41739	----	Transcriber's Note: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including non-standard spelling and punctuation. Some changes have been made. They are listed at the end of the text. Italic text has been marked with _underscores_. THE MINOR DRAMA. No. CCCCI. A CHRISTMAS CAROL; OR, THE MISER'S WARNING! (ADAPTED FROM CHARLES DICKENS' CELEBRATED WORK.) BY C. Z. BARNETT, _Author of Fair Rosamond, Farinelli, The Dream of Fate, Oliver Twist, Linda, The Pearl of Savoy, Victorine of Paris, Dominique, Bohemians of Paris, &c._ +-------+ Samuel French (Canada) Limited | PRICE | 480-486 University Avenue | | TORONTO - CANADA | | +-------+ NEW YORK | LONDON SAMUEL FRENCH | SAMUEL FRENCH, LTD. PUBLISHER | 26 SOUTHAMPTON STREET 25 WEST 45TH STREET | STRAND _THE MIDDLE WATCH_ A farcical comedy in 3 acts. By Ian Hay and Stephen King-Hall. Produced originally at the Times Square Theatre, New York. 9 males, 6 females. Modern costumes and naval uniforms. 2 interior scenes. During a reception on board H. M. S. "Falcon," a cruiser on the China Station, Captain Randall of the Marines has become engaged to Fay Eaton, and in his enthusiasm induces her to stay and have dinner in his cabin. This is met with stern disapproval by Fay's chaperon, Charlotte Hopkinson, who insists that they leave at once. Charlotte, however, gets shut up in the compass room, and a gay young American widow accepts the offer to take her place, both girls intending to go back to shore in the late evening. Of course, things go wrong, and they have to remain aboard all night. By this time the Captain has to be told, because his cabin contains the only possible accommodations, and he enters into the conspiracy without signalling the Admiral's flagship. Then the "Falcon" is suddenly ordered to sea, and the Admiral decides to sail with her. This also makes necessary the turning over to him of the Captain's quarters. The presence of the ladies now becomes positively embarrassing. The girls are bundled into one cabin just opposite that occupied by the Admiral. The game of "general-post" with a marine sentry in stockinged feet is very funny, and so are the attempts to explain matters to the "Old Man" next morning. After this everything ends both romantically and happily. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) PRICE 75 CENTS. _NANCY'S PRIVATE AFFAIR_ A comedy in 3 acts. By Myron C. Fagan. Produced originally at the Vanderbilt Theatre, New York. 4 males, 5 females., 2 interior scenes. Modern costumes. Nothing is really private any more--not even pajamas and bedtime stories. No one will object to Nancy's private affair being made public, and it would be impossible to interest the theatre public in a more ingenious plot. Nancy is one of those smart, sophisticated society women who wants to win back her husband from a baby vamp. Just how this is accomplished makes for an exceptionally pleasant evening. Laying aside her horn-rimmed spectacles, she pretends indifference and affects a mysterious interest in other men. Nancy baits her rival with a bogus diamond ring, makes love to her former husband's best friend, and finally tricks the dastardly rival into a marriage with someone else. Mr. Fagan has studded his story with jokes and retorts that will keep any audience in a constant uproar. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) PRICE 75 CENTS. A CHRISTMAS CAROL; OR, THE MISER'S WARNING! (ADAPTED FROM CHARLES DICKENS'S CELEBRATED WORK.) BY C. Z. BARNETT, _Author of Fair Rosamond, Farinelli, The Dream of Fate, Oliver Twist, Linda, The Pearl of Savoy, Victorine of Paris, Dominique, Bohemians of Paris, &c._ NEW YORK | LONDON SAMUEL FRENCH | SAMUEL FRENCH, LTD. PUBLISHER | 26 SOUTHAMPTON STREET 25 WEST 45TH STREET | STRAND DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. Ebenezer Scrooge, the Miser Mr. R. Honner Frank Freeheart, his Nephew Mr. J. T. Johnson Mr. Cheerly Mr. Hawkins Mr. Heartly Mr. Green Bob Cratchit, Scrooge's Clerk Mr. Vale Dark Sam Mr. Stilt CHARACTERS IN THE DREAM. Euston, a ruined Gentleman Mr. Lawler Mr. Fezziwig Mr. Dixie Old Joe, a Fence Mr. Goldsmith Ghost of Jacob Marley Mr. Morrison Ghost of Christmas Past Mr. Lewis Ghost of Christmas Present Mr. Heslop Ghost of Christmas to Come * * * Dark Sam Mr. Stilt Peter, Bob's Eldest Son Miss Daly Tiny Tim Master Brady Mrs. Freeheart Mrs. Hicks Ellen, Scrooge's former love Mrs. H. Hughes Mrs. Cratchit Mrs. Daly First produced at the Royal Surrey Theatre, Feb. 5th, 1844. COSTUME. SCROOGE--Brown old-fashioned coat, tea colour breeches, double-breasted white waistcoat. 2nd.--Dressing gown and slippers. FRANK--Private dress. MR. CHEERLY--Blue coat, cord breeches, and gaiters. MR. HEARTLY--Green coat, black breeches, top boots. BOB CRATCHIT--Black old-fashioned coat, black trousers. DARK SAM--Dark green shooting coat and breeches, ragged. Second dress--Shabby black coat. EUSTON--Shabby private clothes. MR. FEZZIWIG--Black coat, black breeches, double-breasted waistcoat, and striped stockings. MARLEY'S GHOST--Slate coloured coat, waistcoat, and pantaloons, black boots, white frill, white band. CHRISTMAS PAST--White dress trimmed with summer flowers, rich belt, fleshings and sandals. CHRISTMAS PRESENT--Long green robe, trimmed with ermine, flesh body and legs, wreath round head. CHRISTMAS TO COME--Very long black gown. TINY TIM--Blue jacket and trousers. ALL THE LADIES--Modern dresses. A CHRISTMAS CAROL. ACT I. SCENE I.--_Chambers of SCROOGE, the Miser. One side of it is filled up with a desk and high stool, the other is a fireplace, fire lighted. Easy chair table, with candlestick upon it, etc., etc._ _SCROOGE, the Miser, discovered near fire. BOB CRATCHIT, writing near desk, L. H. As the Curtain rises he descends from stool--approaches fire to stir it._ SCROOGE. Bob--Bob, we shall be obliged to part. You'll ruin me in coals! BOB. Ruin you--with such a fire in such weather! I've been trying to warm myself by the candle for the last half hour, but not being a man of strong imagination, failed. SCR. Hark! I think I hear some one in the office. Go--see who it is. BOB. (_Aside._) Marley's dead--his late partner is dead as a door nail! If he was to follow him, it wouldn't matter much. (_Exit 2 E. L. H._ SCR. Marley has been dead seven years, and has left me his sole executor--his sole administrator--his sole residuary legatee--his sole friend--his sole mourner! My poor old partner! I was sorely grieved at his death, and shall never forget his funeral. Coming from it, I made one of the best bargains I ever made. Ha, ha. Folks say I'm tight-fisted--that I'm a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, clutching miser. What of that? It saves me from being annoyed by needy men and beggars. So, this is Christmas eve--and cold, bleak, biting weather it is, and folks are preparing to be merry. Bah! what's Christmas eve to me? what should it be to them? _Enter FRANK and BOB, 2 E. L. H._ BOB. There's your uncle, sir. (_Aside._) Old covetous! He's worse than the rain and snow. They often come down, and handsomely too, but Scrooge never does! (_Exit 2 E. L. H._ SCR. Who's that? FRANK. A merry Christmas, uncle! SCR. Bah! humbug! FRANK. Uncle, you don't mean that, I'm sure. SCR. I do. Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? You're poor enough. FRANK. (_Gaily._) Come, then, what right have you to be dismal! What reason have you to be morose? You're rich enough. SCR. Bah! humbug! FRANK. Don't be cross, uncle. SCR. What else can I be, when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out upon Merry Christmas. What's Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money--a time for finding yourself a year older, and not an hour richer. If I could work my will, every idiot who goes about with merry Christmas on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart--he should! FRANK. Uncle! SCR. Nephew, keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine. FRANK. Keep it! But you don't keep it. SCR. Let me leave it alone, then. Much good may it do you. Much good it has ever done you. FRANK. There are many things from which I might have derived good by which I have not profited, I dare say, Christmas among the rest, but I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round, as a good time--a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys, and, therefore, uncle, though it has not put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good, and I say, Heaven bless it! BOB. (_Looking in._) Beautiful--beautiful! SCR. Let me hear another sound from you--(_To BOB._)--And you'll keep your Christmas by losing your situation. BOB. (_Aside._) He growls like a bear with a sore head! (_Disappears._) SCR. You're quite a powerful speaker. I wonder you don't go into Parliament. FRANK. Don't be angry. Come--dine with me to-morrow. SCR. No, no---- FRANK. But why not? SCR. Why did you get married? FRANK. Because I fell in love. SCR. Because you fell in love! Bah! good evening. FRANK. I want nothing--I ask nothing of you. Well, I'm sorry to find you so resolute--we have never had any quarrel--I have made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas humour to the last--so, a merry Christmas, uncle. SCR. Good evening! FRANK. And a happy new year! SCR. Good evening! _Enter BOB, 2 E. L. H._ FRANK. And a happy Christmas, and a merry new year to you, Bob Cratchit. (_Shaking him by the hand._) BOB. The same to you, sir, and many of 'em, and to your wife, and to your darling children, and to all your friends, and to all you know, and to every one, to all the world. (_Exit FRANK, 2 E. L. H._) SCR. (_Aside._) There's another fellow, my clerk, with fifteen shillings a week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry Christmas. I'll retire to Bedlam. BOB. Two gentlemen want you, sir, as fat as prize beef--shall I call 'em in? (_Goes to side._) Walk this way if you please, gentlemen. _Enter MR. CHEERLY and MR. HEARTLY, 2 E. L. H., with books and papers._ CHEER. Scrooge and Marley's--I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Marley! SCR. Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years. CHEER. At this festive season of the year, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute--many thousands are in want of common necessaries--hundreds of thousands are in want of common comfort, sir. SCR. Are there no prisons? and the union workhouses, are they still in operation? CHEER. They are still--I wish I could say they were not. SCR. The treadmill and the poor law are in full vigour then? CHEER. Both very busy, sir. SCR. Oh! I was afraid from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course. I'm very glad to hear it! CHEER. Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude, a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We choose this time because it is a time of all others, when want is keenly felt and abundances rejoice. What shall we put you down for? SCR. Nothing! CHEER. You wish to be anonymous? SCR. I wish to be left alone. I don't make merry myself at Christmas, and I can't afford to make idle people merry--I help to support the establishments I have named--they cost enough--those who are badly off must go there. CHEER. Many can't go there--many would rather die! SCR. If they'd rather die, they'd better do it, and decrease the surplus population. However, it's not my business, so good evening, gentlemen. CHEER. I am sorry we disturbed you. (_As they are about to exeunt, BOB approaches them--SCROOGE retires up._) BOB. Beg pardon, gentlemen, I've got an odd eighteen-pence here that I was going to buy a new pair of gloves with in honour of Christmas day, but my heart would feel warmer though my hands were colder, if it helped to put a dinner and a garment on a poor creature who might need. There take it. CHEER. Such acts as these from such men as you sooner or later, will be well rewarded. BOB. This way, gentlemen. I feel as light as my four-and-ninepenny gossamer! (_Exeunt 2 E. L. H._) SCR. (_Coming down._) Give money--humbug! Who'd give me anything, I should like to know? _Re-enter BOB, 2 E. L. H._ BOB. A letter, sir. (_Gives it and retires up._) SCR. (_Opens it--reads._) Ah! what do I see? the Mary Jane lost off the coast of Africa. Then Frank is utterly ruined! his all was embarked on board that vessel. Frank knows not of this--he will apply to me doubtless--but no, no. Why should I part with my hard gained store to assist him, his wife and children--he chooses to make a fool of himself, and marry a smooth-faced chit, and get a family--he must bear the consequences--I will not avert his ruin, no, not by a single penny. BOB. (_Coming down._) Please, sir, it's nine o'clock. SCR. Already! You'll want all day to-morrow, I suppose. BOB. If quite convenient, sir. SCR. It's not convenient, and it's not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it, you'd think yourself ill-used, I'll be bound, and yet you don't think me ill used when I pay a day's wages for no work. BOB. Christmas comes but once a year. SCR. A poor excuse for picking a man's pockets every twenty-fifth of December! Well, I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning. Here's your week's money, fifteen shillings--I ought to stop half-a-crown--never mind! BOB. Thank you, sir! I'll be here before daylight, sir, you may depend upon it. Good night, sir. Oh, what a glorious dinner Mrs. C. shall provide. Good night, sir. A merry Christmas and a happy new year, sir. SCR. Bah! humbug! (_Exit BOB, 2 E. L. H._) So--alone once more. It's a rough night! I will go to bed soon--that will save supper. (_Takes off his coat, boots, etc., and puts on morning gown and slippers, talking all the time._) 'Tis strange now the idea of Marley is haunting me to-night--everywhere I turn his face seems before me. Delusion--humbug! I'll sit down by the fire and forget him. (_Takes basin of gruel from hob._) Here's my gruel! (_Sits in easy chair by fire--puts on night cap, and presently appears to dose. Suddenly a clanking of chains and ringing of bells is heard--he's aroused, and looks up terrified._) That noise! It's humbug! I won't believe it! (_The door slowly opens, and the GHOST OF MARLEY glides in. A chain is round his body, and cash boxes, ledgers, padlocks, purses, etc., are attached to it._) How now! What do you want with me? GHOST. Much. SCR. Who are you? GHOST. Ask me who I was. SCR. Who were you, then. You're particular for a shade--I mean to a shade. GHOST. In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley. You don't believe in me! Why do you doubt your senses? SCR. Because a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef--a fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are. GHOST. (_Unfastening the bandage round its head._) Man of the worldly mind, do you believe me or not? SCR. I do--I must! But why do spirits walk the earth? Why do they come to me? GHOST. It is required of every man that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow men, and travel far and wide--if not in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world, oh, woe is me!--and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness. SCR. You are fettered! GHOST. I wear the chain I forged in life--I made it link by link. Is its pattern strange to you? Oh, no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunities misused. SCR. But you were always a man of business---- GHOST. Business! Mankind was my business--charity, mercy, were all my business. At this time of the year I suffered most, for I neglected most. Hear me! I am here to-night to warn you that you have a chance and a hope of escaping my fate. You will be haunted by three spirits---- SCR. I--I'd rather be excused! GHOST. Without their visits you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first when the clock strikes one. Look to see me no more. For your own sake, remember what has passed between us. (_Binds wrapper round its head once more--slowly approaches the door and disappears. SCROOGE follows the phantom towards the door._) SCR. It is gone. The air seems filled with phantoms--shades of many I knew when living--they all wear chains like Marley--they strive to assist the poor and stricken, but in vain--they seek to interfere for good in human nature, but have lost the power forever. (_The clock strikes one--SCROOGE staggers to a chair--the room is filled with a blaze of light--the GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST rises through trap--As described in WORK, page 43._) Are you the spirit whose coming was foretold to me? 1ST SPIRIT. I am! SCR. Who and what are you? 1ST SPIRIT. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. Your welfare--your reclamation brings me here. Turn, and behold! (_The Stage, becomes dark--a strong light is seen behind--the wall of the Miser's chamber fades away and discovers a school-room--a child is seated reading by a fire._) All have departed but this poor boy. SCR. My poor forgotten self--and as I used to be! 1ST SPIRIT. Look again! (_A figure of ALI BABA is shown beyond the CHILD._) SCR. Why it's dear old honest Ali Baba! Yes, one Christmas time, when yonder poor child was left alone, he _did_ come just like that! (_The figures of VALENTINE and ORSON appear._) Ha! and Valentine and his wild brother Orson, too! (_ROBINSON CRUSOE and FRIDAY appear._) Ha! and Robinson Crusoe, and his man Friday! Poor boy! he was left alone, while all the rest were making holiday. (_The figures of ALI BABA, etc., disappear. As he speaks, a little GIRL enters the school-room, and approaches the BOY._) GIRL. I am come to bring you home, dear brother--we are to be together this Christmas, and be so merry! (_She leads him out. Scene fades away._) SCR. My sister! poor little Fanny! 1ST SPIRIT. A delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered. She died a woman, and had, as I think, children. SCR. One child! 1ST SPIRIT. True--your nephew. Know you this place? (_The Scene at back is again lighted up, and discovers Fezziwig's warehouse. FEZZIWIG and CHARACTERS grouped as in FRONTISPIECE of WORK. SCROOGE, as a young man._) SCR. Why, 'tis old Fezziwig, to whom I was apprenticed--he is alive again! My fellow-apprentice, Dick Wilkins, too--myself, as I was _then_. 'Tis Christmas eve there. The happiness he gave at so small a price was quite as much as though it cost a fortune. (_The tableau fades away. The Stage becomes dark. Enter ELLEN in mourning. During the fading of the tableau SCROOGE puts a cloak around him, etc., and seems a younger man._) I feel as if my years of life were less. Ha! who is this beside me? 1ST SPIRIT. Have you forgotten your early love? SCR. Ellen! ELLEN. Ebenezer, I come to say farewell forever! It matters little to you--very little--another idol has displaced me, and if I can cheer and comfort you in time to come, as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve. SCR. What idol has displaced you? ELLEN. A golden one--the master passion. Gain alone engrosses you. SCR. I have not changed towards you. ELLEN. Our contract is an old one--it was made when we were both poor. You are changed--I am not. That which promised happiness when we were one in heart, is fraught with misery now we are two. How often and how keenly I have thought of this I will not say. I _have_ thought of it, and can release you. SCR. Have I ever sought release? ELLEN. In word--no, never! SCR. In what, then? ELLEN. In a changed nature--in an altered spirit--in every thing that made my love of any worth or value in your sight. If this had never been between us, tell me, would you seek me out, and try to win me now? Ah, no! SCR. You think not---- ELLEN. I would think otherwise if I could--but if you were free to-day, can even I believe that you would choose a dowerless girl--you who weigh everything by gain? Or did you so, do I not know your repentance and regret would surely follow. I do--and I release you, with a full heart, for the love of him you once were. You will forget all this--may you be happy in the life you have chosen! (_She slowly exits R. H. SCROOGE throws aside his cloak, and appears as before._) SCR. Spirit, show me no more! Why do you delight to torture me? 1ST SPIRIT. One shadow more. She whom you resigned for gold--for gain--for sordid ore--she you shall now behold as the tender wife of a good and upright man--as the happy mother of smiling children. You shall see them in their joyous home. Come, thou lonely man of gold--come! SCR. No, no! 1ST SPIRIT. I told you these were the shadows of the things that have been--that they are what they are do not blame me. Come---- SCR. No, no--I've seen enough--haunt me no longer! (_The Spirit seizes him--he seizes the cap presses it upon the Spirit's head, who sinks under it, and disappears in a flood of light while SCROOGE sinks exhausted on the floor._) SCENE II.--_A Street. Houses covered with snow._ _Enter DARK SAM, L. H._ SAM. It's very odd! I an't nimmed nothing to-night. Christmas eve, too--when people's got sich lots of tin! But they takes precious good care of it, 'cos I s'pose they thinks if they loses it, they shan't be able to get no Christmas dinner. If I can't prig nothin', I'm sure I shan't be able to get none. Unless this trade mends soon, I must turn undertaker's man again. There is a chance, in that honourable calling of a stray thing or two. Somebody comes! I wonder if I shall have any luck now. _Enter BOB, R. H._ BOB. I shall soon be home! Won't my Martha be glad to see me--and what a pleasant happy Christmas Day we shall spend. What a dinner we shall have! I've got fifteen shillings--my week's wages--and I'm determined to spend every farthing of it. Won't we have a prime goose, and a magnificent pudding! And then the gin and water--and oranges--and the--oh, how jolly we shall be! And Tiny Tim, too--he never tasted goose before--how he will lick his dear little chops at the sage and onions! And as for Martha--my dear Martha, who is a dress-maker, and can only come to see us once in about four months--she shall have the parson's nose. Let me see--a goose will cost seven shillings--pudding five--that's twelve. Oranges, sage and onions, potatoes, and gin, at least three shillings more. Oh, there will be quite enough money, and some to spare. (_During this speech SAM advances cautiously and picks his pocket._) SAM. (_Aside._) Some to spare! It can't fall into better hands than mine, then! (_Exit R. H._ BOB. I've a good mind to buy the goose going home; but then if it should turn out fusty--I think I had better leave it for Mrs. C. The moment I get home, I'll pop the money into her hands, and--(_Feeling in his pockets._)--Eh?--what--what's this? Somebody has been having a joke at my expense. Eh? my week's salary--my fifteen shillings--it's gone! I'm ruined--lost----undone! My pocket has been picked! I've lost my Christmas dinner before I've got it! Oh, how can I face Mrs. C., and Bob, and Martha, and Tiny Tim! Oh, what can I do? _Enter FRANK, L. H._ FRANK. What my worthy friend Bob Cratchit--how is this, man? you look sorrowful, and on Christmas eve, too! BOB. Some of those boys whom I was sliding with on the ice in Cornhill must have done it. FRANK. Done it! Done what, man? BOB. Stole my Christmas dinner--my--salary--I mean my fifteen shillings, that your uncle paid me not an hour ago. FRANK. That's unfortunate! BOB. Unfortunate! Think of Tiny Tim's disappointment--no goose--no pudding--no nothing! FRANK. Tiny Tim shall not go without his Christmas dinner notwithstanding your loss--no, nor you either--nor any of your family, Bob Cratchit. At such a time as this, no one should be unhappy--not even my hard-hearted uncle, much less a worthy fellow like you. Here, Bob, here's a sovereign--you can return it when my uncle raises your wages--no thanks, but go and be as happy as you deserve to be--once more, a merry Christmas to you! (_Exit R. H._ BOB. He's a regular trump! I wanted to thank him, and couldn't find the words! I should like to laugh, and I feel as if I could cry. If Tiny Tim don't bless you for this my name's not Bob Cratchit! I've lost fifteen shillings, and I've found a sovereign! (_Dances._) Tol lol li do! Oh, Mrs. Cratchit! Oh, my little Cratchit! what a happy Christmas Day we shall spend, surely! What a pity Christmas don't last all the year round! (_Exit L. H._) SCENE III.--_SCROOGE'S chamber, as before._ _SCROOGE discovered, sleeping in a chair. The Stage becomes suddenly quite light, and the GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT discovered, as in WORK, page 78, the wall at back covered with ivy, holly, and mistletoe--heaped upon the floor, almost to form a throne, are turkeys, geese, plum puddings, twelfth cake, etc._ (_See PAGE 78._) 2ND SPIRIT. Know me, man? I am the ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon me. (_SCROOGE rises, approaches, and gazes at the figure._) You have never seen the like of me before? SCR. Never! 2ND SPIRIT. Have never walked forth with the younger members of my family, meaning, for I am very young, my elder brothers born in these latter years. SCR. I'm afraid I have not. Have you had many brothers, Spirit? 2ND SPIRIT. More than eighteen hundred! SCR. A tremendous family to provide for! (_The SPIRIT rises._) Spirit, conduct me where you will--if you have ought to teach me, let me profit by it. Why do you carry that torch? 2ND SPIRIT. To sprinkle the light and incense of happiness every where--to poor dwellings most. SCR. Why to poor ones most? 2ND SPIRIT. Because they need it most. But come--touch my robe--we have much to see. (_As SCROOGE approaches nearer to him, the Scene changes._) SCENE IV.--_A Bleak and Barren Moor. A poor mud cabin._ (_Painted in the flat._) _The SECOND SPIRIT and SCROOGE enter._ SCR. What place is this? 2ND SPIRIT. A place where miners live, who labour in the bowels of the earth--they know me. See! (_As he speaks, the window is lighted from within. The SPIRIT draws SCROOGE to window._) What seest thou? SCR. A cheerful company assembled round a glowing fire--an old man and woman, with their children, and children's children all decked gaily out in their holiday attire. I hear the old man's voice above the howling of the wind upon the barren waste; singing a Christmas song, while all swell out the chorus. 2ND SPIRIT. Come, we must not tarry--we will to sea--your ear shall be deafened by the roaring waters. SCR. To sea? no, good Spirit! 2ND SPIRIT. See yonder solitary lighthouse built on a dismal reef of sunken rocks. Here we men who watch the light, have made a fire that sheds a ray of brightness on the awful sea, joining their horny hands over the rough table where they sit, they wish each other a merry Christmas in can of grog and sing a rude lay in honour of the time. All men on this day have a kinder word for one another--on such a day--but come--on--on! (_As he speaks the Scene changes._) SCENE V.--_Drawing-room in FRANK FREEHEART'S house._ _FRANK, CAROLINE his wife, MR. CHEERLY, and male and female Guests discovered--some are seated on a sofa on one side, others surround a table on the other side. SCROOGE and the SPIRIT remain on one side._ (_At opening of Scene all laugh._) FRANK. Yes, friends, my uncle said that Christmas was a humbug, as I live! He believed it, too! OMNES. More shame for him. FRANK. He's a comical old fellow! However, his offences carry their own punishment. CHEER. He's very rich! FRANK. But his wealth is of no use to him. He don't do any good with it. He don't make himself comfortable with it. He hasn't the satisfaction of thinking--ha, ha, ha!--that he is ever going to benefit us with it! LADIES. We have no patience with him! FRANK. But I have! I'm sorry for him! I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself! He loves a good dinner--pleasant moments, and pleasanter companions than he can find in his own thoughts, or in his mouldy chambers. He may rail at Christmas till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it, I defy him! If he finds me going there, year after year and saying, Uncle Scrooge, how are you? If it only puts him in the vein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds, that's something, and I think I shook him yesterday! (_All laugh._) Well, he has given us plenty of merriment so here's his health. Uncle Scrooge! OMNES. (_Drinks._) Uncle Scrooge! FRANK. A merry Christmas and a happy new year to him wherever he is! SCR. Spirit, their merriment has made me so bright and gay, that I could almost pledge them in return, and join in all their innocent mirth! _A servant enters, L. H. and gives a letter to FRANK, then exits._ FRANK. (_Opens it and reads. Aside._) Ah! what do I see, the vessel lost at sea that bore my entire wealth within her! Then I'm a lost and ruined man! (_His wife approaches him._) CHEER. No ill news, I hope, Mr. Freeheart. FRANK. (_Aside._) The stroke is sudden and severe but I will bear it like a man! Why should I damp the enjoyment of those around by such ill tiding? No, it is Christmas time--I will not broach such bad news now--no--at least to-night. All shall be happy--nor word of mine shall make any otherwise. (_To his friends._) Come, friends, let's have a merry dance, shall we not? OMNES. A dance! a dance! (_Short, Country Dance, in which SCROOGE joins without being observed by the rest. Towards the conclusion of it the SPIRIT advances--draws SCROOGE back from the group--a bright glow lights up the Scene, as the SPIRIT and SCROOGE sink through the Stage unnoticed by the groups._) END OF ACT I. ACT II. SCENE I.--_Humble Apartment in BOB CRATCHIT'S House. Table, chairs, etc., on._ _MRS. CRATCHIT and BELINDA CRATCHIT discovered laying the cloth. PETER CRATCHIT is by fire. SCROOGE and the SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT rise through the Stage, and stand aside and observe them._ SCR. So, this is my clerk's dwelling, Spirit--Bob Cratchit's. You blessed it with the sprinkling of your torch as we passed the threshold. Bob had but fifteen _Bob_ a week. He pockets on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his Christian name, and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his four-roomed house. (_Two of CRATCHIT'S younger children, BOY and GIRL, run in._) BOY. Oh, mother--outside the baker's we smell such a goose! It must have been ours--no one has got such a goose. Oh, gemini! (_They dance round the table in childish glee._) MRS. C. Whatever has got your precious father, Bob, and Tiny Tim. And Martha warn't as late this Christmas Day by half an hour! _Enter MARTHA, L. H._ MART. Here's Martha, mother! CHILDREN. Here's Martha, mother--hurrah! There's such a goose, Martha! MRS. C. (_Kissing MARTHA, and assisting her off with her bonnet, etc._) Why bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are! MART. We'd a deal of work to finish up last night, and had to clear away this morning, mother. MRS. C. Well, never mind, so long as you are come. Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm. Lord bless ye! CHILDREN. (_Looking off._) Father's coming! Hide, Martha, hide! (_MARTHA runs behind closet door in F. BOB CRATCHIT enters with TINY TIM upon his shoulder, L. H._) BOB. (_Looking round._) Why, where's our Martha? MRS. C. Not coming. BOB. Not coming upon Christmas Day! MARTHA. (_Running towards him._) Yes, dear father, yes. (_They embrace._) CHILDREN. Come, Tiny Tim, into the washhouse, to hear the pudding singing in the copper! (_They carry TIM out--PETER exits L. H._) MRS. C. And how did little Tim behave? BOB. As good as gold. Somehow he gets thoughtful sitting by himself so much, and thinks the sweetest things you ever heard! (_The CHILDREN re-enter with TIM._) CHILDREN. The goose! the goose! (_PETER re-enters carrying the goose--it is placed on the table, etc. All seat themselves at table._) SCR. Bob's happier than his master! How his blessed urchins, mounting guard upon their posts, cram their spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn arrives to be helped! And now, as Mrs. Cratchit plunges her knife in its breast, a murmur of delight arises round the board, and even Tiny Tim beats the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cries hurrah! BOB. Beautiful! There never was such a goose. It's tender as a lamb, and cheap as dirt. The apple sauce and mashed potatoes are delicious--and now, love, for the pudding. The thought of it makes you nervous. MRS. C. Too nervous for witnesses. I must leave the room alone to take the pudding up and bring it in. (_Exit L. H._ BOB. Awful moment! Suppose it should not be done enough? Suppose it should break in turning out? Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back yard and stolen it? (_Gets up, and walks about, disturbed._) I could suppose all sorts of horrors. Ah! there's a great deal of steam--the pudding's out of the copper! A smell like a washing day--that's the cloth! A smell like an eating-house and a pastry cook's door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that--that's the pudding. (_MRS. CRATCHIT re-enters with pudding, which she places on table. BOB sits._) CHILDREN. Hurrah! SCR. Mrs. Cratchit looks flushed, but smiles proudly, like one who has achieved a triumph. BOB. Mrs. Cratchit, I regard this pudding as the greatest success you have achieved since our marriage. MRS. C. Now that the weight's off my mind, I confess I had my doubts about it, and I don't think it at all a small pudding for so large a family. BOB. It would be flat heresy to say so. A Cratchit would blush to hint at such a thing! SCR. Their merry, cheerful dinner's ended, but not their sweet, enjoyment of the day. (_MRS. CRATCHIT, etc., clears the table. A jug and a glass or two are placed on it. BOB fills the glasses._) BOB. A merry Christmas to us all, my dear--heaven bless us! (_They drink and echo him--TINY TIM is near his father, who presses his hand._) SCR. Spirit tell me if Tiny Tim will live? 2ND SPIRIT. If the shadows I see remain unaltered by the future, the child will die. SCR. No, no--say he will be spared. 2ND SPIRIT. If he be like to die--what then? He had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. SCR. My own words! 2ND SPIRIT. Man--if man you be in heart, and not adamant--forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is, and where it is. Will you decide what men shall live--what men shall die? To hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust. BOB. My dear, I'll give you, "Mr. Scrooge, the founder of the feast!" MRS. C. The founder of the feast indeed! I wish I had him here--I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon! BOB. My dear--the children--Christmas Day---- MRS. C. It should be Christmas Day, I'm sure, on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Scrooge. You know what he is, Robert--no one better. BOB. My dear--Christmas Day---- MRS. C. I'll drink his health for your sake not for his. Long life to him! A merry Christmas and a happy new year! He'll be very merry and very happy, no doubt! (_All drink._) 2ND SPIRIT. Your name alone has cast a gloom upon them. But they are happy--grateful--pleased with one another. SCR. And they look happier yet in the bright sprinkling of thy torch, Spirit. (_As he speaks the Stage becomes quite dark. A medium descends, which hides the group at table. SCROOGE and the SPIRIT remaining in front._) We have seen much to-night, and visited many homes. Thou hast stood beside sick beds, and they were cheerful--by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater hope--by poverty, and it was rich. In almshouse, hospital and jail--in misery's every refuge, thou hast left thy blessing, and taught me thy precepts. 2ND SPIRIT. My life upon this globe is very brief--it ends to-night--at midnight--the time draws near. SCR. Is that a claw protruding from your skirts? 2ND SPIRIT. Behold! (_Two Children, wretched in appearance, appear from the foldings of his robe--they kneel, and cling to him._) Oh, man--look here! SCR. Spirit, are they yours? (_See PLATE in WORK, page 119._) 2ND SPIRIT. They are man's--and they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance--this girl is Want. Beware all of their degree--but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow is written that which is doom, unless the writing be erased. Admit it for your factious purposes, and bide the end. SCR. Have they no regular refuge or resource? (_SCROOGE shrinks abashed._) 2ND SPIRIT. Are there no prisons--no workhouses? Hark, 'tis midnight! I am of the past! (_The CHILDREN exeunt--the SPIRIT disappears through trap--at the same moment the GHOST OF CHRISTMAS TO COME, shrouded in a deep black garment rises behind medium, which is worked off, discovering_---- SCENE II.--_A Street. Night._ _The SPIRIT advances slowly. SCROOGE kneels on beholding it._ SCR. This Spirit's mysterious presence fills me with a solemn dread! I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas yet to come! (_The SPIRIT points onward._) You are about to show me shadows of things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us? (_The SPIRIT slightly inclines its head._) Though well used to ghostly company by this time. I fear this silent shape more than I did all the rest. Ghost of the future, will you not speak to me? (_The SPIRIT'S hand is still pointing onward._) Lead on, Spirit! (_The SPIRIT moves a few steps on, then pauses. SCROOGE follows. The Stage becomes light._) _Enter CHEERLY and HEARTLY._ HEART. He's dead, you say? When did he die? CHEER. Last night, I believe. HEART. What has he done with his money? CHEER. I haven't heard, he hasn't left it to me. It's likely to be a very cheap funeral, for I don't know of any one likely to go to it. HEART. Well, I don't mind going to it if lunch is provided. I'm not at all sure I was not one of his most particular friends. CHEER. Yes--you used to stop, and say "How d'ye do?" whenever you met. But, come--we must to 'Change. (_Exit R. H._ SCR. A moral in their words, too! Quiet and dark beside me stands yet the phantom, with its outstretched hand. It still points onward and I must follow it! (_The SPIRIT exits slowly followed by SCROOGE._) SCENE III.--_Interior of a Marine Store Shop. Old iron, phials, etc., seen. A screen extends from R. H. to C. separating fireplace, etc., from shop. Chair and table near the fire._ OLD JOE _seated near the fire, smoking. A light burns on the table. The SPIRIT enters, followed by SCROOGE._ SCR. What foul and obscure place is this? What place of bad repute--of houses wretched--of people half naked--drunken and ill-favoured? The whole quarter reeks with crime--with filth and misery. (_Shop door opens, and MRS. DIBLER enters. She has hardly time to close the door when it opens again, and DARK SAM enters closely followed by MRS. MILDEW. Upon perceiving each other they at first start, but presently burst into a laugh. JOE joins them._) SAM. Let the charwoman alone to be the first--let the laundress alone to be second--and let the undertaker's man alone to be the third. Look here old Joe, here's a chance! If we all three haven't met here without meaning it. JOE. You couldn't have met in a better place. Come into the parlour--you're none of you strangers. Stop till I shut the door of the shop. Ah! how it shrieks! There an't such a rusty bit of metal here as its own hinges--and I'm sure there's no such old bones here as mine. Ha, ha! we're all suitable to our calling. We're well matched. Come into the parlour. (_They come forward by screen._) MRS. M. (_Throwing down bundle._) What odds, then, Mrs. Dibler? Every person has a right to take care of themselves. He always did. SAM. No man more so, so don't stand staring as if you was afraid, woman--who's the wiser? We're not going to pick holes in each other's coats, I suppose? OMNES. No, indeed! we should hope not! MRS. M. Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose? OMNES. (_Laughing._) No, indeed! SAM. If he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, a wicked old screw, why wasn't he natural in his life time? MRS. M. If he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with death, instead of lying, gasping out his last, alone there by himself--it's a judgment upon him! Open that bundle, old Joe, and let me know the value of it. SAM. Stop! I'll be served first, to spare your blushes, though we pretty well knew we were helping ourselves, and no sin neither! (_Gives trinkets to JOE._) JOE. Two seals, pencil case, brooch, sleeve buttons! (_Chalking figures on wall._) Five bob! Wouldn't give more, if you was to boil me! Who's next? (_MRS. DIBLER offers bundle which he examines._) There's your money! (_Chalks on wall._) I always give too much to ladies--it's my weakness, and so I ruin myself. If you asked for another penny, and made it an open question, I'd repent of being so liberal, and knock off half a-crown! (_Examines MRS. MILDEW'S bundle upon his knees._) What do you call this? bed curtains? You don't mean to say you took 'em down, rings and all, with him lying there? MRS. M. Yes. I do! Why not? JOE. You were born to make your fortune, and you'll certainly do it! Blankets! his blankets? MRS. M. Whose else's? He won't take cold without 'em! JOE. I hope he didn't die of anything catching! MRS. M. No, no! or I'd not have waited on such as he! There, Joe, that's the best shirt he had--they'd ha' wasted it, but for me! JOE. What do you call wasting it? MRS. M. Putting it on him to be buried, to be sure! Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off again! If calico ain't good enough for such a purpose, it ain't good enough for anybody! It's quite as becoming to the body! He can't look uglier than he did in that one! SCR. I listen to their words in horror! JOE. There is what I will give you! (_Chalks on wall, then takes out a small bag, and tells them out their money._) MRS. M. Ha, ha! This is the end of it, you see--he frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead--ha, ha, ha! (_All laugh._) SCR. (_Shuddering._) Spirit, I see--I see! The case of this unhappy man might be my own--my life tends that way now. Let us be gone. (_The SPIRIT points onward. The Scene changes._) SCENE IV.--_A chamber. Curtain drawn over recess. The SPIRIT points to it--then approaches it, followed by SCROOGE trembling. The curtain is withdrawn--a bed is seen--a pale, light shows a figure, covered with a sheet upon it._ SCR. (_Recoiling in terror._) Ah! a bare uncurtained bed, and something there, which, though dumb, announces itself in awful language! Yes, plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, is the body of this man! (_The SPIRIT points towards the bed._) It points towards the face--the slightest movement of my hand would instantly reveal it--I long yet dread to do it. Oh, could this man be raised up and see himself! Avarice, hard dealing, griping cares! They have brought him to a rich end, truly! He lays alone in a dark empty house, with not a man, woman, or a child, to say--"He was kind to me--I will be kind to him!" Spirit, this is a fearful place! in leaving it, I shall not leave its lesson. Let us hence. If there is any person in the town who feels emotion caused by this man's death, show that person to me, I beseech you. (_As he speaks the Scene changes._) SCENE V.--_A chamber. SCROOGE and SPIRIT on L. H._ _Enter ELLEN, R. H., second dress, followed by EUSTON, L. H._ ELLEN. What news my love--is it good or bad? EUS. Bad! ELLEN. We are quite ruined! EUS. No! there is hope yet, Ellen! ELLEN. If he relents, there is--nothing is past hope if such a miracle has happened. EUS. He is past relenting! He is dead! ELLEN. Dead! It is a crime but heaven forgive me, I almost feel thankful for it! EUS. What the half drunken-woman told me last night, when I tried to see him and obtain a week's delay, and which I thought a mere excuse to avoid me, was true,--he was not only ill, but dying then! ELLEN. To whom will our debt be transferred! EUS. I don't know, but before that time we shall be ready with the money, and were we not, we can hardly find so merciless a creditor in his successor. We may sleep to-night with light hearts, Ellen. Come! (_Exeunt R. H._) SCR. This is terrible! Let me see some tenderness connected with a death in that dark chamber, which we left just now, Spirit--it will be for ever present to me. (SPIRIT _points onward and slowly exits followed by SCROOGE._) SCENE VI.--_Apartment at BOB CRATCHIT'S._ (_MRS. CRATCHIT, PETER, and the two younger CRATCHIT'S discovered. Candle lighted. The SPIRIT enters, followed by SCROOGE._) SCR. As through the old familiar streets we passed, I looked in vain to find myself, but nowhere was I to be seen. MRS. C. (_Laying down her work. Mourning._) The colour hurts my eyes, and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father. It must be near his time--he walks slower than he used, and yet I've known him walk, with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed--but he was very light to carry, and his father loved him, so that it was no trouble--no trouble---- _Enter BOB, L. H. MRS. C. advances to meet him--the CHILDREN crowd around him._ BOB. There, wife, I've returned at last. Come, you have been industrious in my absence--the things will be ready before Sunday. MRS. C. Sunday! You went to-day, then? BOB. Yes, my dear! I wish you could have gone--it would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you'll see it often--I promised him I would walk there of a Sunday--my little--little child--(_With much emotion._) MRS. C. Don't fret! BOB. Fret! I met Mr. Scrooge's nephew just now, who, seeing that I looked a little down, asked me what had happened. Ah, he's the pleasantest spoken gentleman you ever heard--he told me he was sorry for me and for my good wife--but how he knew _that_ I don't know! MRS. C. Knew what? BOB. Why, that you were a good wife! and he was so kind--it was quite delightful! He said he'd get Peter a better situation--and, mark me, whenever we part from one another, I am sure we shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim, shall we, or this first parting that was among us? OMNES. Never! never! (_The CHILDREN crowd around their PARENTS, who kiss them tenderly. A medium descends and hides the group._) SCR. Spectre, something informs me that our parting moment is at hand--tell me, ere you quit me, what man that was whom we saw lying dead? (_The SPIRIT points onward slowly traverses the stage._) Still he beckons me onward--there seems no order in these latter visions, save they are in the future. Through yonder gloom I can see my own dwelling--let me behold what I shall be in days to come--the house is yonder--why do you point away? Ah! that house is no longer mine--another occupies it. Ah! why is this? (_The medium is worked off, and discovers._) SCENE VII.--_A Churchyard. On slab centre, is engraved "EBENEZER SCROOGE."_ SCR. A churchyard! Here, then, the wretched man who's name I have now to learn, lays underneath the ground! (_The SPIRIT points to centre slab. SCROOGE advances, trembling, towards it._) Before I draw nearer to the stone to which you point, answer me one question. Are these the things of the shadows that will be, or are they the shadows of the things that may be only? (_The SPIRIT still points downward to the grave._) Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in they must lead--but if the courses be departed from the ends will change--say is it thus with what you show me? Still as immovable as ever! (_Draws nearer to grave._) "Ebenezer Scrooge!" My own name! (_Sinks on his knees._) Am I that man who lay upon the bed? (_The SPIRIT points from the grave to him, and back again._) No, Spirit! Oh, no, no! (_See PLATE, page 150. The FIGURE remains immovable._) Spirit! (_Clutching its robe._) Hear me! I am not the man I was--I will not be the man I must have been but for this intercourse! why show me this if I am past all hope? (_The hand trembles. SCROOGE sinks on his knees._) Good Spirit, your nature intercedes for me--assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life! (_The hand trembles still._) I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year--I will live the past, the present, and the future--the spirits of all three shall strive within me--I will not shut out the lessons that they teach--oh tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone! (_In his agony he catches the SPECTRE'S hand--it seeks to free itself--his struggles become stronger in his despair--the SPIRIT repulses him--he sinks prostrate to the earth--the SPIRIT disappears, as the medium is worked on. Clouds roll over the stage--they are worked off, and discovers._) SCENE VIII.