an untruth, a bit more than i'd have her tell one. but i _do_ want her to try to _feel_ like givin' melindy a little good for her evil." martin said this with such a pleading, earnest look, smiling coaxingly on nelly as he spoke, that, for the moment, the heart of the little girl was softened. "well, martin," she said, "you are _always_ preachin' ar'n't you? but it's nice preachin' and i don't hate it a bit. some day, when i get real, _awful_ good, you'll leave off, won't you? i'll think about melindy, and may-be i can screw my courage up to not mind bein' cracked at by her." "pray for them that uses yer spitefully," said comfort with solemnity. nelly seemed struck by this. "what, pray for melindy?" she asked meditatingly. "chil'en," said the old woman, "don't never forget that ar mighty sayin'. yer may be kind and such like to yer enemys, but if yer don't take time to _pray_ for his poor ole soul's salvation, you might as well not do nuthin'. that's the truff, the gospil truff." "well," said nell with a deep sigh, "i'll pray for melindy then, and for that bad, little johnny williams, too, to-night when i go to bed; but i shall have, oh, comfort, _such_ hard work to _mean_ it, _here_!" and her hands were pressed for an instant over her breast. the next morning, just as nelly was starting for school, martin drew her, mysteriously, aside. "which hand will you have, nell?" he asked, holding both behind him. "this one," she said, eagerly, touching the right hand, in which she had caught a side glimpse of something glittering like burnished gold. martin smilingly extended towards her a small, oval box, covered with a beautiful golden paper. "how very, very lovely," cried nell, opening it. "it is yours," said martin, "but only yours to give away. i want you to do something with it." "can't i keep it? who must i give it to?" "melindy!" "oh, martin, i can't, i just can't,--there!" "then you don't wish to make her good, nell! you want her to be cruel and wicked and hard as long as she lives!" "oh no, no, i don't wish that _now_. i _prayed_ for her last night." the last sentence was added in a very low tone. "you refuse then?" she looked at him, sighed, and turned away. martin put his box in his pocket, and walked off in the direction of the barn. at dinner-time, nelly came home quite radiant. lessons had gone smoothly. miss harrow had praised her for industry at her books, "and, would you believe it, martin," she added in an accent of high satisfaction, "melinda didn't make but two faces at me all the whole morning! wasn't that nice? they were pretty bad ones, though,--bad enough to last! she screwed her nose all up, this way! well, if you'll give me the box now, i'll take it to her this afternoon. i don't feel hard against melindy at all, now." martin brought it to her after dinner, with great alacrity; and nell walked very slowly to school with it in her hands, opening and shutting the lid a dozen times along the road, and eyeing it in an admiring, fascinated way, as though she would have no objection in the world to retain possession of it herself. it was a hard effort to offer it to melinda. so pretty a box she had never seen before. "i mean to ask martin," she thought, "if he cannot find me another just like it." near the door of mrs. harrow's little house, nelly encountered her tormentor, quite unexpectedly. she was standing outside, talking in a loud, boisterous way to two or three of the other children. melinda was a tall, rather good-looking girl, of about fourteen years of age. she was attired in a great deal of gaudy finery, but was far from being neat or clean in appearance. at the present time, a large, freshly-torn hole in her dress, showed that in the interval between schools, she had been exercising her warlike propensities, and had come off, whether victor or not, a little the worse for wear. her quilted red silk hood was now cocked fiercely over her eyes, in a very prophetic way. nelly knew from that, as soon as she saw her, that she was in a bad frame of mind. not daring to speak to her then, nelly was quietly proceeding towards the door of the school, when with one or two tremendous strides, melinda met her face to face. "how did you like the big thumping i gave you yesterday?" she asked, with a grim smile. nelly walked on very fast, trying to keep from saying anything at all, in the fear that her indignation might express itself too plainly. "why don't you speak up?" cried melinda. still nelly went on in silence. melinda walked mockingly side by side with her, burlesquing her walk and serious face. at last, irritated beyond control, melinda put out suddenly one of her feet, and deliberately tripped up her little schoolmate, who, before she could even cry out, found herself lying flat on her nose, on the snow. the attack was made so abruptly, that nelly had no time to see what was coming. confused, stunned, angry, and hurt, she raised herself slowly to her knees and looked around her. there was at first, a dull, bruised feeling, about her head, but this passed away. something in the deadly whiteness of her face made melinda look a little alarmed, as she stood leaning against the wall, ready to continue the battle, if occasion required any efforts of the kind; but knowing well, in the depths of her cowardly heart, that, as the largest and strongest child at school, her victims could not, personally, revenge themselves upon her, to any very great extent. looking her companion in the eyes, like a hunter keeping a wild animal at bay, nelly staggered to her feet. she had meant to be so good that day! and this was the encouragement she received! truly, the influence of melinda on nelly's character was most pernicious. all the evil in her nature seemed aroused by the association. tears, not resulting from physical pain, but from the great effort she still made to control her temper, rose to her eyes, as she saw a sneering smile on melinda's countenance. till now she had striven to bear martin's advice in mind; but as this sneering smile broke into an ill-natured laugh, nelly's self-control gave way. her face burned. she tossed the little golden gift, with disdainful roughness, at her persecutor's feet, and said, in a gruff, and by no means conciliating voice,-- "there's a box for you, melindy. and martin says i mustn't hate you any more. but i do, worse than ever! there!" melinda gave a contemptuous snort. she walked up to the little gilt box, set her coarse, pegged shoe upon it, and quietly ground it to pieces. then, without another word, she pushed open the school-room door, entered, and banged it to again, in poor nelly's red and angry face. the child leaned against the house and cried quietly, but almost despairingly. "i wanted to be good," she sobbed; "i wanted to be good so much, but she will not let me!" chapter iii. comfort's neffy. "comfort," said nell, that night, leaning her head on her hand, and looking at the old woman sideways out of one eye, as she had seen the snowbirds do when they picked up the crumbs every morning around the kitchen door, "comfort, can't you tell me what you were laughing about yesterday afternoon, when you were br'iling of the fish for tea?" "yes," said comfort, "i think i can." nelly sat waiting to hear the expected revelation, yet none came. comfort was busy with her pipe. she paused every now and then to puff out great misty wreaths of bluish-gray smoke, but she didn't condescend to utter one word. "comfort," said nelly, getting impatient, "why don't you tell me, then, comfort?" "tell yer what, chile?" "what you said you would." "i never said i _would_; i said i _could_. be more petik'lar with yer 'spressions, nelly. and 'sides that, yer hadn't oughter say '_br'iling_ fish.' missus don't. leave such words to cullu'd passons, like me." "well, but tell me," persisted nelly, smilingly, brimming with the curiosity she could not restrain. "i know it was something good, because you don't often laugh, comfort." "no," said comfort, "that ar's a fact. i don't 'prove of little bits o' stingy laughs, every now and then. i likes one good guffaw and done with it." "well," said nelly, "go on. tell me about it." "yer see," said comfort, taking her pipe from between her lips, and giving a sudden whirl to the smoke issuing from them, "yer see, nelly, i was laughin' 'bout my neffy." "your neffy, comfort? what's that?" "lor! do tell! don't yer know what a neffy is _yet_? i didn't 'spect yer to know much when yer was marm lizy's gal, but now, when mrs. brooks has adopted of yer, and sent yer to school to be edicated, we look for better things. don't know what a neffy is, eh?" "no," said nelly, looking somewhat disturbed. "tell me, comfort. is it something that grows?" "grows!" screamed comfort, bursting into a laugh that certainly was not a stingy one; "grows! goodness! hear this yere chile! ho, ho, ho! i--b'lieve--i shall--crack my poor ole sides! grows! oh my!" "you mustn't laugh so, comfort," said nelly, with dignity, "you make me feel,--well, leastways, you make me feel real bad." "oh dear, dear," mumbled the old woman in a faint voice. "that does beat all! why, see here, nelly,--s'pose now, i had a sister once, and that ar sister got married and had a little boy, what ought he to call _me_, eh?" "why, his aunt comfort, to be sure," was the reply. "and i ought to call him neffy john, or johnny, for short, oughtn't i? well, it was 'bout my neffy johnny i was laughin' yesterday. now i'll tell yer how it was, sence i've done laughin' 'bout him to-day,--oh my! you see, johnny is a slave down south, ever so far off, on a rice plantation." "_slave?_" repeated nelly, with growing interest; "what's _slave_, comfort?" "oh, somethin' that grows," answered comfort, chuckling. "a slave is a black man, woman, or chile that has a marster. this _marse_, as we call him, can sell the slave to anybody for a lot o' money, and the poor slave, as has been a t'ilin', strivin' soul all his days, can say nuthin' ag'in' it. it's the _law_, yer see." "comfort," said nelly, "stop a minute. do you think that is a right law?" "no," said comfort, "i can't say as i does. some marsters are good, and some, on the contrary, are oncommon bad. now my little neffy has a good 'un. ever sence his poor mammy's death, i've been savin' and savin', and t'ilin' and t'ilin', to buy johnny and bring him north, 'cause i set a good deal on him. this ere good marse of his agreed to let me buy him, when he was nuffin' but a baby; and he's been keepin' of him for me all this yere long time." "i'm glad i'm not johnny," said nell, earnestly; "if bein' a slave is getting bought and sold like a cow or a dog, a slave is just what i don't want to be. hasn't johnny any relations down there, comfort?" the old woman shook her head. "i'm the only one of his kin in the 'varsel world." "poor little fellow!" said nelly meditating; "i don't wonder you want to buy him. how old is he?" "twelve year." "and you've got enough money, comfort?" a bright smile beamed suddenly all over that dark face. "ho!" she cried, "that ar's just what i was laughin' at yesterday. i want only a leetle more, and 'deed, my neffy will have no marse ag'in,--only a missus, and that'll be _me_, thank the lord!" the old colored woman tossed her apron over her head, and from the odd puffing noises that immediately began to sound from behind