--_SCROOGE'S Chamber. Same as Scene I, Act I. It is broad day--the fire is nearly extinguished--the candle nearly burnt down to the socket. The stage arrangement in other respects, precisely the same as at end of Scene I, Act I._ SCROOGE _discovered, sleeping in his chair. He appears restless and uneasy, then starts up, exclaiming._ SCR. Pity me! I will not be the man I have been! Oh, no, no! (_Pauses, and looks around him._) Ah! here! Could it all have been a dream! A dream--ha, ha, ha! A dream! Yes! this table's my own--this chair's my own--this room's my own--and happier still, the time before me is my own to make amends in! I will live the past, the present, and the future! Heaven and the Christmas time be praised for this! I say it on my knees--on my knees! My cheek is wet with tears, but they are tears of penitence! (_Busies himself in pulling on his coat, throwing off his cap, etc., and speaking all the time._) I don't know what to do--I'm as light as a feather--I'm as happy as an angel--I'm as merry as a school-boy--I'm as giddy as a drunken man! A merry Christmas to every body--a happy new year to all the world! Hallo, there! Whoop! Hallo! there's the jug that my gruel was in--there's the door where the ghost of Jacob Marley entered. It's all right--it's all true--it all happened--ha, ha, ha! I don't know what day of the month it is--I don't know how long I've been among the spirits--I don't know anything--I'm quite a baby--never mind, I don't care--I'd rather be a baby! Hallo! Whoop! Hallo, here! (_Runs to window--opens it._) Here, you boy! what's to-day? BOY. (_Without._) Why, Christmas Day! SCR. Ah! I haven't missed it! Glorious! I say--go to the poulterer's round the corner, and buy the prize turkey for me! BOY. (_Without._) Wal-ker! SCR. Tell 'em to send it, and I'll give you half a crown. He's off like a shot! I'll send it to Bob Cratchit's. How astonished he'll be. (_Coming down._) I'll write a cheque for that society that they called on me about yesterday. Oh, I'll make every one happy, and myself, too! (_Knocks heard without._) That must be the turkey! (_Opens door._) As I live, it's Bob Cratchit! _Enter BOB CRATCHIT, 2 E. L. H._ BOB. Excuse my calling, sir, but the fact is, I couldn't help it. That worthy gentleman, your nephew, is ruined. I said, ruined, sir---- SCR. I'm glad of it! BOB. Glad of it! There's an unnatural cannibal! _Enter FRANK, 2 E. L. H._ FRANK. Oh uncle, you know all! I come not to ask your assistance--that would be madness--but I come to bid you farewell. In three days' time, with my unfortunate family, I shall quit England. SCR. No, you shan't. You shall stay where you are! FRANK. You mock me! SCR. I say you shall stay where you are! (_Writes at table._) There's a cheque for present use--to-morrow I will see how I can make up your losses, and at my death you shall inherit all my wealth--but I don't mean to die yet, you dog! FRANK. This generosity---- SCR. No thanks. I'll dine with you to-day, Frank--and as for you, Bob, Tiny Tim shall be my care, and your salary's trebled from this hour. BOB. Oh, this can't be my master! Oh, I'm quite sure it must be somebody else. Yes--it is him, too! He must have gone mad! I've a great mind to knock him down with the ruler, and get Mr. Frank to help me to fit him on a strait waistcoat! Well, I never! SCR. A merry Christmas, Frank--a merry Christmas, Bob--and it _shall_ be a merry one. I have awoke a better man than I fell asleep. So may it be with all of us! Oh, may my day dreams prove as happy as my night ones? (_As he speaks, the gauze medium is lit up behind, and the GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST, the GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT, and the GHOST OF CHRISTMAS TO COME, with the other characters in the Miser's dream, are seen in separate groups._) Their remembrance haunts me still. Oh, my friends--forgive but my past, you will make happy my present, and inspire me with hope for the future! THE CURTAIN FALLS. _THE BAT_ A mystery play in 3 acts. By Mary Roberts Rinehart and Avery Hopwood. Produced originally at the Morosco Theatre, New York. 7 males, 3 females. 2 interior scenes. Modern costumes. Miss Cornelia Van Gorder, a maiden lady of sixty, has leased as a restorative for frayed nerves, a Long Island country house. It had been the property of a New York financier who had disappeared coincidentally with the looting of his bank. His cashier, who is secretly engaged to marry Miss Van Gorder's niece, is suspected of the defalcation and is a fugitive. The new occupants believe the place to be haunted. Strange sounds and manifestations first strengthen this conviction but presently lead them to suspect that the happenings are mysteriously connected with the bank robbery. Any sensible woman would have moved to the nearest neighbors for the night and returned to the city next day. But Miss Van Gorder decided to remain and solve the mystery. She sends for detectives and then things begin to happen. At one time or another every member of the household is suspected of the theft. The audience is kept running up blind alleys, falling into hidden pitfalls, and darting around treacherous corners. A genuine thriller guaranteed to divert any audience. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) PRICE 75 CENTS. _THE HAUNTED HOUSE_ Comedy in 3 acts. By Owen Davis. Produced originally at the George M. Cohan Theatre, New York. 8 males, 3 females. 1 interior. Modern costumes. A newly married couple arrive to spend their honeymoon in a summer cottage owned by the girl's father, who has begged them not to go there, because he claims the house is haunted. Almost immediately after their arrival, strange sounds are heard in the house. The bride leaves the room for a few moments and when she returns, her husband is talking very confidentially to a young woman, who he claims has had trouble with her automobile down the road, and he goes out to assist her. But when he comes back, his wife's suspicions force him to confess that the girl is an old sweetheart of his. The girl is subsequently reported murdered, and the bride believes her husband has committed the crime. A neighbor, who is an author of detective stories, attempts to solve the murder, meantime calling in a prominent New York detective who is vacationing in the town. As they proceed, everyone in the action becomes involved. But the whole thing terminates in a laugh, with the most uproarious and unexpected conclusion imaginable. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) PRICE 75 CENTS. _LOUDER, PLEASE_ A comedy in 3 acts. By Norman Krasna. Produced originally at the Masque Theatre, New York. 12 males, 3 females. 1 interior scene. Modern costumes. The breathless and amusing comedy has to do with the efforts of Criterion Pictures to keep one of its stars, Polly Madison, before the public gaze, and Press Agent Herbert White is called in to promote the necessary ballyhoo. He conceives the brilliant but ancient idea of having Polly get "lost at sea" in a motor boat. There is a law making it a punishable crime to fake a false news report to the press, but what is a law to Herbert if he can get over the necessary publicity? He broadcasts the news that Polly has strangely disappeared and is lost at sea. Consequently the forces of the law get busy, the Coast Guard sends out a fleet of airplanes to rescue the lost film star, with the result that the front pages of the papers are loaded with stories of the frantic search for the actress, and the world at large is on its ear. Detective Bailey becomes suspicious of the fake and puts the Criterion staff through a stiff third degree. A prison cell looms up for Herbert White and he has to resort to the most desperate measures to make the fake story appear true. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) PRICE 75 CENTS. _SKIDDING_ Comedy in 3 acts. By Aurania Rouverol. Produced originally at the Bijou Theatre, New York. 5 males, 5 females. 1 interior. Modern costumes. A fresh, sincere picture of American family life, showing Marion Hardy, a modern college girl who falls ecstatically in love with Wayne Trenton just as a career is opening up to her, and the difficulties she has in adjusting her romance. Then there are the two pretty young daughters who chose to marry before they finished their education and want to "come home to Mother" at the first sign of trouble. Mother Hardy is so upset at the modern tendencies of her daughters, that she goes on strike in order to straighten out her family. Young Andy Hardy is an adorable adolescent lad with his first "case"--a typical Booth Tarkington part. He keeps the audience in a gale of merriment with his humorous observances. Grandpa Hardy touches the heart with his absent-mindedness and his reminiscences about Grandma; and the white satin slippers he makes for Marion to be married in, have a great deal to do with straightening out her love affair. Humor is blended with pathos and a deliciously garnished philosophy makes "Skidding" more significant than the average comedy. It is life. "Skidding" is one of our most popular plays for High School production. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) PRICE 75 CENTS. Transcriber's notes: The line "happy as my night ones? (_As he speaks, the gauze_" was duplicated in the original. The following is a list of changes made to the original. The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one. _Author of Fair Rosamond, Fairinelli, The Dream of Fate,_ _Author of Fair Rosamond, Farinelli, The Dream of Fate,_ CHRISTAMAS CAROL. A CHRISTMAS CAROL. _Easy chair Table with candlestick upon it, etc., etc._ _Easy chair, table with candlestick upon it, etc., etc._ (_Binds wrappr round its head once more--slowly_ (_Binds wrapper round its head once more--slowly_ either--nor ony of your family, Bob Cratchit. At either--nor any of your family, Bob Cratchit. At MRS. C. Sunday! You went to day, then? MRS. C. Sunday! You went to-day, then? 
40729	----	[Illustration: Cover: OLD SCROOGE] "OLD SCROOGE:" A Christmas Carol in Five Staves. DRAMATIZED FROM Charles Dickens' Celebrated Christmas Story, By CHARLES A. SCOTT. NEWARK, N. J.: NEW JERSEY SOLDIERS' HOME PRINT. 1877. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, BY CHARLES A. SCOTT, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. All Rights Reserved. _This edition is limited, and is printed for the convenience of to enable the owner to make such alterations as may seem judicious._ _CHARACTERS._ Ebenezer Scrooge, a miserly broker Frederick Merry, a nephew to Scrooge Bob Cratchit, clerk to Scrooge Ghost of Jacob Marley, dead seven years Spirit of Christmas Past Spirit of Christmas Present Mr. Thomas Topper Mr. Henry Snapper Mr. Mumford | philanthropic citizens Mr. Barnes | Peter Cratchit Little Cratchit Tiny Tim Scrooge's former self Mr. Stevens | Mr. Jones | Mr. Fatchin | Scrooge's business friends Mr. Snuffer | Mr. Redface | Mr. Kemper Mr. Fezziwig, Scrooge's former master Mr. James Badger Dick Wilkins, Fezziwig's apprentice Old Joe, a pawnbroker Mr. Shroud, an undertaker Old Baldhead, the fiddler The Lamp Lighter First Man Second Man Ignorance The boy with the turkey Thomas, a servant Mrs. Belle Kemper, Scrooge's first and last love Mrs. Frederick Merry | Miss Julia Kemper | her daughters Miss Sarah Kemper | Mrs. Cratchit, a devoted wife Belinda Cratchit | her daughters Martha Cratchit | Mrs. Caroline Badger Mrs. Mangle, a laundress Mrs. Dilber, a char-woman Mrs. Fezziwig, a worthy matron Clara Fezziwig | her daughters Emma Fezziwig | Little Fanny Scrooge Want Six or eight children for tableaux. [Illustration: hand with pointing finger] By a distribution of two or three character to one person, the piece can be performed by fifteen males and nine females. _COSTUMES._ _Scrooge._ First dress: Brown Quaker-cut coat, waistcoat and pants. Dark overcoat. Low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat. Black silk stock and standing collar. Bald wig with tufts of white hair on each side. Smooth face. Second dress: Dressing gown, cotton night-cap and slippers. _Fred. Merry._ First dress: Walking suit, overcoat, black silk hat. Black silk stock and standing collar. Side whiskers. Second dress: Dress suit. _Bob Cratchit._ Long-tailed business coat of common material, much worn, and buttoned up to the neck. Woolen pants and waistcoat of check pattern. Colored scarf and standing collar. Large white comforter. Narrow-rimmed silk hat, old style and the worse for wear. Smooth face. _Ghost of Marley._ Drab cut-away coat and breeches. Low-cut single-breasted vest. Ruffled shirt. White neckcloth. Drab leggings. Gray, long-haired wig, with queue. Shaggy eyebrows. _Spirit of Christmas Past._ White tunic trimmed with flowers. Fleshings. Jeweled belt around waist. Long white hair hanging loose down neck and back. Jeweled star for forehead. White conical hat, very high, carried under the arm. Smooth, pale face--no wrinkles. Wand of holly. _Spirit of Christmas Present._ Green robe bordered with white fur. Fleshings. Trunks. Brown hose. Dark-brown curls. Holly wreath for the head. _Mumford._ Overcoat. Under suit of the period--1840. Black silk hat. White neckcloth and standing collar. Gray, long-haired wig. Smooth face. Spectacles. _Barnes._ Blue cloth over and under coats. Black silk hat. Black silk stock and standing collar. Iron-gray short-haired wig. Mutton-chop whiskers. Walking stick. _Topper and Snapper._ Dress suits of the period--1840. _Peter Cratchit._ Jacket or short coat. Very large standing collar and neckerchief. _Little Cratchit._ Calico shirt. Short trousers. Shoes and stockings. Apron. _Tiny Tim._ Same as Little Cratchit, with the addition of a jacket. _Scrooge's former self._ First dress: Cutaway coat. Knee breeches. Second dress: Cape coat. Hessians. _Ignorance and Want._ Clad in rags. Fleshings. _Old Joe._ Gabardine or long-skirted coat. Shaggy wig and beard. Old smoking cap. _Mrs. Cratchit._ Plain black or brown dress. Cap and apron. _Mrs. Merry, Kemper and Misses Kemper._ Handsome house dresses of the period. _Misses Fezziwig._ Low-necked dresses with short sleeves. _Mrs. Badger._ Plain walking dress. Bonnet and shawl. _SCENERY, FURNITURE and PROPERTIES._ ACT I. SCENE I.--Scrooge & Marley's Counting House, 1st G. backed by an interior 2d G. Set fire-place--painted grate fire L. Window in flat L. C. Double doors in flat, thrown open, R. C. Scrooge's desk and chair near window--ruler, pens, ink and paper on desk. Bob Cratchit's Desk in inner room in sight of audience. Lighted candles on both desks. Scuttle of coal near fire place. Clothes hooks on flat for Scrooge's hat and great coat. Coal shovel for Bob to enter with. Subscription list for Mumford to enter with. [Illustration: Hand]Clear stage of desk, chair and scuttle. SCENE II.--Scrooge's apartments 3d or 4th G. Door L. C. and window R. C. in flat, backed by a street scene. Small grate fire and mantel L. 2. Old-fashioned clock and two plaster casts on mantel. Door R. 2. Table L. C. Lighted candle, spoon, basin and writing materials on table. Saucepan of gruel on hob. Two easy chairs near fire place. Lights down. Fender at fire. Ringing bells of place. Scrooge's hat and coat hung on the wall. Chain made of cash boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, purses, etc., for ghost to enter with. Toothpick for Scrooge to show. Trap ready for ghost to disappear. ACT II. SCENE I.--Scrooge's bed room 1st G. Chimney C., with painted coal fire. Door L. C., window R. C. Trap near hearth for Spirit of Christmas Past to enter. Small four-post bedstead with curtains L. Bureau or washstand R. SCENE II.--An old school room 3d G. Door L. C., and window R. C. in flat. Chair at window. A stuffed parrot on stand near R. 3. Two or three school desks, a platform and desk for the master; books for young Scrooge. SCENE III.--A wareroom, full depth of stage. An elevated platform, centre of flat, for the fiddler. Old-fashioned arm chair at L. 2, for Mrs Fezziwig. SCENE IV.--Plain room, 2d G. No properties. SCENE V.--Drawing room, 5th G., trimmed with evergreens. A Christmas tree, trimmed and lighted, R. U. E. Ornaments on mantel. Fireplace L. Suite of parlor furniture. Centre table C. Toys for children--doll and doll's dress for Belle. Trap ready for spirit to disappear. ACT III. SCENE I.--A room in Scrooge's house, 1st G. Flat painted to show game, poultry, meats, etc. Torch, shaped like a cornucopia for Spirit of Christmas Present. SCENE II.--Bob Cratchit's home--Plain room 4th G. Door R. and L. C., backed by kitchen flat. Dresser and crockery C. of flat. Fireplace L. U. E. Saucepan of potatoes on fire; six wooden or cane-seat chairs; a high chair for Tiny Tim. Large table C.; white table-cloth; large bowl on side table R.; three tumblers and a custard cup without a handle. Nuts, apples and oranges on dresser. Small crutch for Tiny Tim to enter with. Goose on dish for Peter to enter with. SCENE III.--A street mansion with lighted windows showing shadow of a group inside, 1st G. Snow. Torch and ladder for lamp lighter. SCENE IV.