it, nelly supposed she was weeping. she thought she must have been mistaken, however, the next moment, for comfort pulled down the apron a little savagely, as though ashamed of having indulged in such a luxury as a private groan or two, and in a stern voice bade nelly go up in her (comfort's) room, feel under the bolster, on the side nearest the wall, and bring down to her the foot of a stocking which she would find there. "and don't let the grass grow under yer feet, neither," said comfort, by way of a parting benediction, as the child softly closed the door. it was reopened almost immediately, and nelly's smiling face appeared. "i say, comfort." "well chile, what now?" "i'm real, _real_ sorry for that little neffy of yours you've been tellin' me about. and, comfort, when he comes i'll be as good to him as i can. i was thinkin' i would knit a pair of gray, woollen stockings to have ready for him, shall i? how big is he?" "'bout your size," replied comfort. "the notion of them stockings is quite nice. i'm much obleeged to yer, nelly." nelly looked delighted, and started to go up-stairs once more. in about a minute and a half, her face was peering into the kitchen again. "comfort, i guess i'll knit a red binding at the top of the stockings, to look handsome, shall i?" "why, yes," said comfort, mightily pleased; "that will make 'em smart, won't it?" "a red yarn binding," continued the little girl, "knit on after the stocking is toed off,--a binding full of little scallops and such like!" "laws, chile," said comfort, benignantly, "i sorter think yer might stop short of them scallops. neffy won't be anxious about scallops, i reckon, seein' as how he has only wored nater's stockings so far, with no petik'lar bindin' at all, that i knows on. come, now, mind yerself and run up-stairs. i can't be wastin' all my time, a-waitin'." nelly shut the door, and went singing up-stairs, two at once, while the old woman employed her valuable time in smoking her pipe. in a short time eager, young footsteps were heard dancing along the entry, and into the room came nelly, looking as happy as though for her there existed no ill-natured schoolmate in all the world. "here it is!" she said, holding triumphantly up the foot of an old stocking, ragged at the edges, but scrupulously clean,--the same in fact, from which comfort had once given her a small gift of money; "here it is, comfort; but didn't i have a powerful hunt for it! i dived under the bolster and under the mattrass,--at the foot,--at the head,--at the sides,--and then i found it on the sacking. hear how it jingles! what fun it must be to earn money, comfort! do look at my hair,--if i haven't got it full of feathers, poking among your pillows!" sure enough, starting up all over her curls were gray and white downy particles. "laws sakes," exclaimed comfort, helping her to pick them off, "that ar hole must a broke loose ag'in in my bolster! i can sew it up every saturday night, and sure as i'm livin', it bursts ag'in monday mornin'." "that's 'cause your brain is too heavy; you've got too many thoughts in it, perhaps," laughed martin, who entered at that moment, and began to stamp the snow from his feet on the kitchen doormat. "o martin," cried nell, "see how rich comfort is! she has saved that fat stocking full of money, to buy her neffy." "buy her neffy!" repeated martin, unbuttoning his overcoat. "yes, he's a slave, you know." "no," said the boy, "i don't know, nelly; i never even heard of neffy before." "oh, his _name_ isn't neffy, martin. oh, no, not at all," said the little girl, with an air of importance. "he is called john, and comfort is going to buy him, and i am to begin a pair of stockings for him to-morrow." comfort held up her bag half full. "this yere is my money-box," she said, overflowing with satisfaction. "_box!_" repeated nell. "why, it is not a _box_ at all, comfort. it's the foot of a worn-out stocking." the old woman turned upon her a little grimly, "stockin' or no stockin' i _calls_ it my money-box, and that's enough. box it is." "that's funny," said nelly; "i don't see much good in calling a stocking a box as long as it is a stocking." "well, i does," said comfort, sharply; and with some of the old ill-temper she once used to vent so largely on nell, she snatched up the bag, and giving it a toss upon a pantry shelf, slammed the door with a mighty noise. for a little while silence descended on the group. it was an uncomfortable silence. no one in the room felt happy or at ease. of such power is a single ill-natured expression! comfort was restless, because her conscience reproached her, while at the same time nelly was experiencing secret remorse for having irritated her by thoughtless words. perhaps martin wray was more distressed than either of his companions, at what had taken place. his was naturally a peaceable disposition, and he could not bear to witness scenes of discord. the sight of his pleasant face saddened, did not tend to make little nell feel happier. she longed to have him reprove her, or exhort her, as he so often did, to better behavior; but martin sat in his chair by the fire, sorrowful and mute. nothing was heard but the hissing of the burning wood on the wide hearth, and the whistling sounds and muffled roars of the wind without. it was too much to bear this any longer. nelly got up with a long, penitent face, and hovered rather wistfully around the chair where comfort sat, still smoking her pipe. the old domestic had taken advantage of the fact of her eyes being half closed, to pretend that she did not see the little figure standing at her side, on account of just going off into a most delightful doze. she even went so far as to get up a gentle, extempore fit of snoring, but nelly was not to be deceived. "comfort," she said, in a mild, quiet voice. no answer, excepting three exceedingly distinct snores. "com_fort_," was repeated, in a louder tone. "what!!" growled the old woman, opening her eyes so suddenly that the child started back. comfort began to laugh, however, so nell felt no fear of having disturbed her in reality. "i am sorry i said that wasn't your money-box, comfort. i didn't mean to contradict, or such like. it was all along o' my contrary temper, and if you'll forgive me, i'll try not to act so again." the old colored woman appeared a little confused. "'deed, honey," she said, "yer haven't done nuthin' wrong; it's all _me_. i dunno what gits into me sometimes. well, now, hand me that ar plaguey stocking, and i'll let you and martin count my money." nelly smiled, looked delighted at being restored to favor, and flew to the pantry. the bag was on too high a shelf for her to reach, however, and she had got the poker and was in the act of violently punching and hooking it down, as she best could, her eyes and cheeks bright with the exertion, when martin--the sadness quite gone from his face--advanced to help her. comfort took the bag from him, and with a grand flourish, emptied it on the vacant table. the flourish was a little _too_ grand, however, and much more effective than comfort had intended. the shining silver dollars, with which the stocking was partially filled, fell helter-skelter on the table, and many of them rolled jingling and glittering over the floor. nelly laughed and scrambled after them, martin shouted and tumbled down on hands and knees to help find them, while the owner, quite dismayed, stood still and did nothing. "'deed, 'deed!" she said; "how could i be so keerless? but there's thirty of 'em, and thirty i'll find." before the children knew what she was about, she seized the broom and began to sweep the rag-carpet with great nervous dashes, that had no other effect than to raise a tremendous dust. [illustration: "comfort relinquished the broom at this, and began to count." page ] "stop!" cried martin; "don't sweep, please, comfort; nelly and i will find them for you. that dust just goes into our eyes and blinds us. if you are sure there were thirty, it is easy enough to search till we make up the number." comfort relinquished the broom at this, and began to count; as fast as the children found any of the coins they dropped them into her lap. "twenty-six, twenty-seven," she said, at length; "three more, and we've got all the little shiners back." "here's two," cried martin, "behind the dust-pan." "and here's the thirtieth," exclaimed nelly, "sticking out from under your shoe, comfort! how funny!" and so, laughing, the children saw comfort's money-box bulge again to its original size. "that ar's only my last five months' wages. mrs. brooks paid me yesterday," said the old woman, proudly, as she tied the stocking together with a piece of yellow, time-stained tape. "i've got three hundred jes' like 'em in a bank in the city; and when with a little extry t'ilin' and savin', i git in all, three hundred and fifty, my neffy will never be a slave no more!" here the kind voice of mrs. brooks was heard calling the children into the sitting-room. "good-night, comfort," said martin; "i wish _i_ had thirty dollars; yet i do not envy you yours, one bit,--no, not one bit!" "yes," added nell, rising to go, "and _i_ don't envy either, but i wouldn't mind owning another stocking just like that. and, comfort, i am going to ask mother to let me set all the eggs of my white bantam hen, early in the spring; and i'll _sell_ the chickens and give you the money to help buy your neffy." chapter iv. "let's make friends!" the beams of the afternoon sun streamed gayly through the windows of miss harrow's school-room, and fell, like a crown of light, on the head of the young teacher, as she sat at her desk making copies for her pupils. it was writing afternoon, and on this particular occasion, that which was considered a high reward was to be given to the most diligent child. whoever showed the greatest interest, neatness and industry, was to be allowed to remain for a few hours after the closing of the school, in order to make a wreath of evergreen to decorate a certain picture in miss elinor's apartment. the christmas holidays were near, and the little school-room had already received, at the willing hands of the children, a thorough dressing with laurel, pine, and hemlock-boughs. it had been for a week past the great delight of the pupils to weave, after school-hours, festoons for the whitewashed walls, and garlands for miss milly's desk. many were the regrets that the work was now almost over. miss elinor's gentle ways had, from the first, made her a great favorite. there were never any rebellions, any doubtful conduct, in the few classes she undertook to hear recite in her sick-room. her very infirmity endeared her to the hearts of her scholars. this wreath for an engraving that hung at the foot of her bed, was the only christmas-green elinor desired to have placed in her apartment, and on that account, as well as from devotion to her personally, many pairs of little hands were eager to achieve the honor of the task. very patient, therefore, were their youthful owners with their writing, this afternoon,--very exact were they to cross the t's, dot the i's, and avoid pens, as melinda expressed it, "that scratched like sixty." miss milly had done very wisely in holding out this reward, for never before had such attention and such care been visible in the class. nelly sat at her high desk, as