--Drawing room 4th G. Arch 3d G. Handsome suite of furniture. Large table R. Sideboard with wine and glasses at flat C. Piano L. 2d E. Coffee-urn and cups on small table R. 3d E. Piano-stool, music stand. Sheet music on piano. Salver for waiter. ACT IV. SCENE I.--Scrooge's bed room 2d G. as in scene 1, act 2. SCENE II.--Street 1st G. Snuff-box for Snuffer to enter with. SCENE III.--Pawn shop 3d G. Doors R. and L. C. in flat--Table C., four common chairs; a smoky oil lamp--lighted, and a piece of white chalk on table. Bundle of bed curtains--same as on Scrooge's bedstead--blankets and shirts for Mrs. Mangle to enter with. Bundle of under-clothing, towels, sheets, sugar-tongs, tea-spoons and old boots for Mrs. Dilber to enter with. A package containing a seal, pencil-case, pair of sleeve-buttons and scarf pin, for Shroud to enter with. Purse of coins for Old Joe. SCENE IV.--Street--exterior of Scrooge and Marley's 1st G. Window L. C. No properties. SCENE V.--Bob Cratchit's home--same as scene 2, act, 3. Table C., candles and work-basket on table. Book for Peter on table; calico or muslin for Mrs. Cratchit and Belinda to sew. ACT V. SCENE I.--Scrooge's apartment, as in scene 2d act 1st. No additional properties. SCENE II.--Street--exterior of Scrooge's house 1st G. Brass knocker on the door. Turkey for boy to enter with. SCENE III.--Drawing room same as scene 4, act 3. Handkerchief for Fred to blindfold. OLD SCROOGE. STAVE ONE. SCENE I.--_Christmas Eve. Counting house of Scrooge & Marley. Set fireplace with small grate fire_ L. _Centre door in flat, thrown open, showing a small inner chamber and desk, at which Bob Cratchit is discovered seated, endeavoring to warm his hands over the candle. Small desk,_ L. C., _at which Scrooge is discovered busy at figures_. _Enter Bob Cratchit, from inner room, with coal shovel, going toward fireplace._ _Scrooge._ And six makes twenty-eight pounds, four shill----What do you want in here? _Bob._ My fire is nearly out, sir, and I thought I would take one or two lumps of coal, and-- _Scro._ You think more of your personal comforts than you do of your business and my interest. _Bob._ The room, sir, is very cold, and I-- _Scro._ Work sir, work! and I'll warrant that you'll keep warm. If you persist, in this wanton waste of coals, you and I will have to part. (_Bob retires to his desk, puts on his white comforter, and again tries to warm his hands. Scrooge resuming_). Four shillings and ninepence-- _Enter Fred'k Merry_, C. D., _saluting Bob as he passes him_. _Fred._ A Merry Christmas, uncle. God save you. _Scro._ Bah; humbug. _Fred._ Christmas a humbug, uncle! You don't mean that, I'm sure? _Scro._ I do. Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough. _Fred._ Come then. What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You're rich enough. _Scro._ Bah; humbug. _Fred._ Don't be cross, uncle. _Scro._ What else can I be when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out upon Merry Christmas! What's Christmas-time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in 'em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I could work my will, every idiot who goes about with "Merry Christmas" on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should. _Fred._ Uncle! _Scro._ (_sternly_). Nephew, keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine. _Fred._ Keep it! But you don't keep it. _Scro._ Let me leave it alone, then. Much good may it do you. Much good it has ever done you. _Fred._ There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say, Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas-time, when it came round--apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that--as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And, therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it _has_ done me good, and _will_ do me good; and I say, God bless it. (_Cratchit applauds, but observing Scrooge, endeavors to be intent on something else._) _Scro._ (_to Bob_). Let me hear another sound from _you_, and you'll keep your Christmas by losing your situation! (_To Fred_). You're quite a powerful speaker, sir, I wonder you don't go into Parliament. _Fred._ Don't be angry, uncle. Come, dine with us to-morrow? _Scro._ I'd see you in blazes first. _Fred._ But why? Why? _Scro._ Why did you get married? _Fred._ Because I fell in love. _Scro._ Because you fell in love! The only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas. Good afternoon. _Fred._ Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened. Why give it as a reason for not coming now? _Scro._ Good afternoon. _Fred._ I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends? _Scro._ Good afternoon! _Fred._ I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel, to which I have been a party. But I have made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas humor to the last. So a Merry Christmas, uncle. _Scro._ Good afternoon! (_As Fred goes out he exchanges greetings with Bob._) _Fred._ A merry Christmas. _Bob._ The same to you, and many of them. _Scro._ There's another fellow, my clerk, with fifteen shillings a week, and a wife and family, talking about a Merry Christmas. I'll retire to the lunatic asylum. _Enter Mr. Mumford and Mr. Barnes with subscription book and paper, ushered in by Bob._ _Mr. Mumford._ Scrooge & Marley's. I believe (_referring to paper_). Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge, or Mr. Marley? _Scro._ Mr. Marley his been dead these seven years. He died seven years ago this very night. _Mr. M._ We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner. (_Presents list. Scrooge frowns, shakes his head, and returns it._) At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir. _Scro._ Are there no prisons? _Mr. M._ Plenty of prisons. _Scro._ And the union work-houses--are they still in operation? _Mr. M._ They are. I wish I could say they were not. _Scro._ The tread-mill and the poor law are in full vigor, then? _Mr. M._ Both very busy, sir. _Scro._. Oh! I was afraid from what you said at first that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course. I'm very glad to hear it. _Mr. M._ Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude, a few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We chose this time because it is a time, of all others, when want is keenly felt, and abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for? _Scro._ Nothing. _Mr. M._ You wish to be anonymous? _Scro._ I wish to be left alone. Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don't make merry myself at Christmas, and I can't afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned; they cost enough, and those who are badly off must go there. _Mr. B._ Many can't go there; and many would rather die. _Scro._ If they had rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides, excuse me, I don't know that. _Mr. B._ But you might know it. _Scro._ It's not my business. It's enough for a man to understand his own business, and not interfere with other people's. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen. _Mr. M._ It is useless, we may as well withdraw. [_Exeunt. As they go out Bob is seen to hand them money._] (_Voice at door_ R. _singing_.) God bless you, merry gentlemen. May nothing you dismay-- _Scro._ (_Seizes ruler and makes a dash at the door._) Begone! I'll have none of your carols here. (_Makes sign to Bob, who extinguishes his candle and puts on his hat and enters._) You'll want all day to morrow, I suppose? _Bob._ If quite convenient, sir. _Scro._ It's not convenient, and its not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it you'd think yourself ill-used, I'll be bound? (_Bob smiles faintly._) And yet you don't think _me_ ill-used when I pay a day's wages for no work. _Bob._ It's only once a year, sir. _Scro._ A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of December. (_Buttoning up his great coat to the chin._) But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning. (_Exit_ C.) _Bob._ I will, sir. You old skinflint. If I had my way, I'd give you Christmas. I'd give it to you this way (_Dumb show of pummelling Scrooge._) Now for a slide on Cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honor of Christmas Eve, and then for Camden Town as hard as I can pelt. (_Exit_ C., _with sliding motions, closing doors after him_.) SCENE II.--_Scrooge's apartments._ _Grate fire_, L. _2, Window_, R. C. _Door_, L. C. _in flat_. _Table_, L. _4. Spoon and basin on table. Saucepan on hob. Two easy chairs near fire. Lights down._ [_Scrooge in dressing gown and night-cap, discovered, with candle, searching the room._] _Scro._ Pooh! pooh! Marley's dead seven years to night. Impossible. Nobody under the table, nobody under the couch, nobody in the closet, nobody nowhere (_Yawns_). Bah, humbug! (_Locks door_ R. _and seats himself in easy chair; dips gruel from saucepan into basin, and takes two or three spoonsful. Yawns and composes himself for rest._) [_One or two stanzas of a Christmas carol may be sung outside, at the close of which a general ringing of bells ensues, succeeded by a clanking noise of chain._] _Enter Jacob Marley's ghost._ R., _with chain made of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, purposes, etc. Hair twisted upright on each side to represent horns. White bandage around jaws._ _Scro._ It's humbug still! I won't believe it. [_Pause, during which Ghost approaches the opposite side of the mantel._] How now. What do you want with me? _Ghost._ Much. _Scro._ Who are you? _Gho._ Ask me who I _was_. _Scro._ Who _were_ you then? You're particular, for a shade. _Gho._ In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley. _Scro._ Can you--can you sit down? _Gho._ I can. _Scro._ Do it, then. _Gho._ You don't believe in me? _Scro._ I don't. _Gho._ What evidence do you require of my reality beyond that of your senses? _Scro._ I don't know. _Gho._ Why do you doubt your senses? _Scro._ Because a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an under-done potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are. You see this tooth-pick? _Gho._ I do. _Scro._ You are not looking at it. _Gho._ But I see it, notwithstanding. _Scro._ Well! I have but to swallow this, and be for the rest of my days persecuted by a legion of gobblins, all of my own creation. Humbug, I tell you; humbug. (_Ghost rattles chain, takes bandage off jaws, and drops lower jaw as far as possible._) _Scro._ (_Betrays signs of fright._) Mercy! dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me? _Gho._ Man of the worldly mind, do you believe in me, or not? _Scro._ I do. I must. But why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me? _Gho._ It is required of every man that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow men and travel far and wide, and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world--oh, woe is me--and witness what it can not share, but might have shared on earth, turned to happiness. [_Shakes chain and wrings his hands._] _Scro._ You are fettered; tell me why? _Gho._ I wear the chain I forged in life; I made it link by link and yard by yard. I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to _you_? Or would you know the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself. It was full as heavy and as long as this seven Christmas-eves ago. You have labored on it since. It is a pondrous chain! _Scro._ Jacob, old Jacob Marley, tell me more. Speak comfort to me, Jacob. _Gho._ I have none to give. It comes from other regions, Ebenezer Scrooge, and is conveyed by other ministers to other lands of men. Nor can I tell you what I would. A very little more is all that is permitted to me. I can not rest, I can not stay, I can not linger anywhere. My spirit never walked beyond our counting house, mark me!--in life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits of our money changing hole; and weary journeys lie before me. _Scro._ You must have been very slow about it, Jacob. _Gho._ Slow? _Scro._ Seven years dead. And traveling all the time. _Gho._ The old time. No rest, no peace. Incessant tortures of remorse. _Scro._ You travel fast? _Gho._ On the wings of the wind. _Scro._ You might have got over a great quantity of ground in seven years, Jacob. _Gho._ (_Clinking his chain._) Oh! captive, bound and double-ironed, not to know that ages of incessant labor by immortal creatures; for this earth must pass into eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is all developed. Not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness. Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused. Yet, such was I. Oh, such was I! _Scro._ But you were always a good man of business Jacob. _Gho._ Business! [_wringing his hands and shaking chain._] Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business. Charity, mercy, forbearance and benevolence were all my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business. [_Holds up chain at arm's length, and drops it._] At this time of the rolling year I suffer most. Why did I walk through crowds of fellow beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them, to that blessed Star which led the wise men to a poor abode? Were there no poor houses to which its light would have conducted _me_? Hear me! my time is nearly gone. _Scro._ I will; but don't be hard upon me. Don't be flowery, Jacob, pray. _Gho._ How it is that I appear before you in a shape that you can see, I may not tell. I have sat invisible beside you many and many a day. That is no light part of my penance. I am here to-night to warn you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer. _Scro._ You were always a good friend to me. Thank 'er. _Gho._ You will be haunted by three spirits. _Scro._ Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Jacob? _Gho._ It is. _Scro._ I--I think I'd rather not. _Gho._ Without their visits you can not hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first to-morrow, when the bell tolls one. _Scro._ Couldn't I take'em all at once, and have it over, Jacob? _Gho._ Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. The third on the night following, when the last stroke of twelve has ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us. [_Ghost replaces bandage around jaws, rises, winds chain about his arm, walks backward to window, beckoning Scrooge, who rises and follows. As soon as Ghost walks through window, which opens for him, he motions for Scrooge to stop, and disappears through trap. Window closes as before._] CURTAIN. STAVE TWO. SCENE I.--_Scrooge's bed room. A small, four-post bedstead with curtains at_ L. E., _bureau_ R. E. _Bell tolls twelve. Scrooge pulls curtains aside and sits on side of bed. Touches spring of his repeater, which also strikes twelve._ _Scro._ Way, it isn't possible that I can have slept through a whole day, and far into another night. It isn't possible that anything has happened to the sun, and this is twelve o'clock at noon. (_The Spirit of Christmas Past rises from the hearth as Scrooge finishes his Speech._) _Scro._ Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me? _Spirit._ I am. _Scro._ Who, and what are you? _Spir._ I am the ghost of Christmas Past. _Scro._ Long past? _Spir._ No; your past. _Scro._ I beg you will be covered. _Spir._ What! would you so soon put out, with worldly hands, the light I give? Is it not enough that you are one of those whose passions made this cap, and force me through whole trains of years to wear it low upon my brow? _Scro._ I have no intention of offending you. May I make bold to enquire what business has brought you here? _Spir._ Your welfare. _Scro._ I am much obliged, but I think a night of unbroken rest would be more conducive to that end. _Spir._ Your reclamation, then. Take heed! observe the shadows of the past, and profit by the recollection of them. _Scro._ What would you have me do? _Spir._ Remain where you are, while memory recalls the past. SCENE II.