busy and as excited to win as any child there. her copy-book lay before her, and though she had not as yet reached beyond "pot-hooks and trammels," she was quite as likely to come off victor as those who wrote with ease and accuracy, because it was not a question of penmanship, but of neatness and industry, as i have already said; for the first quality, the books themselves were to speak; and miss milly's watchful eyes were the judges of the latter, as, from time to time, she raised them from her own writing and scanned the little group. scratch, scratch, scratch went the pens, and papers rustled, and fingers flew about their work till the hour being up, miss milly rang her bell as a signal for perfect silence. "it is time to put away your pens, children," she said, in a clear voice; and at once they were laid aside. nelly was just placing her blotting paper between the leaves of her writing-book, when a sorrowful exclamation near her made her turn her head. this exclamation came from melinda, who sat a few benches off. her eyes were fixed with a look of most profound distress on a large blot which a drop of ink from her pen had just left in the centre of the day's copy. her sleeve had accidentally swept over it too,--and there it was, a great, black disfigurement! and on this afternoon of all others! melinda wrote a very pretty hand. she was an ambitious girl, and had done her very best, that she might win the prize. nelly saw the tears rise in her eyes, and her cheeks flush with the bitterness of her disappointment. "oh, dear!" cried lucy rook, a little girl, who sat next; "oh, dear! there's a blot, melindy!" "yes," was the answer; "i wonder if i could scratch it out, so that the page will look neatly again. lucy, lend me your knife, will you?" mistress lucy looked straight at melinda, and laughed a little cruel, mocking laugh. in the rattle of papers and temporary confusion of the room, she thought herself unheard by the teacher. "who wouldn't play tag, yesterday, eh?" asked lucy. "who spoiled the game; did you hear anybody say?" "why, i did, i s'pose," spoke melinda roughly; "and what of it?" "i guess i want my knife, myself, that's all," was lucy's reply. "i don't think i could conclude to lend it to-day," and she laughed again. nelly involuntarily put her hand in her pocket, where lay a little penknife nancy had given her, as a keepsake, a few weeks before. the thought flashed through her mind, "shall i, or shall i not?" and the next moment she reached over, and the little knife was glittering on melinda's blotted copy. she did not speak; she only blushed, and smiled, and nodded pleasantly, to show her good-will. melinda looked at her with a frowning brow. then a better impulse seemed to prevail; she glanced gratefully back at nelly, and taking up the penknife began to give some doleful scratches over the blot. presently, however, miss milly's command was heard from the desk: "all arms to be folded!" melinda, with a sigh, folded hers, and sat like a picture of despair. the books were then collected, and examined carefully, while the scholars began to prepare to go home. nelly was quite ready, when she was startled by hearing miss milly pronounce her name to the school as the winner of the prize. "i find," said miss harrow, "that almost every child has taken unusual pains to-day, in writing; and i am pleased to see it, i can assure you. where all have been so careful, it is very difficult to find one who stands highest; nelly box, however, i think deserves the reward. never, before, has she evinced such diligence and patience; hoping that she will always do as well in future, i give her permission to go up to miss elinor's room to begin the wreath, at once. elinor will give you instructions, nelly, and perhaps tell you some little story while you are busy with your task." at first nelly's face shone with delighted triumph, at the news of her success. but in a little while she began to realize that many of the pupils were sorely disappointed at this award not falling on themselves, and the thought dampened her ardor. she had reached the door to leave the room, when miss milly added: "melinda, i am glad to see that you, too, have been attentive and anxious to do well. if it were not for this huge blot, i should have given the palm to you." "i couldn't help it," said melinda, eagerly. "i was just folding it up, when it happened. i am as sorry as can be." "are you?" said miss milly, kindly. "yes," broke in nelly, with honest warmth; "and it was an--an _accident_, as i think they call it, miss milly. the girls who saw it, say so. the ink just dropped right down, _ker-splash_." melinda held down her head and looked conscious. "well, then," said the good teacher, smiling at the "_ker-splash_," "if it was an accident, i think we will have _two_ wreath-makers, instead of one. melinda may go up-stairs with nelly, if she wishes, and both are to be very quiet and orderly, for miss elinor is not quite as well as usual, to-day." melinda glanced towards nelly, and was silent. she did not like to go, under such circumstances as these. she wished the honor of making the wreath, it is true, but she did not desire that distinction to be bestowed upon her as _a favor_. she felt galled too, that this very favor was accorded to her through nelly box's means,--little nelly, whom, every day, she had been in the habit of cuffing about as though she were an animal of totally inferior condition. she happened to raise her eyes, however, and they fell on the glad, beaming face of this same nelly box, who stood waiting for her. it was so evident that nelly's good-will towards her was sincere, it was so plain that this little schoolmate of hers desired to be friends with her, and to forget and forgive all the unpleasantness of the past, that melinda could not resist the good impulse which impelled her onward. a feeling of shame and awkwardness was all that hindered her from accompanying nelly up-stairs at once. she stood looking very foolish, her glance on the floor, and her fingers twitching at the upturned corner of her apron. "come, melinda," said miss milly, in a gentle, but brisk tone; "don't keep nelly waiting." the young girl could resist no longer. she smiled, in spite of herself, a great, ear-to-ear, bashful, happy, half-ashamed smile, and followed nelly slowly up-stairs to miss elinor's room, where they found her bolstered up in bed, as usual, and quite ready to give them instructions how to form her wreath. a sheet was already spread in the middle of the floor, and on this was a pile of evergreens. "what, _two_!" said miss elinor, smiling, as they entered. "i am glad to see you both, although i expected but one. how is your mother, melinda?" "better, ma'am," said melinda; "she is coming to see you next week, if she is well enough. what shall we do first, miss elinor?" the sick girl told the children how to begin, and, half sitting up in bed as she was, showed them how to tie together the fragments of evergreen with strings, so as to form the wreath. at first, the girls thought it hard work enough. the little sprays of hemlock would stand up, as nelly termed it, "seven ways for sunday," and all they could do did not bring them into shape. miss elinor could not help them much more than to give directions. she lay looking at them from her bed, half amused, and entirely interested in the proceedings. "dear, dear!" said melinda, after she had endeavored several times, quite patiently for her, to force a sprig to keep its place; "dear me, i don't think we can ever make this 'ere wreath look like anything but father's stump fences. just see how that hemlock sticks out!" "well," said miss elinor, "i like to see stump fences, very much indeed, melinda. i think they are beautiful. the great roots look like the hands of giants, with the fingers stretched out to grasp something. so you see, i don't mind if you make my wreath look like them." "father says stump fences are the very best kind," remarked melinda, knowingly. "i guess not the _very best_, melindy," nell ventured to say. "yes, they are," persisted melinda, with a toss of her head; "father says they last _forever_,--and he _knows_, for he has tried 'em!" the young teacher smiled, and turned away her head. "did you ever see a church dressed with evergreens, miss elinor?" asked one of the children. "often," said the sick girl; "not here, in the village, but in the city. i have not been able to attend church much since we have been here. they entwine garlands around the high pillars, and put wreaths of laurel over the arched windows. the reading-desk and pulpit have their share too, and above the altar is placed a beautiful cross. sometimes the font is filled with delicate white flowers, that are renewed each sabbath as long as the evergreens are permitted to remain." "i wish i could see a church looking like that," remarked nelly, stopping in her work, and looking meditatively about her. "miss elinor," said melinda, "what do they mean when they say 'as poor as a church-mouse?' why are _church_-mice poorer than house-mice?" "because," was the reply, "in churches there are no nice pantries, filled with bread and meat, for the little plagues to feed upon. no stray crumbs lie on the floor,--no pans of milk are to be found at which to sip. so, you see, church-mice _have_ a right to be considered poor." "well," said melinda, "how funny! i never thought of that before." "once," continued her teacher, "i saw an odd scene with a church-mouse. i'll tell you about it. i was visiting in the country, a great many miles from here; such a kind of country as you can have but a faint idea of, unless you should see it yourself. it was out west. the houses there are not like those you have always been accustomed to see, but are built of the trunks of trees. they are called log cabins. the gaps, or holes, between these logs are filled with mud and moss, which keep out the rain in summer, and the wind and snow in winter." "what do they do for windows?" asked nell. "some of them have none,--others make an opening in the logs; a small shutter, hinged with stout leather, is its only protection in time of storms. glass is too expensive to be used, for the people are very poor. well, i was visiting once a family who lived in one of these log huts. it was somewhat better than its neighbors, certainly, and much larger, but it was not half as comfortable as the little house we are in. it was in october, and i remember as i lay awake in bed, at night, i felt the autumn wind whistle over me. it makes my nose cold to think of it," laughed elinor. "when sunday came, i was surprised to find that, although the church was five miles distant, no one thought of staying at home. "'what!' said my uncle, 'do you think, elinor, we are short-walk christians? no indeed,--five miles through the woods is nothing to us when a good, sound sermon, and a couple of beautiful hymns are at the end of it!'" "it was your uncle, then, you were visiting?" questioned melinda. "yes; he had moved out west some years before, bought a farm, and built himself a log cabin. he lives there now, and is fast making a fortune." "is he?" said nell. "did you go to the church, miss elinor, in the woods?" "yes; no one stayed at home. we had the dinner-table set before we started, which was early, on account of the distance. i think it was about half past eight o'clock in the morning (for we did not want to hurry), when uncle shut the cabin door, and saw that everything was right." "didn't you lock it?" asked melinda. "lock what?" "the door." "no. not a man, woman, or child thinks of locking doors, out in that wild country. thieves don't seem to be found there, and everybody trusts his neighbor. if a tramper comes along, he is welcome to go in and help himself to whatever he wants. it is not an unusual thing on reaching home, after an absence of an hour or so, to find a poor, tired traveller, asleep in his chair, before the fire. besides," said miss elinor, with a twinkle in her eyes, "there is another excellent reason why the farmers out there never think of locking their doors." "oh, i know!" cried melinda; "i know!" "well, why is it?" "they have no locks!" and the two children began to laugh as if they had never heard anything so funny in all their lives. "i like that," said nell; "i want to live in just such an honest country, and where they are good to poor travellers, too. that's the splendid part. i feel as if i wanted to settle there, this very minute. well, miss elinor, don't forget about going to church." "we got off the track so, i had nearly forgotten what my story is about," said miss elinor. "we started very early to go to church. uncle had no wagon, so driving was out of the question; but he had a beautiful mare called 'lady lightfoot,' and an old side-saddle, which my aunt had owned ever since she was a girl. it was settled that my aunt and i were to take turns riding on lady lightfoot, so that neither should get too fatigued. uncle and cousin robert were to walk, and lightfoot's pretty little long-legged colt ambled in the rear. my aunt took the first ride, and i was talking quietly to uncle and robert, when i saw, bounding along a rail fence at the side of the road, the old fat cat, wildfire. her name just suited her, for she was one of the most restless, proud, affectionate, daring cats i had ever seen. "'why!' i exclaimed; 'see wildfire on the fence! she will get lost,--we must send her home.' "'lost, eh?' said cousin robert; 'i reckon not. if any one can lose wildfire, i'll give him a treat in the strawberry patch next summer, and no mistake.' "'but what shall we do?' i asked; 'we don't want her to go to church with us. make her go home, robert, do.' "'not a bit of it,' said robert, laughing; 'did you never see a cat go to meeting before? wildfire has attended regularly, every summer, for the last three years. she always follows us. the minister would not know how to preach without her.' "'but,' said i, 'how it must look! a cat in church! a dog would not be so bad. but a cat! go home, wildfire!' and i took off my red shawl and shook it at her, and stamped my foot. "robert laughed again, and told me it was no use; that they had often tried to send her back, and sometimes had fastened her up, but that she almost always broke loose, and would come bounding after them, kicking her heels in the air, as though to show her utter defiance of any will but her own. when i shook my shawl at her, she just rose quietly up on her hind legs, and while her green eyes darted flames of anger, she ruffled her fur as cats do when attacked by dogs, indicating as plainly as possible that go she would; and go, indeed, she did. robert saw i was mortified at the thought of walking to meeting in company with a cat, and he told me i needn't be ashamed, because the churches out there were vastly different from those i had been in the habit of attending. 'women,' said he, 'who can't afford them, come without hats, and men, on hot days, walk up to their seats in their shirt-sleeves, with their house-dogs tagging after them. i counted ten dogs in meeting once. the animals seem to understand the necessity for good behavior, for they are as quiet as their masters; perhaps more so, sometimes. they lie down under the seats of their friends, and go to sleep, only opening their eyes and mouths now and then to snap at some flies, buzzing around their noses. wildfire does the same. our bench is near the door, and we could easily put her out if she did not behave as becomes a good, well-reared cat. if people didn't _know_ that she followed us each sunday, they would never find it out from her behavior in meeting-time.' "seeing there was no help for it, and understanding there was no fear of mortification, i dismissed the thought of wildfire from my mind. shortly afterwards, my aunt dismounted to give me my turn. cousin robert helped me on, handed me the lines, and gently touching lady lightfoot with my twig-whip, i began to trot a little away from the party. the road was magnificent. none, my dear children, in our village can compare with it. the earth was smooth and hard, and but very little broken by wheels. something in the character of the soil kept it generally in this condition. we had just entered the woods. overhead the stately branches of old trees met and laced themselves together. it was like one long arbor. scarcely any sunshine came through on the road, and when it did, the little wavy streaks looked like threads of gold. the morning was mild and cool, almost too cool for the few autumn birds that twittered their cheerful songs far and near. i was enjoying myself very much, when, suddenly, i heard a snorting noise just beside me. i could not imagine what it was. i looked down, and there--what do you think i saw?" "wildfire!" cried the two children. "yes, it was wildfire, on the full trot, snorting at me her delight in the race. i slackened my pace, and the cat and i walked peaceably all the rest of the way to the meeting-house. "when we arrived there, i was as much surprised as amused at the scene which presented itself. the church was a nice, neatly-painted building, in the midst of a small clearing." "clearing?" said nell. "a clearing is a piece of ground from which the trees have been removed. one or two young oaks, however, were left in this instance, to serve as hitching posts, if any should be required, which was very seldom the case. "many of the farmers of the vicinity had arrived when we got there. they had unharnessed their animals and left them to graze around the meeting-house, a young colt accompanying almost every turn-out. at the first glance i thought the spot was full of colts, such a frisking and whisking was going on around the entrance. one impertinent little thing even went so far as to poke its head in the door-way and take a survey of the congregation. "some of the families who attended there, came from ten to fifteen miles,--for the country was by no means thickly settled. a large dinner-basket, nicely packed under the wagon-seat, showed which these families were. "all the people were more or less roughly dressed; none were attired in a way that looked like absolute poverty. "cousin robert aided me to dismount, left lady lightfoot and her colt free to graze with the other animals, and with aunt and uncle we went in the church. the walls were plaster, with no lime or wood-work to improve their appearance. behind a pine desk at one end of the room sat the minister. a bunch of white pond-lilies, which some one had just given him, rested beside the bible lying before him." "and wildfire,--where was wildfire?" asked nelly, with great eagerness. "she followed us in, very demurely, and the moment that her favorite, robert, sat down, she curled herself in a round, soft ball at his feet, and went to sleep. i was soon so interested in the sermon that i forgot all about her. the minister's text seemed to have been suggested by his flowers. it was 'consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; and yet, i say unto you, that even solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. wherefore, if god so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, o ye of little faith?' the sermon was not well delivered, because of the lack of knowledge in the preacher, but it was pure and sound, and full of a true, tender, and loving regard for the welfare of that people in the wilderness. the heartiness with which all present joined in the closing hymn, proved that the effect of the discourse was a good one on the congregation. just as the last note died away, my attention was suddenly attracted to a little moving object near the door. i looked twice before i could realize that it was a mouse. it peered about with its pretty, bright eyes, as if it were too frightened and bewildered to know what to do next. it was a little thing, and must have strayed unknowingly away from its companions. "from a slow, stealthy sound, that came all at once from cousin robert's feet, i knew that wildfire had seen it too, and was preparing an attack. the minister was pronouncing the final benediction, however, and i did not dare to look around, for fear of attracting attention. scarcely was the closing word uttered, when there was a sudden spring from the cat, and a shrill squeak on mousey's part. proudly lashing her tail, like a panther, wildfire laid her victim, in an instant, dead at her young master's feet, (we sat very near the door, i believe i told you,) gazing in his face with such an air of triumph, and such an anxious request for praise in her glittering eyes, that cousin robert, very thoughtlessly, as it seemed to me, stooped and patted her head." "did she eat it?" asked melinda. "no," replied the sick girl; "she left it lying there, on the floor, and followed us unconcernedly out, as if there were not such a thing as a mouse in the world. she had no desire to be left behind." "perhaps," said melinda, "as it was a church-mouse, she thought it too poor to eat. i wish i had such a cat as wildfire, miss elinor." "and so do i," cried nelly. "i'll teach my cat, nancy, to be knowing, just like her. look at the wreath, miss elinor! hasn't it grown handsome while you were telling about wildfire? it don't seem a bit like a stump fence now, does it?" it was, indeed, very beautiful. miss elinor raised herself on her elbow and said so, as she looked at it. all that it wanted now, she told them, was a few scissors clips on the ends of the longest sprays, to make them even with the others. melinda leaned it against the wall, and clipped away with great care and precision. nelly stood gazing at it lovingly and admiringly. before the children were quite ready to go home, miss milly came in and hung the precious wreath on a couple of nails which she drove for that purpose, over the picture, for which it was intended. it represented a little bare-footed gypsy-girl dancing a wild, fantastic dance, with her brown arms flung gracefully out, and mischief and innocent fun gleaming in her black eyes. "of all the engravings i have ever seen," said miss elinor, "this one is the best calculated for an evergreen frame. thank you, dears, for making it. i hope each of you will pass a merry christmas and a happy new year." as the two children went down the stairs together, nelly said, "isn't she good, melindy?" melinda was not accustomed to behave herself for so great a length of time; her stock of good conduct was now pretty nearly exhausted, so she answered rather sharply, "of course she is. i know that as well as you, without bein' told." nelly felt something choking her in her throat. "_i will not_," she