--_The spirit waves a wand, the scene opens and displays a dilapidated school-room. Young Scrooge discovered seated at a window, reading._ _Scro._ (_Trembling_) Good heavens! I was a boy! It's the old school; and its the Christmas I was left alone. _Spir._ You remember it? _Scro._ Yes, yes; I know! I was reading all about Ali Baba. Dear old honest Ali Baba. And Valentine and his wild brother, Orson; and the Sultan's groom turned upside down by the Geni. Served him right, I'm glad of it; what business had _he_ to be married to the Princess! [_In an earnest and excited manner, and voice between, laughing and crying._] There's the parrot: green body and yellow tail, with a thing like a lettuce growing out of the top of his head; there he is! Poor Robin Crusoe, where have you been, Robin Crusoe? There goes Friday, running for his life to the little Creek. Halloo! Hoop! Halloo! [_Changing to a pitiful tone, in allusion to his former self._] Poor boy. _Spir._ Strange to have forgotten this for so many years. _Scro._ (_Putting his hand in his pocket and drying his eyes on his cuff_) I wish--but it's too late now. _Spir._ What is the matter? _Scro._ Nothing; nothing. There was a boy singing a Christmas carol at my door, last night, I should like to have given him something, that's all. [_Young Scrooge rises and walks up and down. Door opens and Fanny Scrooge darts in and puts her arms about his neck and kisses him._] _Fanny._ Dear, dear brother! I have come to bring you home, dear brother. (_Clapping her hands and laughing gleefully._) To bring you home, home, home! _Young S._ Home, little Fan? _Fan._ Yes! Home for good, and all. Home for ever and ever. Father is so much kinder than he used to be, that home is like Heaven. He spoke so gently to me one dear night when I was going to bed, that I was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home; and he said yes, you should; and sent me in a coach to bring you. And you're to be a man, and never to come back here; but first we're to be together all the Christmas long, and have the merriest time in all the world. _Young S._ You're quite a woman, little Fan! [_She claps her hands and laughs, tries to touch his head, but being too little, laughs again. Stands on tip-toe to embrace him, and in childish eagerness and glee, drags him willingly towards the door. Exeunt._] _Voice_ [_outside_]. Bring down Master Scrooge's box, there. [_Scene Closes_] _Spir._ Always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered. But she had a large heart. _Scro._ So she had. You're right. I will not gainsay it, Spirit. Lord forbid. _Spir._ She died a woman, and had, as I think, children. _Scro._ One child. _Spir._ True; your nephew. _Scro._ [_uneasily_] Yes. _Spir._ Let us see another Christmas. (_Waves wand._) SCENE III.--_Fezziwig's Ball, full depth of stage, representing a wareroom. Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig L., the former standing and clapping his hands, and the latter seated in an arm-chair, manifesting delight. Old bald-headed fiddler, on an elevated seat, at the back. Dick Wilkins, with two Miss Fezziwigs, forward to right and back. Scrooge's former self advances and retires to the partners, with fancy steps: hands around; right and left; ladies change; balance; promenade. Other characters to fill up the picture. Laughter and merriment to follow Scrooge's speech._ _Spir._ Do you know it? _Scro._ Know it! I was apprenticed here. Why, its old Fezziwig. Bless his heart; its Fezziwig alive again, and Mrs Fezziwig, too. Dick Wilkins, to be sure, with Fezziwig's two daughters. Bless me, yes. There he is. He was very much attached to me, was Dick. Poor Dick. And see me, cutting the pigeon-wing. Dear, dear, dear! (_Dance comes to an end amid general hilarity and merriment, and the scene closes in._) _Spir._ A small matter to make these silly folks so full of gratitude. _Scro._ Small! Why, old Fezziwig was one of the best men that ever lived. He never missed giving his employees a Christmas ball. _Spir._ Why, is it not! He spent but a few pounds of money--three or four pounds, perhaps--. Is that so much that he deserves your praise? _Scro._ It isn't that, Spirit. He had the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our services light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. Say that his power lives in words and looks; in things so light and unsignificant that it is impossible to add and count 'em up; what then? The happiness he gives is quite as great if it cost a fortune--oh, dear. _Spir._ What is the matter? _Scro._ Nothing, particular. _Spir._ Something, I think. _Scro._ No, no. I should like to be able to say a word or two to my clerk, just now, that's all. _Spir._ My time grows short, let us hurry on. Do you remember this? (_Waves wand._) SCENE IV.--_A room. Enter Belle and Scrooge's former self, at twenty-five years of age._ _Scro._ It is Belle, as sure as I am a living sinner. _Belle._ It matters little to you. To you very little. Another idol has displaced me; and if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come, as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve. _Young S._ What idol has displaced you? _Belle._ A golden one. _Young S._ This is the even-handed dealing of the world. There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; and there is nothing it professes to condemn with such severity, as the pursuit of wealth. _Belle._ You fear the world too much. All your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master passion _gain_, engrosses you. Have I not? _Young S._ What then? Even if I have grown so much wiser, what then? I am not changed toward you, (_She shakes her head._) Am I? _Belle._ Our contract is an old one. It was made when we were both poor and content to be so, until in good season, we could improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry. You _are_ changed. When it was made you were another man. _Young S._ I was a boy. _Belle._ Your own feeling tells you that you were not what you are. I am. That which promised happiness when we were one in heart is fraught with misery now that we are two. How often and how keenly I have thought of this, I will not say. It is enough that I _have_ thought of it, and can release you. _Young S._ Have I ever sought release? _Belle._ In words; no, never. _Young S._ In what, then? _Belle._ In a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another atmosphere of life; another hope as to its great end. In everything that made my love of any worth or value in your sight. If this had never been between us, tell me, would you seek me out and try to win me now? Ah, no! _Young S._ You think not? _Belle._ I would gladly think otherwise, if I could; Heaven knows. When I have learned a truth like this, I know how strong and irresistible it must be. But if you were free to-day, to-morrow, yesterday, can even I believe that you would choose a dowerless girl--you, who, in your very confidence with her, weigh everything by gain; or choosing her, if for a moment you were false enough to your one guiding principle to do so, do I not know that your repentance and regret would surely follow? I do; and I release you, with a full heart, for the love of him you once were. (_He is about to speak, but with her head turned from him she resumes._) You may--the memory of what is past half makes me hope you will--have pain in this. A very, very brief time, and you will dismiss the recollection of it, gladly, as an unprofitable dream, from which it happened well that you awoke. May you be happy in the life you have chosen. Fare well. [_Exit._] _Young S._ (_Following_) Belle, Belle! Hear me. Let me explain. [_Exit._] [_Scene Closes._] _Scro._ Spirit, show me no more! Conduct me home. Why do you delight to torture me? _Spir._ O, mortal, what a treasure didst thou cast away. She, whom you resigned for paltry gold, became the happy wife of your former schoolmate, Kemper. One shadow more. Behold now the tender mother of smiling children, in their joyous home--a home that might have been your own. _Scro._ No more! no more! I don't wish to see it. _Spir._ Behold. (_Waves Wand._) SCENE V.--_Drawing room. Six or eight children, of various sizes, in groups, playing with toys. A Christmas tree, trimmed and lighted. Mr. and Mrs. Kemper seated at table; their daughter Belle seated at fire, dressing a doll for one of the girls._ _Mr. K._ Belle, I saw an old friend of yours this afternoon. _Mrs. K._ Who was it? _Mr. K._ Guess? _Mrs. K._ How can I? Tut, don't I know (_laughingly_), Mr. Scrooge? _Mr. K._ Mr. Scrooge it was--your old sweetheart (_laughing_). I passed his office window, and as it was not shut up, and he had a candle inside, I could scarcely help seeing him. His partner, old Jacob Marley, lies upon the point of death, I hear. And there he sat, alone. Quite alone in the world, I do believe. _Mrs. K._ Poor old man. [_Scene Closes._] _Scro._ Spirit (_in a broken voice_), remove me from this place. _Spir._ I told you these were shadows of the things that have been. That they are what they are, do not blame me. _Scro._ I am to blame for what they are, and now that I see what they might have been, I am more wretched than ever. Remove me! I can not bear it. (_Turns upon the spirit, and struggles with it._) Leave me! Take me back! Haunt me no longer! (_Seizes the extinguisher-cap, presses it down, while spirit sinks through trap, and disappears. When trap is replaced, Scrooge reels to the bedstead, apparently exhausted, and with the cap grasped in his hand, falls asleep._) CURTAIN. STAVE THREE. SCENE I.--_Adjoining room in Scrooge's house. Flat to represent piles of turkeys, geese, game, poultry, joints of meat, sucking-pigs, strings of sausages, oysters, mince pies, plum-puddings, pears, apples, oranges, cakes and bowls of punch; also holly, mistletoe and ivy._ _The Spirit of Christmas Present_ R. [_a giant_], _discovered holding a glowing torch--shaped like a cornucopia, to shed its light on Scrooge's entrance._ _Spir._ Come in! _Enter Scrooge, timidly_, L. _Spir._ Come in, and know me better, man. You have never seen the like of me before. _Scro._ Never. _Spir._ Have never walked forthwith the younger members of my family, meaning--for I am very young--my elder brothers, born in these later years? _Scro._ I don't think I have. I am afraid I have not. Have you had many brothers, Spirit? _Spir._ More than eighteen hundred. _Scro._ A tremendous family to provide for. Spirit, conduct me where you will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learned a lesson which is working now. To-night, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it. _Spir._ Touch my robe, and remember that we are invisible, and unable to manifest our presence to those with whom we come in contact. Loose not your hold, lest you should lose yourself. [_Exeunt_ L.] SCENE II.--_Bob Cratchit's home. Mrs. Cratchit discovered laying cloth. Belinda assisting her. Master Peter Cratchit blowing the fire._ _Mrs. C._ What has ever got your precious father, then? And your brother, Tiny Tim! And Martha warn't as late last Christmas Day by half an hour? _Enter Little Cratchit and Martha. Door in flat._ _Little C._ Here's Martha, mother! Here's Martha Hurrah! Oh, Martha, there's such a big goose at the bakers, next door. I smelt it cooking. _Mrs. C._ Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are! (_Kissing her and taking off her bonnet and shawl._) _Martha._ We'd a deal of work to finish up last night, and had to clear away this morning, mother. _Mrs. C._ Well, never mind, so long as you are come. Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye. _Little C._ No, no! There's father coming. Hide, Martha, hide. (_Martha gets behind the door._) _Enter Bob Cratchit with Tiny Tim on his shoulder and little crutch in his hand. Spirit and Scrooge following, coming down front, and observing with interest all that passes._ _Bob._ Why, where's our Martha? (_Looking around and putting Tiny Tim down._) _Little C._ Come, Tiny Tim, and see the pudding boil. [_Exeunt children._] _Mrs. C._ Not coming. _Bob._ Not coming! not coming, on Christmas Day? _Mar._ (_Running into his arms._) Dear father! I could not see you disappointed, if it were only in joke. _Bob._ (_Embraces her._) You're a good girl, Martha, and a great comfort to us all. (_Commences to mix a bowl of punch._) _Mrs. C._ And how did little Tim behave? _Bob._ As good as gold, and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see. Tiny Tim is growing strong and hearty. _Enter Little Cratchit and Peter Cratchit with the goose, followed by Tiny Tim._ _Little C._ Hurrah! Hurrah! Here's Peter with the big goose. _Tiny Tim._ Hurrah! (_Children place chairs around the table; Bob puts Tiny Tim in a high chair beside him, and Peter on his left, facing front, Belinda and Little Cratchit opposite. Mrs. C. and Martha at the end of the table. Bob carves and serves the goose, Mrs. C. the gravy and mashed potatoes, and Martha the apple-sauce._) _Little C._ Oh! oh! Look at the stuffing. _Tiny T._ Hurrah! _Bob._ I don't believe there ever was such a goose as this cooked. It's more tender than a woman's love, and only cost two and sixpence. A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us. _All._ God bless us. _Tiny T._ God bless us every one. _Scro._ Spirit, tell me if Tiny Tim will live? _Spir._ I see a vacant seat in the poor chimney-corner and a crutch without an owner carefully preserved. If these shadows remain unaltered by the future, none other of my race will find him here. What then? If he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. _Scro._ (_Hangs his head._) My very words. _Spir._ Man--if man you be in heart, not adamant--forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is, and where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die. It may be, in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. Oh, Heaven! to hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers of the dust! _Mrs. C._ Now, Martha and Belinda, change the plates, while I bring the nuts, apples and oranges. _Bob._ (_Rising and placing the punch-bowl on the table._) Here is what will remind us it is Christmas. (_Fills three tumblers and custard-cup without a handle, and passes them to Mrs. C., Peter and Martha._) I'll give you Mr. Scrooge, the founder of the feast. _Mrs. C._ The founder of the feast, indeed! I wish I had him here, I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he'd have a good appetite for it. _Bob._ My dear, the children! Christmas Day. _Mrs. C._ It should be Christmas Day, I am sure, on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Scrooge. You know he is, Robert. Nobody knows it better than you, poor fellow. _Bob._ My dear. Christmas Day. _Mrs. C._ I'll drink his health for your sake and the day's, not for his. Long life to him. A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! He'll be very merry and very happy, I have no doubt. _All._ A Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year. _Scro._ Spirit, take me away. I see the very mention of my name casts a gloom on what, were it not for me, would be a very happy party. _Spir._ Wait; they will soon put the memory of you aside, and will be ten times merrier than before, and Tiny Tim will sing. _Scro._ No, no; take me hence. (_As they retire toward the door, the spirit shakes his torch toward the party, which restores good humor._) _Little C._ Oh! we forgot the pudding! _All._ The pudding! the pudding! (_Laughter and confusion._) SCENE III.--_A street. Mansion with lighted window, showing shadow of a group. Sounds of music inside._ _Enter Spirit and Scrooge_ L. _A lamp-lighter with torch and ladder_ R; _as he passes them, the spirit waves his torch, and the lamp-lighter exits singing a carol. Enter two men, quarreling._ _First Man._ But, I know better, it is not so. _Second Man._ It is so, and I will not submit to contradiction. (_Spirit waves his torch over them._) _First Man._ Well, I declare, here we are, old friends, quarreling on Christmas Day. It is a shame to quarrel on Christmas Day. _Second Man._ So it is a shame to quarrel on this day. God love it, so it is; come, and if we are not merry for the rest of it, it shall not be my fault. [_Exeunt._] _Scro._ Spirit, is there a peculiar flavor in what you sprinkle from your torch? _Spir._ There is. My own. _Scro._ I notice that you sprinkle it to restore good humor, and over dinners. Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day? _Spir._ To any kindly given. To a poor one most. _Scro._ Why to a poor one most? _Spir._ Because it needs it most. _Enter Ignorance and Want; approaching the Spirit, they kneel at his feet. Scrooge starts back appalled._ _Spir._ Look here! oh, man, look here! Look! look down here. Behold, where graceful youth should have filled their features out and touched them with its freshest tints; a stale and shriveled hand, like that of age, has pinched and twisted them and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurk and glare out, menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread. _Scro._ They are fine-looking children. Spirit, are they yours? _Spir._ They are man's. And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance, this girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree; but most of all, beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is _doom_, unless the writing be erased. Deny it, great city. Slander those who tell it ye. Admit it for your factious purposes, make it worse, and abide the end. _Scro._ Have they no refuge or resource? _Spir._ Are there no prisons? Are there no work-houses? _Scro._ My very words, again. _Spir._ Begone! hideous, wretched creatures, your habitation should not be in a Christian land. (_Ignorance and Want slouch off._) Let us proceed, time is passing, and my life is hastening to an end. _Scro._ Are spirit's lives so short? _Spir._ My life on this globe is very brief. It ends to-night. _Scro._ To-night? _Spir._ To-night, at midnight. (_Exeunt._) SCENE IV--_Drawing room. Mr. and Mrs. Fred Merry, Miss Julia Kemper, Miss Sarah Kemper, Mr. Thomas Topper, Mr. Henry Snapper, discovered seated around the dessert table. Servant serving coffee._ _All._ (_Laughing_) Ha, ha! ha, ha, ha, ha! _Enter Spirit and Scrooge_, L. _Fred._ He said Christmas was a humbug, as I live. _All._ Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha! _Fred._ He believed it, too. _Mrs. M._ More shame for him, Fred! _Fred._ He's a comical old fellow, that's the truth; and not so pleasant as he might be; however, his offenses carry their own punishment, and I have nothing to say against him. _Mrs. M._ I'm sure he's very rich, Fred. At least you always tell _me_ so. _Fred._ What of that, my dear. His wealth is of no use to him. He don't do any good with it. He don't make himself comfortable with it. He hasn't the satisfaction of thinking--ha, ha, ha, ha!--that he is ever going to benefit us with it. _Mrs. M._ I have no patience with him. _Julia._ Neither have I for such a stingy old wretch! _Fred._ Oh, I have. I am sorry for him; I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself, always. Here he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with us. What's the consequence? He don't lose much of a dinner. _Mrs. M._ Indeed, I think he loses a very good dinner. _Sarah._ A much better one than he could have served up in his old dingy chambers. _Fred._ Well, I'm very glad to hear it, because I haven't great faith in these young housekeepers. What do _you_ say, Topper? _Topper._ A bachelor like myself is a wretched outcast, and has no right to express an opinion on such an important subject. _Mrs. M._ Do go on, Fred. He never finishes what he begins to say. He is such a ridiculous fellow. _Fred._ I was only going to say, that the consequence of our uncle taking a dislike to us, and not making merry with us, _is_, as I think, that he loses some pleasant moments, which could do him no harm. I am sure he loses pleasanter companions than he finds in his own thoughts, either in his moldy old office or his dusty chambers. I mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not, for I pity him. He may rail at Christmas till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it--I defy him--if he finds me going there, in good temper, year after year, and saying, Uncle Scrooge, I wish you A Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year! If it only puts him in the vein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds, _that's_ something; and I think I shook him yesterday.--Come, let us have some music. Here, Thomas, clear away. [_All rise and go to the piano. Waiter clears table during the singing of a Christmas carol or any selected piece._] _Fred._ We must not devote the whole evening to music. Suppose we have a game? _All._ Agreed. _Spir._ Time flies; I have grown old. We must hasten on. _Scro._ No, no! One half hour, Spirit, only one. _Fred._ I have a new game to propose. _Sarah._ What is it? _Fred._ It is a game called Yes and No. I am to think of something and you are all to guess what it is. I am thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal that growls and grunts sometimes, and talks sometimes, and lives in London, and walks about the streets, and is not made a show of, and is not led by anybody and don't live in a menagerie, and is not a horse, a cow or a donkey or a bull. There, now guess? _Mrs. M._ Is it a pig? _Fred._ No. _Julia._ Is it a tiger? _Fred._ No. _Topper._ Is it a dog? _Fred._ No. _Sarah._ Is it a cat? _Snapper._ It's a monkey. _Fred._ No. _Mrs. M._ Is it a bear? _Fred._ No. _Julia._ I have found it out! I know what it is, Fred! I know what it is! _Fred._ What is it? _Julia._ It's your uncle Scro-o-o-oge! _Fred._ Yes. _All._ Ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha! _Mrs. M._ It is hardly fair, you ought to have said yes, when I said, it's a bear. _Fred._ He has given us plenty of merriment, I'm sure, and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health. Here is some mulled wine ready to our hand at the moment; and when you are ready I say uncle Scrooge! (_Servant brings wine forward._) _All._ Well! Uncle Scrooge! _Fred._ A Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year to the old man. He wouldn't take it from me, but may he have it, nevertheless. Uncle Scrooge! _All._ Uncle Scrooge, uncle Scrooge! (_Scrooge seems to make efforts to reply to the toast, while spirit drags him away._) CURTAIN. STAVE FOUR. SCENE I.--_Scrooge's chambers._ _Scrooge discovered upon his knees._ _Scro._ Can this be the Spirit of Christmas Future that I see approaching? shrouded in a black garment, which conceals its head, its form, its face, and leaves nothing visible save one outstretched hand. I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. It points onward with its hand. You are about to show me the shadows of things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us. Is that so, Spirit? (_Rises and stands trembling._) Ghost of the Future, I fear you more than any spectre I have seen; but as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me? It will not speak. The hand points straight before us. Lead on! Lead on! The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit. (_Scrooge crosses stage, as if following Spirit to tormentor entrance, and remains while the scene changes._) SCENE II.--_A Street._ _Scro._ Ah, here comes Stevens and there Jones. I have always made it a point to stand well in their esteem--that is in a business point of view. _Enter Mr. Stevens_ R. _and Mr. Jones_ L., _meeting_. _Stevens._ How are you? _Jones._ Pretty well. So Old Scratch has got his own, at last, hey? _Stev._ So I am told. Cold, isn't it? _Jones._ Seasonable for Christmas-time. You're not a skater, I suppose? _Stev._ No, no. Something else to think of. Good morning. [_Exeunt in opposite directions._] _Scro._ Ah, here are more of my old business friends; the Spirit directs me to hear what they say. _Enter Mr. Fatchin, Mr. Snuffer and Mr. Redface._ _Mr. F._ No; I don't know much about it, either way; I only know he's dead. _Mr. R._ When did he die? _Mr. F._ Last night, I believe. _Mr. S._ Why, what was the matter with him? (_Takes snuff out of a large snuff-box._) I thought he would never die. _Mr. F._ I did not take the trouble to inquire. _Mr. R._ What has he done with his money? _Mr. F._ I haven't heard (_yawning_); left it to his company, perhaps. He hasn't left it to _me_. That's all I know. (_All laugh._) It's likely to be a very cheap funeral, for upon my life I don't know of any body to go to it. Suppose we make up a party and volunteer? _Mr. R._ I don't mind going if a lunch is provided. I must be fed if I make one. (_All laugh._) _Mr. F._ Well, I am the most disinterested, after all, for I never wear black gloves and I never eat lunch. But I'll offer to go, if any body else will. When I come to think of it, I am not at all sure that I wasn't his most particular friend; for we used to stop and speak whenever we met. _Mr. S._ I would volunteer, but that I have another little matter to attend to that will prevent me. However, I have no objections to joining you in a drink to his memory. _Mr. R._ I am with you. Let us adjourn to the punch bowl. [_Exeunt._] _Scro._ To whom can these allusions refer; Jacob Marley has been dead these seven years, and surely those whom I have considered my best friends would not speak of my death so unfeelingly. I suppose, however, that these conversations have some latent moral for my own improvement, and as I have now resolved upon a change of life, I shall treasure up all I see and hear. Lead on, Shadow, I follow! (_Crosses to the opposite entrance and remains._) SCENE III.--_Interior of a junk or pawn-shop._ _Enter Old Joe, ushering in Mrs. Mangle, Mrs. Dilber and Mr. Shroud, door in flat._ _Old Joe._ You couldn't have met in a better place; come in. You were made free here long ago, you know, and the other two ain't strangers. Stop till I shut the door of the shop. Ah! how it shrieks! There isn't such a rusty bit of metal in the place as its own hinges, I believe, and I'm sure there's no such old bones here as mine. Ha, ha! We're all suitable to our calling, we're well matched. Come, come! we are at home here. (_Trims smoky lamp at table._) _Mrs. M._ What odds, then! What odds, Mrs. Dilber? (_Throws her bundle on the floor and sits on a stool, resting her elbows on her knees._) Every person has a right to take care of themselves. _He_ always did. _Mrs. D._ That's true, indeed! No man cared for himself more than he did. _Mrs. M._ Why, then, don't stand staring as if you was afraid, woman; who's the wiser? We're not going to pick holes in each other's coats, I suppose? _Mr. Shroud._ No, indeed! We should hope not. _Mrs. M._ Very well, then: that's enough. Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose. _Mr. S._ (_Laughing._) No, indeed. _Mrs. M._ If he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, the wicked old Screw, why wasn't he natural in his life time? If he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with death, instead of lying gasping out his last there, alone by himself. _Mrs. D._ It's the truest word ever was spoke. It's a judgment on him. _Mrs. M._ I wish it was a little heavier judgment, and it should have been, you may depend upon it, if I could have laid my hands on anything else. Open that bundle, Old Joe, and let me know the value of it. Speak out plain. I'm not afraid to be the first, nor afraid to let them see it. We knew pretty well that we were helping ourselves, before we met here, I believe. It's no sin. Open the bundle, Joe. _Mr. S._ Oh, no; we don't mind showing what we have. Here, Joe, value these. (_Mrs. D. and Mr. S. lay their packages on the table and Joe proceeds to examine them._) _Joe._ (_Chalking the figures on the wall as he names them._) A seal, eight shillings; pencil-case, three and six pence; pair of sleeve-buttons, five and four-pence; scarf-pin, ninepence. Nine and four, thirteen, and six, is nineteen--seven. One and five's six, and thirteen is nine, and eight makes seventeen. That's your account, and I wouldn't give another sixpence if I was to be boiled for it. Who's next? _Mrs. D._ I hope you'll be more liberal with me, Mr. Joe. I'm a poor, lone widow, and it's hard for me to make a living. _Joe._ I always give too much to the ladies. It's a weakness of mine, and that's the way I ruin myself. Under-clothing, sheets, towels, sugar-tongs; these tea-spoons are old-fashioned, and the boots won't bear mending. One pound six, that's your account. If you asked me another penny, and made it an open question I'd repent of being liberal, and knock off half a crown. _Mrs. M._ Now, undo _my_ bundle, Joe. _Joe._ (_Opening bundle._) What do you call this? Bed curtains? _Mrs. M._ Ah! (_Laughing._) Bed curtains. _Joe._ You don't mean to say you took 'em down, rings and all, with Old Scrooge lying there? _Mrs. M._ Yes I do. Why not? _Joe._ You were born to make your fortune, and you'll certainly do it. _Mrs. M._ I certainly shan't hold my hand, when I can get anything in it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a man as _he_ was, I promise you, Joe. Don't drop that oil upon the blanket, now. _Joe._ His blankets? _Mrs. M._ Whose else's do you think? He isn't likely to take cold without 'em, I dare say. Joe. I hope he didn't die of anything catching. Eh? (_Stopping his work and looking up._) _Mrs. M._ Don't you be afraid of that: I ain't so fond of his company that I'd loiter about him for such things if he did. Ah, you may look through that shirt till your eyes ache, but you won't find a hole in it nor a thread-bare place. It's the best he had, and a fine one, too. They'd have wasted it if it hadn't been for me. _Joe._ What do you call wasting of it? _Mrs. M._ (_laughing._) Putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure. Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off again. If calico ain't good enough for such a purpose, it isn't good enough for anything. It's as becoming to the body. He can't look uglier than he did in that one. _Joe._ Well, well! I'll ruin myself again. I'll give you two guineas for the lot, and go to the bankrupt court. (_Takes bag of coin and counts out their amounts._) _Mrs. M._ Ha, ha! This is the end of it, you see. He frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead. _All._ Ha, ha, ha! [_Exeunt door in flat, old Joe lighting them out._] _Scro._ Spirit! I see, I see. This is my own case, if nothing happens to change it. My life tends this way. Spirit, in leaving this. I shall not leave its lesson; trust me. If there is any person in the city who feels the least emotion for the death here announced, show that person to me. [_Crosses to_ L., _while scene closes in_.] SCENE IV.--_Street. Exterior of Scrooge & Marley's Counting House._ _Scro._ Why, here is my place of business, and has been occupied by Scrooge & Marley for many years. I see the house, let me behold what I shall be in the days to come. Why, Spirit, the house is yonder. Why do you point away? (_Goes to the window and looks in._) It is the old office still; the same furniture; but no one occupies my chair. Ah! some one comes. _Enter James Badger from Counting House, going off right, meets Mrs. Badger at right entrance._ _Mrs. B._ Ah! James. I have waited for you so long. What news? Is it good or bad? _James._ Bad. _Mrs B._ We are quite ruined? _James._ No. There is hope yet, Caroline. _Mrs. B._ If _he_ relents, there is. Nothing is past hope, if such a miracle has happened. _James._ He is past relenting. He is dead. _Mrs. B._ Dead! Thank Heaven; we are saved. (_Pause._) I pray forgiveness, I am sorry that I gave expression to the emotions of my heart. _James._ What the half drunken woman, whom I told you of last night, said to me when I tried to see him and obtain a week's delay, and what I thought was a mere excuse to avoid me, turns out to have been quite true. He was not only very ill, but dying then. _Mrs. B._ To whom will our debt be transferred? _James._ I don't know, and I have been unable to ascertain. At all events, before that time we shall be ready with the money; and even though we were not, it would be a bad fortune indeed to find so merciless a creditor in his successor. We may sleep to-night with light hearts, Caroline! _Mrs. B._ Yes; and our dear children will be brighter when they find the gloom dispelled from the minds of their parents. We cannot deny that this man's death has occasioned some happiness. _James._ Come, let us hurry home [_Exeunt_, R.] _Scro._ Spirit, it is evident that the only emotion you can show me, caused by the event foreshadowed, is one of pleasure. Let me see some tenderness connected with the death of another, or what has just been shown me will be forever present in my mind. SCENE V.