said firmly to herself, "i will not answer back. i'll do as martin says, and make a friend of melindy, if i can. she isn't so very bad, after all. why, i do believe i rather like her." they gathered their books together in the school-room. melinda opened the door first, to go. "well, good-bye," she said, gruffly, looking back at nell. "good-bye," replied nelly; and then she added, bravely, "oh, melindy, we needn't quarrel any more, need we? _i_ don't wish to, do you? let us be friends; come, shake hands." melinda turned very red, indeed. "i am not going to be forced to make friends with any one," she said, in a most forbidding voice. she gave the school-door a terrific bang as she spoke, and darted off homeward. but in that last rough action the final trace of the ill-will she bore nelly disappeared forever. the next morning, as the family were sitting at breakfast, there came a knock at the door. comfort, hastily setting her dress to rights, went to answer it. there stood melinda, her school-books in one hand, and in the other, two of the biggest and roundest and reddest apples she had been able to find in all her father's bins. "give them to nelly, if you please," she said. "and i declar'," added comfort, when she came in and told the family, "the minit she spoke that ar' she ran off frightened like, and in a mos' drefful hurry." from that day melinda and nelly were friends. chapter v. chickens and "poetry." spring came again, and deepened slowly towards the summer. leaves budded on the trees, herbs sprouted from the warm earth, and birds sang in all the hedges. "i am _so_ glad!" said nelly; "for i love the spring sunshine, and all the pleasant things that come with it." when the weather grew mild, nelly was as good as her word about raising chickens for the benefit of comfort's nephew, the little slave. the eggs of the favorite hen were carefully put aside to accumulate, and as soon as she had done laying, and went about the barnyard clucking, with her feathers ruffled and her wings drooping, nelly knew, with joy, that it was time to set her. so she filled the same nest in which the eggs had been laid, with clean, fresh straw, and placed them in it, ready for the bantam when martin could catch her to put her on. they found that the hen needed no coaxing, but settled herself at once in the well-filled nest, giving at the same time an occasional cluck of high satisfaction. in three weeks from that time she came off with eleven chicks,--all safe and well. when she was put in her coop, under the big apple-tree by the fence, nelly fed her with moistened indian meal, every day. she thought it a pretty sight, when biddy minced up the food for her babies, and taught them how to drink out of the flower-pot saucer of water that stood within her reach. nelly seemed never to get tired of looking at her little snow-white pets. she felt that they were her own, and therefore she took a double interest in them. when she was home from school, and lessons were studied for the next morning, she would go out to the apple-tree, and sit on the clean grass an hour or two, to watch every movement of the brood, and the solicitude of the caged mother when her offspring wandered too far away. one day in particular, as she sat there, the child's thoughts were busy with the future; her imagination pictured the time when full-grown, and more beautiful than any others, as she thought they were sure to become, her eleven chickens were to be sent to market. "i hope," she said half aloud; "i hope they will bring a good price, for comfort's sake; i should not like to offer her anything less than five dollars. that is very little, i think, compared to all the trouble i have had night and morning to feed and take care of them." she stopped a moment, and heaved a deep sigh, as she saw the little yellow dots flit back and forth through the long grass, some of them running now and then to nestle lovingly under the wings of the mother. "oh dear!" she went on; "i do believe i am getting to love my hen and chickens too much to part with them; every day i think more and more of them, and all the while they grow prettier and sweeter and tamer. i wish i could keep them and have the money too! dear little chickies! oh, comfort, comfort!" she pronounced the last two words so ruefully, that her mother, who was passing along the garden-path, near the apple-tree, called out,-- "well, nelly dear, what is the matter with your precious comfort, eh? has she met any great misfortune?" "no, ma'am," said nelly; "i was only talking to myself about how hard it would be to sell the little chickens, even for dear comfort's sake, when i love them so." mrs. brooks drew near. "well, my child, that is a dilemma i have not thought of before. perhaps, who knows, something will turn up to keep your darlings nearer home. when autumn comes, if i feel desperately in want of bantams, i may purchase your brood myself,--but i will not promise about it. in the meantime, don't get to loving them too much; and remember, that if you told comfort you would give her the money, you must keep your word." "yes," said nell, with another sigh; "there is just my trouble; i want to be honorable to comfort, and kind to myself too." mrs. brooks passed on. she went into a little vegetable garden beyond, found what she wanted, and came back. she paused again, and with the little girl, looked at the chickens. "nelly," she said, "it has just struck me that you have been a great deal in the kitchen with comfort, lately, of evenings. now, though i respect and love comfort for many things, i want you to stay more with your father, and martin, and myself, in the sitting-room." "what?" nelly cried, in innocent wonder; "isn't comfort good any longer?" mrs. brooks smiled. "yes, dear, comfort's as good as ever. she tries to do her duty, and is a faithful old creature. she has many excellent qualities, but she is not educated nor refined, as i hope one day _you_ will be. you are too young to be exposed to her influence constantly, proper as it may be in most respects. i want you to fill a different rank in life from comfort's, nelly." tears were in nelly's eyes as she answered gravely, "yes, ma'am." "comfort is a servant, and you are my little daughter. i want you to be diligent, and cultivate a love of books. if you grow up in ignorance, you can never be esteemed a lady, even if you were as rich as an empress. i will give you the credit to say that you have improved very much since you have been with me, both in your conduct and in the language you use." "comfort told me i mustn't say 'br'iling fish,' as she did, because _you_ did not! _that_ was kind of her, wasn't it?" mrs. brooks felt her eyes moisten at this unexpected remark, more, perhaps, at the tone than at the words themselves. she saw that nelly was deeply attached to comfort, and she felt almost that she was wrong in seeking to withdraw the child from the grotesque attraction she had lately seemed to feel for her society. but duty was duty, and she was firm. she stooped and imprinted a light kiss on nelly's cheek. "yes," she said, "comfort is very kind to you. but i do not wish you to spend more time with her when you are out of school than you do with the rest of the family. remember not to hurt her feelings by repeating to her this conversation." "yes, ma'am," said nelly; and then she added, "comfort was going to show me how to write poetry, to-night, when she got through with her work. couldn't i go in the kitchen for this one evening?" "comfort--teach--poetry?" echoed mrs. brooks, with some dismay and amusement. "yes, ma'am." "well,--yes,--you may stay in the kitchen, if you like, for this once. certainly, i have no objection to your learning to write poetry," and she walked away, laughing quietly. surely enough, when night fell, and comfort, radiant in a showy, new, red cotton turban, sat down to her knitting,--her day's work over, everything in its place, and the kitchen-floor white with extreme cleanliness,--nell came skipping into the room, pencil and paper in hand. "you see," she said, as she arranged her writing materials on the table, and drew the solitary tallow candle towards her; "you see, comfort, school breaks up next week, and the spring vacation begins. it lasts a month, only think of it! will not i have good times, eh? johnny bixby,--you know johnny bixby, comfort? well, he goes to his home in the city as soon as vacation commences, and as we may not see him again, he wants each of the little girls to write him some poetry so that he can remember us by it; and that's the way i come to want to learn how." "oh," said comfort, "i understand now. johnny boards with those ar harrowses, eh?" "yes," said nell; "and he's such a very quiet boy, you've no idea, comfort." "he's the fust _quiet_ boy ever _i_ heerd on, then," said comfort. "weel, what do you want to say to johnny in your poetry? that's the first and important p'int; don't begin to write till you finds what you are a goin' to say." "oh, i want to tell him good-bye, and all that sort of thing, comfort, and how i hope we will meet again. i've got the first line all written; that's some help isn't it? melindy's and my first lines are just alike, 'cause we made it up between us." "how does it go?" asked comfort, puffing at her pipe. "this way," said nelly, taking up her paper and reading: "our days of youth will soon be o'er." "well," said comfort, after a moment's reflection, "i think that's very good. now you must find something to rhyme with that ar word 'o'er.'" nelly bent over her papers, and seemed to be considering very hard indeed. once she put forth her hand as if she were going to write, but drew it back again. evidently she found writing poetry very difficult work. comfort was looking at her, too, and that made her nervous, and even the solemn stare of the cat, nancy, from the hearth, where she sat purring, added to her embarrassment. "oh, comfort," she said, at last, with a deep sigh; "i can't! i wonder if johnny bixby would take as much trouble as this for me. do tell me what rhymes with 'o'er,' comfort!" "'o'er,' 'o'er,'" repeated comfort, slowly; "why, tore, gnaw, boar, roar, and such like. roar is very good." "but i don't want 'roar' in poetry, comfort," said nelly, considerably ruffled. "i don't see how you can bring 'roar' in. i wonder if 'more' would not do." she took up her pencil, and in a little while, with beaming eyes, read to her listener these lines: "our days of youth will soon be o'er, in harrows' school we'll meet no more." "that's pretty fair, isn't it, comfort?" "'pears like," was the answer that came from a cloud of smoke on the other side of the room. "i'm sorry the 'roar' couldn't come in, though. don't disremember to say something nice about his writin' to tell yer if he gits safe home, and so, and so." "no," said nell; "i'll not"--"forget" she meant to have added, but just then came a heavy knock on the kitchen-door that made both of them start. comfort opened it, and there stood a boy, nearly a man, in the dress of a sailor. his hair was long and shaggy, his face was brown, and over his shoulder swung a small bundle on a stick. he was not, however, as rough as he looked, for he took off his hat and said in a pleasant voice, "can you tell me where a widow by the name of harrow lives in this neighborhood? i was directed this way, i think." "over yonder is the house," said comfort, pointing out into the night. "and the next time yer come, be keerful not to thump so hard. we are not used to it in this 'ere part of the country." nelly heard the young man laugh as he walked down the path from the house; and something in the sound brought miss milly to her mind. the more she thought of it, the more certain she became that the young man's voice was like her teacher's. she sat still a little while, thinking, and idly scratching her pencil back and forth. at length she said, quite forgetful of her writing, "comfort, didn't mrs. harrow's son run away to sea, ever so long ago?" this question, simple as it was, seemed to fill comfort with sudden knowledge. she clapped her hands together joyfully. "my stars! ef that don't beat all! i do b'lieve sidney harrow is come back again!" she went to the door to look after him, but his figure had long since vanished down the path. the gloom of night reigned, undisturbed, without. there was no sailor-boy to be seen. "my stars!" said comfort, again and again; "ef that was only miss milly's brother come back to help keer for the family, instead of runnin' off like a bad ongrateful feller, as he was, i'll be glad for one." "and i'll be glad too," cried nelly; "and then dear miss elinor need not teach, but can read books all day, if she likes, and be happy. oh, kitty, kitty! will not that be nice?" and in the delight of her heart, the little girl caught up the cat from the hearth, and began to caress her in a joyful manner, that the sober puss must have considered rather indecorous, for she sat still in her lap, looking as grave as a judge, and never winked or purred once at her young mistress. here the clock struck nine. "dear, dear!" said nelly; "and i haven't finished my poetry yet! and very soon i must go to bed." back she went with renewed vigor. "what were you saying, comfort, when that young man knocked? oh, i know,--to tell johnny to write to me; i remember now. don't you think it will seem strange to johnny to be with his mother all the time, instead of sending her letters from school? eh, comfort?" but the old woman was lost in her thoughts and her smoking, and did not reply. nelly bent over her paper, read, and re-read the two lines already accomplished, and after musing in some perplexity what should come next, asked, "comfort, what rhymes with b?" "stingin' bee, nell?" "no, the _letter_ b." "oh, that's it, is it? well, let me think. i haven't made poetry this ever so long. there's 'ragin' sea,'--how's that?" said comfort, beginning to show symptoms of getting deeply interested. "now take to 'flectin' on that ar, nell." nell did reflect some time, but to no purpose. some way she could not fit in comfort's "ragin' sea." it was no use, it would not go! she wrote and erased, and erased and wrote, for a full quarter of an hour. after much anxious labor, she produced finally this verse, and bidding comfort listen, read it aloud, in a very happy, triumphant way. then she copied it neatly on a piece of paper, in a large, uneven, childish handwriting, which she had only lately acquired. it was now ready to be presented on the morrow. to johnny bixby. our days of youth will soon be o'er, in harrow's school we'll meet no more; you'll write no more to mrs. b., oh then, dear johnny, write to me! "and now," said nelly, as she folded up the precious paper, after having duly received comfort's congratulations and praise,--"and now i'm going straight to tell mother about sidney harrow." chapter vi. getting lost. the next day, when nelly went to school with her verse-paper in her hand, all ready for presentation, she found the children talking together in little groups, in tones of great surprise and delighted satisfaction. melinda, now grown kind and loving to nelly, as a consequence of that little girl's own patience and affectionate effort, came forward at once to tell the news. "only think!" she said; "mrs. harrow's son, sidney, has come home, and oh, miss milly and miss elinor are _so_ glad!" "and so am i," cried nelly; "if ever there was good luck, that is." "i am not so sure about that," said melinda, with a sage, grown-up air; for she liked to seem like a woman, and often told her companions, "dear knows, if _she_ wasn't big enough to be thought one, she would like to know who _was_!" "why, isn't mr. sidney a nice young man, melindy?" asked nelly, in bewilderment. "hush!" said melinda, drawing her into a corner; "don't talk so loud. you see, he's come home as poor as he went, and folks are afraid that he will go on just as he did before,--that is, spend all his own earnings and plenty of his mother's, too." "dear, dear!" said nelly; "that will be hard for miss milly." "anyway," continued melinda, wisely, "we can hope for the best, you know. miss milly is so glad to have him back, that she came into this 'ere school-room, this very morning, and told the scholars she was going to take them all on a picnic, to-morrow, up yonder, on mr. bradish's mountain. we are to ask our mothers if we can go, and then come here with our dinners in our baskets, and set off together as soon as the grass dries. fun, isn't it?" nelly's eyes danced. "a picnic! well, if that isn't nice! i hope comfort will put something real good in my basket, to-morrow." then she added, thoughtfully, "i wonder if martin might not go, too?" "i'll ask," said melinda; and up she went to miss milly, who at that moment entered. little johnny bixby, a boy of ten, now came up to wish nell good-morning, and talk about the picnic. nelly gave him her poetry, and he read it, and said, "it's splendid, nelly; i'll show it to mother as soon as i get home." the next day came. the skies were clear, but the wind was high, and swayed the branches of the trees around the farm-house, and swept the long, wet grass to and fro. "is it going to storm?" asked nelly, anxiously, of martin, as immediately after breakfast they stood together in the door-way and looked forth. "no," said martin; "i think it will not storm, but the breeze will be a pretty stiff one all day. perhaps miss milly will postpone the picnic." "oh, dear!" cried nelly; "i hope not. what! put it off after comfort has baked us that great, bouncing sponge-cake, martin?" martin was going too, for miss milly had sent him an invitation, and mr. brooks had granted him, very willingly, a holiday. he had only to help milk the cows early in the morning, and then he was free to follow his pleasure till sundown. he was dressed now in his sunday suit; his hair was combed smoothly over his forehead, and his best cloth cap was in his hands. altogether he looked so tidy, so good, so happy, that when mr. brooks came in the room, he asked comfort, with a smile, if she didn't think a lad of about the age of martin ought to have at least a dime of spending money, when he went to picnics. on comfort's saying heartily, without taking one single instant for reflection, "yes, sir," the farmer put his hand in his pocket, drew out a new and bright quarter of a dollar, and dropped it in martin's cap. martin tried to return it, but mr. brooks would not hear to any such thing, but shouldered his hoe and went off, whistling, into the garden. "i'll tell you what to do with it," said nelly, in a confidential whisper; "buy round hearts; they're four for a penny. only think of four times twenty-five round hearts! how much is that, martin?" martin laughed, and said he guessed he would not invest in round hearts, for comfort's cake was so large. "so _monstrous_ large," put in nelly, dividing a glance of affection between comfort and the cake. "yes," continued martin; "it is so _monstrous_ that it ought to last, at least, two whole days." the farmer's wife came in just then, and told them she would pack the dinner-basket herself, to see that everything was right, and that it was full enough, for she said she had heard somebody remark that good appetites were sure to go along on picnics. nelly and martin stood by and looked at her as she unfolded a clean white towel, and outspread it in the basket, so that the ends hung over the sides. after this she took some thin pieces of cold beef and put them between slices of bread and butter, and these she packed away first. now came comfort's sponge-cake, cut in quarters, and as many little lady-apples as remained from the winter's store,--for it was late in the spring. a cup to drink out of the mountain streams was also added, and the towel-ends were nicely folded over the whole and pinned together. a happy pair they were, when they set out,--martin carrying the provisions, and nelly singing and making flying skips beside him. when they reached the school-house, nearly all the children were assembled. miss milly was there, and her brother too, a handsome young lad, of about eighteen, with a very brown, sunburnt face. nelly knew him, the moment she saw him, to be the same person she had seen before. they were not to start for an hour yet, for, high as the wind had been, and was, the grass was still glittering with dew. the little road-side brooks were furrowed into white-crested waves, and the school-house creaked and moaned with the gusts that blew against it. "i am almost afraid to venture taking the children out," said miss milly; but upon hearing this, such a clamor of good-humored expostulation arose, and so many sorrowful "oh's," and "oh dear me's," resounded through the room, that sidney harrow, as any other boy would have done, begged his sister to have mercy and never mind the wind. in a little while the party started. mr. bradish's mountain, the proposed scene of the picnic, was distant about one mile from the school-house. the route to it lay through a long, shady lane that gradually wound towards the woods, and lost itself at last amid the huge, gray rocks and dense shade of the hill-top itself. it was spring-time, and the grass was very green, and delicate wild flowers starred all the road-side. here and there, in the crevice of a mossy stone, grew a tuft of wild pinks, nodding against a group of scarlet columbines, while, wherever the ground afforded unusual moisture, blue violets thrust up their graceful heads in thick masses. "hurrah!" cried johnny bixby, as they reached the summit of the mountain; "hurrah! here we are at last. the picnic's begun!" miss milly said the children might stray around together for some time before it would be the dinner-hour, and they might gather as many wild flowers as they wished, to decorate the picnic grounds. all the girls set to work, and such a crowd of violets, anemones, wild buckwheat, and pinks as was soon piled around miss milly's feet, was a sight to behold. while sidney harrow with martin and the rest of the boys were fishing in a little stream that ran over the mountain, about one quarter of a mile distant, miss milly's party tied bouquets to the branches of the trees, and hung garlands on the bushes, around the spot where they were to dine. the wind died away, the birds sung out merrily, and the air grew soft and warm, so that, after all, there was no fear of little folks taking cold. the brook where sidney and martin led the boys was not a very deep one, and therefore it was not dangerous, but it was celebrated for miles around for its fish. a large, overhanging rock, under the shade of a tree, served, as martin said, for a "roosting-place," and from it they found the bites so frequent that quite a little string of fish was made, and hung on some dead roots that projected from the bank. "what a wild place this is," said martin, looking around him, as he drew in his line for the fourth time. "yes," said sidney; "it is. that is the best of it. i wouldn't give a fig for it if it wasn't. look at that cow coming to drink. i wonder where she hails from! how she looks at us!" the cow did indeed regard them with a long stare of astonishment, and then, scarcely tasting the water, she plunged, bellowing, into the woods again. "she is frightened," said martin; "that's old duchess, one of mr. bradish's cows. he turns them out with their calves every summer, to take care of themselves till fall." "why, is the pasture good enough for that, up here on this mountain?" asked sidney, baiting his hook. "yes," replied martin; "i think so; it's rather rough, but cows are mighty knowin', and pick out the best. besides, they have their freedom, and they thrive on that as much as anything. then the calves are so well grown in the fall by these means, that when farmers, who put them out, go to drive them home to winter-quarters, they hardly know their own again." "there, she's coming back!" cried a little boy; "and a whole lot with her!" martin looked where the crashing of boughs told of the approach, and saw about a dozen cows, headed by duchess, making for that part of the stream where they were fishing. some half-grown calves scampered at their heels, in a frightened way, that showed they were not much accustomed to the sight of human beings. "poor duchess! good duchess!" said martin, in a kind tone; but duchess tossed up her nice, brown nose, and snorted at him. "she don't like the looks of us, that's flat," said sidney, with a little alarm that made martin smile; "i'm sure i don't like _her_ appearance one bit. suppose she should horn us!" and he jumped hastily up from the rock. "what!" said martin; "you, a sailor, who know what it is to face death on the ocean, every day of your life, and yet afraid of a cow! besides, she hasn't a horn to her head! just look at her. she has nothing but two little, miserable stumps!" sidney came back again, for he had retreated a step or two, under the trees, and looked somewhat ashamed. "what's the use of jumpin'?" said johnny bixby, in a big, pompous tone, that he meant to be very courageous and manly; "duchess is only frightened at seeing us. this is her drinking-place, may be." "oh!" said sidney; "of course _i_ am not afraid;" but his lips turned blue as duchess made a sudden move, half-way across the stream, and then stood still, and roared again. "she's a little scared at us, that's all," said martin; "she'll get used to the sight of us pretty soon." "after she's made the water muddy and spoiled the fishing," said sidney, in an ill-natured tone. martin took off his shoes and stockings, rolled up his trousers, and waded slowly across the brook towards the herd of cattle, holding out his hand and speaking to one or two of the animals by name, in a coaxing, petting way: "come here, spotty,--come here, good little white sue,--come here, my poor old duchess!" the cows stood and looked at him, very quietly. the one he called sue, was small, and entirely white, with the exception of a bright red star on her forehead; she was a very pretty creature. she seemed to remember having seen martin before, for presently she marched slowly up to him and sniffed his hand, while staring at him from head to foot. the boy scratched her ears, as he had often done before upon passing mr. bradish's barnyard; she appeared to be pleased, and rubbed her head against his shoulder. "softly, there, susie," said martin; "i don't like that. that's my sunday go-to-meeting coat." he stepped back as he spoke, and the abrupt movement alarmed the whole troop. white sue gave a loud bellow, and dashed abruptly across the stream into the woods on the other side,--her companions hurriedly following, splashing the water over themselves and their calves as they did so. sidney harrow dropped his pole, and with a half-shriek, ran in the opposite direction, towards the picnic ground. as the fishing at that place was now over, on account of the disturbance of the water, martin told the boys they had better join the rest of the party; so they gathered up the fish and bait, and left the spot, martin carrying the rod of the brave sailor in addition to his own. they found miss milly building a fire in a small clearing, where it would not scorch the trees. sidney was with her. as he saw the boys approach he got down on his knees and began to blow the flame into a blaze, and puffed and panted so hard at his work, that he could not even get his breath to say "thank you," when martin remarked, "here is your rod, sidney. you left it on the rock. i'll lean it against this maple, till you are ready to take charge of it." "i am glad you have come," said miss milly to the group of boys; "for we are getting magnificent appetites, and i wanted sidney and martin to roast the clams." "clams!" cried martin; "that was what made sidney's load so heavy, then, coming up the hill. how i like roasted clams!" miss milly showed him sidney's empty basket, and told him that she and melinda had prepared a compact bed of the clams on the ground, and that they had then placed over them a quantity of dry branches, ready to kindle when sidney should come with the matches, which he carried in his pocket, and had brought for the purpose. the tablecloth was already spread on a flat rock near at hand, and the little girls were still busy arranging the contents of their baskets upon it, for, by general consent, they were to dine together that day, and share with each other the eatables that had been provided for the excursion. martin reached down his and nelly's basket, from a high limb where he had hung it for safety, and comfort's big cake, which mrs. brooks had cut in quarters, was fitted together and placed in the centre of the cloth for the chief ornament. "will not comfort feel proud when she hears it?" whispered nelly to martin, as she passed him with her hands full of knives and forks. the fire was soon blazing and sputtering over the clams, and in a short time sidney pronounced them cooked. with branches of trees, the boys then drew the burning fragments away, and scattered the red coals till the bed of baked clams presented itself. miss milly tried one and found it was just in a fine state to eat, and then the children were told that all was ready. armed with plates, pieces of bread and butter, and knives and forks, they drew near, and the talking and laughing that ensued, as each opened the hot shells, for his or herself, made a merry scene of it. there were enough for all, and to spare; and when they left the clam-bed, still smoking and smouldering, to assemble around "table-rock," as melinda called it, where the daintier part of the feast was spread, martin said he had never tasted such finely roasted clams in his life. "i expect," said miss milly, "that the charm lies in our appetites." "yes," said johnny bixby, taking an enormous bite of cake, and, to nelly's great horror, speaking with his mouth full--"yes, i think goin' on picnics and such like, is real hungry work." this speech was received with a shout of approbation; and, on sidney remarking that he thought that johnny should be made the orator of the occasion, the children laughed again, and quite as heartily as though they fully understood what _orator_ meant. when the dinner was over, and the larger girls began to gather up the fragments, and restore plates and spoons to their owners, the rest prepared for a ramble. miss milly said they must not go far, nor stay long, and, promising to obey, the children set out together. as soon as they were separated from the others, which happened insensibly, johnny bixby gave nelly, with whom he was walking, a very animated account of sidney harrow's behavior at the fishing-ground. "afraid of cows!" said nell; "well, that beats all i ever heard. i am afraid that sidney will not help miss milly along much. come, show me where you fished, johnny, will you?" johnny led the way, and in a little while he and nelly stood on the very rock from which the boys had dropped their lines in the morning. the moss upon it was trodden under foot, and it was quite wet where the fish had been hauled in. "i wonder if this is a creek," said nell, looking up and down the brook with an admiring gaze; "marm lizy used often to tell me of a creek where she rowed a boat, when she was young." "marm lizy?" asked johnny; "who's that, nell?" nelly turned very red, and was silent. she remembered, like a flash of lightning, that john was a stranger in the village, his home being in the adjacent city, and that therefore he had, perhaps, never heard the story of her degraded childhood. pride rose up and made her deceitful. "marm lizy!" she repeated, carelessly; "oh, i don't know; somebody or other who used to live in the village. what's that, johnny, flopping about in the grass?" she pointed to the rock-side, where, as johnny soon saw, a decided "flopping" was indeed going on. "a fish! a fish!" cried the boy, catching it and holding it up in both hands, so that nell could look at it; "i'll take it to martin to put on the string with the rest. it must have floundered off." "oh, let us put it back," cried nelly; "poor mr. fish! i think you would really like to try your hand at swimming again." "fin, you mean," laughed john; "fishes don't have hands that ever _i_ heard tell. shall i let it go?" "oh, yes!" cried nell; "but wait till i get down from the rock so that i can see it swim away." she clambered down, and soon stood by johnny's side on the long grass that grew close to the brook's edge, and mingled with the little white bubbles on its surface. johnny stooped, and, holding the fish, put his hands under the water. the moment the poor, tortured thing felt the touch of its native element, it gave a start and would have darted away. "oh, johnny!" exclaimed nell; "don't tease it so cruelly. please let it go." johnny lifted up his hands, and instantly the fish swam off so swiftly that they could scarcely see which way it went. at last nelly espied it under the shadow of the rock, puffing its little sides in and out, and looking at them with its keen, bright eyes, in a very frightened way. [illustration: "johnny lifted up his hands, and instantly the fish swam off." page .] "poor fish!" said johnny; "swim away, and remember not to nibble at boy's hooks again. a worm is a very good thing for you when it isn't at the end of a piece of string." the fish gazed at him a little longer, then seeming to take his advice, darted from the rock to where the water was deeper and darker, and was soon lost to sight. "that's the place sidney's cows came from," said johnny, pointing to the opposite side of the stream, where the bushes were torn and trodden, and marks of hoofs were in the mud and grass. "let us take off our shoes and stockings and wade over and follow their track, to see where it leads," cried nelly; and, suiting the action to the word, the two children soon found themselves bare-footed,--nell tying her boots to dangle one from each of her apron-strings, and johnny carrying his in his hands. nell got her feet in first, but drew back, saying it was cold; so johnny dashed over, splashing his little bare legs, and leaving a muddy track all across the brook. "there," said he, somewhat boastfully, "that's the way! i am glad i'm not afraid like girls." nelly did not like this treatment, and she was about giving a hasty and angry answer, when, sobered by the recollection of the deep fault she had already committed, by her late untruth, she only said,-- "sidney was afraid of _cows_!" and waded slowly and silently through the water. they found the path to be quite a well-worn one. it was evidently that by which the cows were in the habit of coming to drink. it was pretty, too, and very wild. in a little while, as they left the brook farther and farther behind them, the walking became dry and very good, so that they resumed their shoes, but not their stockings,--johnny stating that he hated the latter, and would rather "scratch himself to pieces" on the blackberry thorns than put them on again. the shade was very pleasant. once or twice they paused to rest on the large stones which were scattered here and there through the path, but this was not for any great length of time; they wandered on and on, taking no note of time, nor of their prolonged absence from their companions, but enjoying every thing they saw, and wishing all the days in the year were like this one. the openings in the trees were very few; they were penetrating, although they did not know it, into the very heart of the wood. once, and once only, they caught a glimpse, through the branches, of a small clearing. half-burned stumps still showed themselves amid the rank grass. on the top of an elevation, at one side of this clearing, a horse was quietly grazing. as he moved, johnny saw he was lame, and from this the children judged that, like the cows, he was turned out to pasture for the summer. as nelly parted the bushes to look at him, he gave a frightened start, and began to paw the grass. he still stood on the little hill, in beautiful relief against the soft blue of the sky, the rising breeze of the coming sunset blowing his long, black mane and tail gracefully in the air as the children turned away to pursue their journey. the cow-path soon branched into others more winding and narrow than the one they had just quitted. the time since dinner had passed so rapidly and happily, that they did not dream night was coming, or that they had strayed too far away from their companions. the wild flowers grew so thickly, and the mosses were of such surprising softness and length, that it was scarcely any wonder they forgot their teacher's parting injunction. when night at last really began to approach, and nelly looked anxiously around at the gathering twilight in the woods, johnny said it was nothing but the natural shadows of the trees, and so they concluded to go on a little farther to gather a few of the laurel blossoms they saw growing amid their shining green leaves, a short distance beyond. when they had reached this spot, and captured the desired treasures, nelly saw with dismay, that the path ended abruptly against the side of an immense rock, quite as large, she thought, as the whole of the farm-house at home. "nell!" said johnny, suddenly; "i believe we are lost! how to find our way back again over these long paths we have been walking through all the afternoon, i am sure i do not know." "and i am so tired now, i can hardly stir," said nelly, in a complaining tone; "and night is near, as i told you before." johnny looked around without answering. he saw that there was no help for it; they must return the way they came, long as it was, or stay in the woods all night. "come, nelly," he said, "we must go back on the same path, if we can." it was getting quite dusky. they took each other by the hand and trudged along. one by one the flowers dropped from nelly's full apron, to the ground, and at length her weary fingers unclasped, and the apron itself resumed its proper position. everybody knows how easy it is to lose one's way, and what a difficult thing it is to find it again. our wanderers discovered it to be so. they got upon a wrong path that led them into soft, wet ground, where, the first thing they knew, they were up to their ankles in mud; and when they had extricated themselves as well as they could, and struck out boldly for home, confident that they were now making a direct short-cut for it, they found themselves, in a little while, on the same path, at the foot of the same large rock where they were before. this was a little too much for the patience of the two picnickers. johnny looked at nell gravely. "don't!" he said, "don't, nelly dear!" "don't what?" asked nelly, dropping down where she stood, so completely exhausted as to be glad of a moment's rest. "don't cry. you look just like it. all girls cry, you know." [illustration: "they saw then, that this huge rock was on the very summit of the mountain." page .] "do they?" asked nell, absently looking about her. then she asked, with energy, "johnny, do you know what i think we ought to do? we must climb this big mountain of a rock, some way, and see what there is on the other side of it. maybe we are near home." "i guess not," said johnny; "but i can climb it if you can." after thinking the case over, they clasped hands once more, and began the ascent. they had to sit down several times, to rest, on the way. the sharp points of the rock and the narrow crevices which they mounted, hurt their tired feet. at last they reached the top, and found themselves in comparative daylight, because they were now out of the woods. they saw then, that this huge rock was on the very summit of the mountain on which the picnic had taken place. they beheld from it, distinctly, their homes in the valley beneath. the rock was entirely free from foliage, and nothing obscured the splendor of the landscape below. the sun had just set red and misty in the west, shedding his parting glow over the peaceful village and the scattered farm-houses, on its outskirts. no wonder the two children were overcome by fatigue,--they had been gradually, but unconsciously ascending the hill the whole afternoon. they stood there now, hand in hand, looking down upon their far-off homes. "are you afraid, nell?" asked her companion, in a low voice. "no," said nell; "not now, that we are out of those dark woods; besides, i have thought of a plan to make them see us from below. look here." she put her hand in her pocket and drew forth a match. "sidney harrow dropped this when he was kindling the fire, and i thought of comfort's savin' ways and picked it up. can you guess what i am going to do? we must get together some brush-wood, and make a fine blaze that they will see in the village." "and even if they don't come to bring us home," said johnny, "it will keep us warm till morning, and then we can find our own way. but we must go down the rock to get the wood. oh dear! i don't think much of picnics, do you, nell?" very soon a fire burned on the top of the rock, and notwithstanding their fatigue, the children kept it in a broad blaze. as the last bright cloud of sunset faded away, the flames spread boldly into the night air, a signal of distress to those who were safely housed in the farm-houses beneath. having got the fire well going, and a large stock of wood on hand to feed it, the weary, dispirited children sat down to rest, beside it. neither spoke for a long time. they listened intently for the expected aid, yet nothing but the dreary hoot of the owls met their ears, mingled with the moan of the wind, which now being steadily increasing, blew the flames high in the air. nelly got up to poke the coals with a branch she kept for that purpose, and when she had done so, she stood leaning upon it and looking sorrowfully into the valley, where she saw lights twinkling from windows. "johnny," she said, softly, "do you believe anybody can be _perfectly_ good in this world?" "yes," said johnny, carelessly, "i s'pose so, if a fellow tries hard enough. i guess it's pretty tough work though, don't you?" "the more _i_ try, the worse i seem to be; at least,--well, you see, the worse i _feel_ myself to be." "we've neither of us been very good to-day, nell. miss milly told us not to go far, nor to stay long, and i believe we've gone as far as we could, and i'm sure we've stayed a deal longer than we want to,--_i_ have. are you afraid _now_, nell?" "god takes care of us, always," said little nell, solemnly, still leaning on her branch and crossing her feet. "comfort tells me that, and mother reminds me of it when she hears me say my prayers on going to bed." "do you believe it? does he see us _now_?" questioned her companion, raising himself on his elbow and gazing at her as she stood between him and the bright fire. "i believe it," was the reverent answer. "dear johnny, let us not forget our prayers to-night, if we stay up here." there was another long, long pause. "johnny?" "well, nell." "i was wicked to you to-day. i was proud, and told you i didn't know who marm lizy was, when you asked me. that wasn't true, and now i'm sorry." "well, who was she, nell?" tears of repentance for her own sin, and likewise of sorrow at the recollection of poor marm lizy's misspent life, rose to nelly's eyes, and glittered on her cheeks in the red firelight, like rubies. johnny looked at her with redoubled interest. "marm lizy," said nell, getting through her self-imposed confession with a little difficulty, "marm lizy was a--a--a sort of mother to me. she wasn't good to me, and i wasn't good to her. she beat me sometimes, and--and i didn't know any better than to hate her. i wouldn't do so _now_, i think. i should be sorry for her." "where is marm lizy now, nelly?" the boy did not know what remembrances that simple question awoke. nelly did not answer, but crouched down by the fire, and buried her face in her hands. after a long interval she started up again. she heard shouts, faint at first, but gradually growing nearer. she and johnny set up a long, loud, eager cry in return, that woke a dozen mountain echoes. then dogs barked, lanterns gleamed through the dark woods, the shouts burst forth again, and many voices were heard calling them by name! the fire had done its work. the lost were found at last, for in a short time nelly was clasped in her father's arms. so terminated the picnic. the end. transcriber's note: spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained as in the original publication except as follows: page fish-fork. it wasn't your _changed to_ fish-fork. "it wasn't your page i--'blieve--i shall--crack _changed to_ i--b'lieve--i shall--crack nelly,--'spose now, i had _changed to_ nelly,--s'pose now, i had page growing interest; what's _slave_ _changed to_ growing interest; "what's _slave_ page little grimly, "stockin' or no stockin' _changed to_ little grimly, "stockin' or no stockin' page evergreens are permitted to remain. _changed to_ evergreens are permitted to remain." page 'what!' said my uncle _changed to_ "'what!' said my uncle page all the people were more _changed to_ "all the people were more page it do'n't seem a bit _changed to_ it don't? seem a bit page patience of the two picnicers _changed to_ patience of the two picnickers