--_Bob Cratchit's home. Mrs. Cratchit, Belinda, Little Cratchit and Peter Cratchit discovered at table, the two former sewing and the latter reading a book._ _Peter._ (_Reading._) And he took a child and set him in the midst of them. _Scro._ Where have I heard those words? I have not dreamed them. Why does he not go on? _Mrs C._ (_Betrays emotions; lays her work upon the table, and puts her hand to her face._) The color hurts my eyes. _Bel._ Yes, poor Tiny Tim! _Mrs. C._ They're better now. It makes them weak by candle-light; and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father when he comes home, for the world. It must be near his time. (_Resumes her work._) _Peter._ Past it, rather (_shutting up book_), but I think he has walked a little slower than he used, these last few evenings, mother. _Mrs. C._ (_In a faltering voice._) I have known him walk with--I have known him walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder very fast indeed. _Peter._ And so have I, often. _Bel._ And so have I. _Mrs. C._ But he was very light to carry, and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble; no trouble. And there is your father at the door. _Enter Bob Cratchit. Belinda and Little Cratchit meet him; Peter places a chair for him, and Mrs. C. averts her head to conceal her emotion. Bob kisses Belinda, and takes Little C. on his knees, who lays his little cheek against his face._ _Bob._ Hard at work, my dears; hard at work. Why, how industrious you are, and what progress you are making. You will be done long before Sunday. _Mrs. C._ Sunday! You went to-day, then, Robert? _Bob._ Yes, my dear; I wish you could have gone, it would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you'll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on a Sunday. My little, little child! my little child! (_Rises and retires up stage to compose himself; returns and resumes his place at the table._) Oh, I must tell you of the extraordinary kindness of Mr Scrooge's nephew, whom I have scarcely seen but once, and who, meeting me in the street, and seeing that I looked a little--just a little--down, you know, inquired what had happened to distress me. On which, for he is the pleasantest-spoken gentleman you ever heard, I told him. I am heartily sorry for it, Mr. Cratchit, he said, and heartily sorry for your good wife. By-the-bye, how he ever knew _that_, I don't know. _Mrs. C._ Knew what, my dear? _Bob._ Why, that you were a good wife. _Peter._ Everybody knows that! _Bob._ Very well observed, my boy. I hope they do. Heartily sorry, he said, for your good wife. If I can be of service to you in any way, he said, giving me his card, that's where I live; pray come to me. Now, it wasn't for the sake of anything he might be able to do for us, so much as for his kind way, that this was quite delightful. It really seemed as if he had known our Tiny Tim, and felt with us. _Mrs. C._ I'm sure he's a good soul. _Bob._ You would be sure of it, my dear, if you saw and spoke to him. I shouldn't be at all surprised--mark my words--if he got Peter a better situation. _Mrs. C._ Only hear that, Peter. _Bel._ And then Peter will be keeping company with some one, and setting up for himself. _Peter._ (_Grinning_.) Get along with you! _Bob._ It's just as likely as not, one of these days; though there's plenty of time for that, my dear. But, however and whenever we part from one another, I am sure we shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim, shall we? _All._ Never, father. _Bob._ And I know, I know, my dears, that when we recollect how patient and how mild he was--although he was a little child--we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves, and forget poor Tiny Tim in doing it. _All._ No, never, father. (_All rise._) _Bob._ I am very happy. I am very happy! (_Kisses Mrs C., Belinda, Young C. and shakes hands with Peter._) Spirit of Tiny Tim, thy childish essence is from above. CURTAIN. STAVE FIVE. SCENE I.--_Scrooge's chamber. Scrooge discovered on his knees at the easy chair._ _Scro._ Spirit! Hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been, but for this intercourse. Why have shown me all that you have, if I am past all hope? Good Spirit, your nature intercedes for me, and pities me. Assure me that I yet may change the shadows you have shown me, by an altered life. Your hand trembles. I will honor Christmas in my heart and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present and the Future. The spirits of all three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh! tell me I may sponge away the shadows of the future. (_Grasps the easy chair in his agony, as if struggling to detain it._) Do not go, I entreat you. It shrinks, it has collapsed, it has dwindled down into an easy chair. Yes! my own chair, my own room and best--and happiest of all--my own time before me to make amends in. Oh, Jacob Marley, Heaven and the Christmas time be praised for this! I say it on my knees, old Jacob; on my knees! (_Rises and goes and opens door_ R., 2d E.) They are not torn down--the bed curtains are not torn down, rings and all. They are there--I am here--the shadows of the things that would have been, may be dispelled. They will be; I know they will! (_Commences to dress himself, putting everything on wrong, etc._) I don't know what to do! (_Laughing and crying._) I am as light as a feather; I am as happy as an angel; I am as merry as a school boy; I am as giddy as a drunken man. A Merry Christmas to every body! A Happy New year to all the world! Halloo here! Waoop! Halloo! (_Dancing and capering around the room._) There's the saucepan that the gruel was in; there's the door by which the Ghost of Jacob Marley entered; there's the corner (_pointing into adjoining room_) where the Ghost of Christmas Past sat. It's all right; it's all true; it all happened. Ha, ha, ha! (_Laughing heartily._) I don't know what day of the month it is. I don't know how long I've been among the Spirits. I don't know any thing. I'm quite a baby. Never mind; I don't care. I'd rather be a baby. Haloo! whoop! Halloo here! (_Bells or chimes commences to ring. Goes to window and opens it._) No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; golden sunlight, heavenly sky; sweet, fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious! glorious! (_Looking out of window_) Hey! you boy in your Sunday clothes, what's to-day? _Voice outside._ Eh? _Scro._ What's to day my fine fellow? _Voice outside._ To-day! why. Christmas Day. _Scro._ It's Christmas Day; I haven't missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do any thing they like. Of course they can. Of course they can. (_Returns to window._) Halloo, my fine fellow! _Voice outside._ Halloo! _Scro._ Do you know the poulterers in the next street but one, at the corner? _Voice outside._ I should hope I did. _Scro._ An intelligent boy! a remarkable boy! Do you know whether they've sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there? Not the little prize turkey; the big one? _Voice outside._ What the one as big as me? _Scro._ What a delightful boy. It's a pleasure to talk to him. Yes, my buck. _Voice outside._ It's hanging there now. _Scro._ Is it? Go and buy it. _Voice outside._ What do you take me for? _Scro._ No, no. I am in earnest. Go and buy it, and tell 'em to bring it here, that I may give them the directions where to take it. Come back with the man, and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less than five minutes, and I'll gave you half a crown. That boy's off like a shot. I'll send it to Bob Cratchit's. (_Rubbing his hands and chuckling._) He shan't know who sent it. It's twice the size of Tiny Tim. Joe Miller never made such a joke as sending it to Bob's will be. I must write the directions for that turkey. (_Sits at table to write._) SCENE II--_A street. Exterior of Scrooge's Chambers._ _Enter Scrooge from the house._ _Scro._ (_Addressing the knocker on the door._) I shall love it as long as I live. (_Patting the knocker._) I scarcely ever looked at it before. What an honest expression it has in its face. It's a wonderful knocker.--Here's the turkey. _Enter boy with large turkey._ _Scro._ Halloo! Whoop! How are you! Merry Christmas! There's a turkey for you! This bird never could have stood upon his legs, he would have snapped 'em short off in a minute, like sticks of sealing-wax. Here's your half-crown, boy. Now take the monster to Bob Cratchit, Camden-town; and tell him it's a present from his grandmother, who wishes him A Merry Christmas, and A Happy New Year. Hold, that, turkey is too large for you to carry; take a cab, here's the money to pay for it. _Enter Mr. and Mrs. Badger_, R. _Scro._ Why, here comes James Badger and wife, as sure as I live. Good morning! _James._ Good morning, sir! A Merry Christmas to you! _Scro._ The same to you both, and many of them. _Mrs. B._ He seems in a good humor, speak to him about it. _Scro._ Going to church, eh? _James._ We were going, sir, to hear the Christmas Carols, but mindful of the obligation resting upon us, which falls due to-morrow, and of our inability to meet the payment, we have called to beg your indulgence, and ask for a further extension of time. _Scro._ Why, James, how much do you owe me? _James._ Twenty pounds, sir. _Scro._ How long since you contracted the debt? _James._ Ten years to morrow, sir. _Scro._ Then you have already paid me over half the amount in interest, which interest has been compounded, and I have, in fact, received more than the principal. My dear fellow, you owe me nothing, just consider the debt cancelled. _James._ Surely, sir, you cannot mean it. _Scro._ But I do. _Mrs. B._ Oh, sir, how can we ever sufficiently manifest our gratitude for such unexpected generosity? _Scro._ By saying nothing about it. Remember, James and wife, this is Christmas day, and on this day, of all others, we should do unto others as we would have them do unto us. _James._ May Heaven reward you, sir. You have lightened our hearts of a heavy burden. _Scro._ There, there! go to church. _James._ We shall, sir, and remember our benefactor in our devotions. (_Shaking hands._) I can say heartily a Merry Christmas. _Mrs. B._ And A Happy New Year. [_Exeunt_ L.] _Scro._ I guess they are glad, now, that I am alive, and will be really sorry when I die. Halloo! Whoop! _Enter Mr. Barnes_, L., _passes across stage; Scrooge follows and stops him._ _Scro._ My dear sir (_taking both, his hands_), how do you do? I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you. A Merry Christmas to you, sir. _Mr. B._ Mr. Scrooge? _Scro._ Yes. That is my name, and I fear it may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon. And will you have the goodness--(_Scrooge whispers in his ear._) _Mr. B._ Lord bless me--you take my breath away. My dear Mr. Scrooge, are you really serious? _Scro._ If you please. Not a farthing less. A great many back payments are included in it, I assure you. Will you do me the favor? _Mr. B._ My dear sir (_shaking hands with him_), I don't know what to say to such munifi-- _Scro._ Don't say any thing, please. Come and see me. Will you come and see me? _Mr. B._ I will--with great pleasure. [_Exit_, R.] _Scro._ Thank'er. I am much obliged to you. I thank you fifty times. Bless you! _Enter Bob Cratchit_, R., _with Tiny Tim on his shoulder_. _Scro._ Halloo, Bob Cratchit! What do you mean by coming here? _Bob._ I am very sorry, sir; I was not coming, I was only passing, sir, on my way to hear the Christmas carols. _Scro._ What right have you to be passing here to remind me that it is Christmas? _Bob._ It's only once a year, sir; it shall not be repeated. _Scro._ Now, I'll tell you what, my friend. I am not going to stand this any longer: and therefore I give you permission to pass my house fifty times a day, if you want to. I give you a week's vacation, without any deduction for lost time. I am about to raise your salary. (_Giving him a dig in the waistcoat; Bob staggers back, and Scrooge follows him up._) A Merry Christmas, Bob! (_Slapping him on the back._) A Merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have ever given you for many a year! I'll raise your salary, and endeavor to assist your struggling family, and I'll be Tiny Tim's Godfather. Come along, my good fellow, we'll go to church together, and discuss your affairs on the way. Tiny Tim, what do you say to that? _Tiny Tim._ I say God bless us, every one. _Bob._ I would like to say something, sir, but you have deprived me of the power of speech. _Scro._ Come on, then, we'll talk it over as we go. Come Tiny Tim, and go with your Godfather. (_Takes Tim on his shoulder. Exeunt_, L.) SCENE III.--_Drawing Room in Fred Merry's house. Fred, Mrs. Fred and Mrs. Kemper discovered seated at table, conversing._ _Fred._ Is it possible! You surprise me. I never had the least idea that you had ever met Uncle Scrooge, much less that he was an old admirer of yours. _Mrs. M._ Oh! do tell us all about it, dear mother; I'm dying to hear it. _Mrs. K._ Well, you must know, my dear children, that Fanny Scrooge--our mother, Fred--was my earliest friend and schoolmate, and through her I became acquainted with her brother--your uncle; at that time a noble spirited boy, fresh from his studies. Our friendship soon ripened into love, and a betrothal. I cannot describe to you how happy and light hearted I was, and how true and devoted your uncle continued. Our marriage was deferred until such time as he should be in a position to provide us a suitable home. After he left Mr. Fezziwig's, where he had served his time, he entered the service of Jacob Marley, and subsequently became his partner. It was at this time I observed a change in him; he was not less ardent than before, but I soon discovered that avarice had become the guiding passion of his nature, and that our love was subservient to its influence. Foreseeing that only misery could ensue from our union, I released him from the engagement. And now after the lapse of many years, with the exception of the day, five years ago, when he attended your father's funeral, we have not met or exchanged a word with each other. _Mrs M._ But, mother, did you really love him? _Mrs. K._ I did, my dear--previous to the discovery of the change in him. _Mrs. M._ And did you not sacrifice your love in releasing him? _Mrs. K._ I merely sacrificed my desires to common sense. Love, to be lasting, must be mutual, and if it is not paramount to all other passions, it ends in misery or hate. Hence, being guided by judgment, I soon found by experience that true love can again exist if worthily bestowed. _Fred._ Well, dear mother, I agree with your estimate of Uncle Scrooge. This is the sixth Christmas Day of our married life, and each Christmas Eve I have invited him to come and dine with us, but he has never yet honored us with his presence, and I suppose he never will. _Scro._ (_Gently opening the door and putting in his head._) Fred! may I come in? (_All start and rise, and Fred rushes toward the door with both hands extended._) _Fred._ Why, bless my soul! who's that? _Scro._ It's I, your Uncle Scrooge. I have accepted your invitation. Will you let me in? _Fred._ Let you in! (_Shaking him heartily by both hands._) Dear heart alive! Why not! Welcome! welcome! My wife, your niece--Yes, you may. (_Scrooge kisses her._) Our mother. _Scro._ Belle! Heavens! What shall I do? (_Aside._) _Mrs. K._ I fear that our meeting will be painful. I beg your permission, my son, to retire. _Fred._ No, no, no. This is Christmas Day. Everybody can be happy on this day that desires to be, and I know that your meeting can be made a pleasant and agreeable one if you both so will it. "Peace on earth and good will to man," is the day's golden maxim. _Scro._ Although somewhat embarrassed, I concur most heartily in the wise and good-natured counsel of my dear nephew. Never before have I experienced the joys common to this day, and never hereafter, while I am permitted to live, shall I miss them. In the past twenty-four hours I have undergone a complete revolution of ideas and desires, and have awakened unto a new life. Instead of a sordid, avaricious old man, I trust you will find a cheerful, liberal Christian, ever ready to extend to his fellow creatures a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year. _Fred._ Why! uncle, I wonder _you_ don't go into Parliament. I could dance for joy. (_Embracing him._) You dear old man! You shall ever find a hearty welcome here. _Mrs. M._ I join with my husband in his earnest congratulations. _Mrs. K._ I confess, Mr. Scrooge, that I am rejoiced to find your nephew's assertions so quickly verified, and that an opportunity is offered to renew an acquaintance which I hope will end in uninterrupted friendship. (_They shake hands._) _Fred._ Ah, here comes Topper and the girls. _Enter Topper and Julia Kemper, Snapper and Sarah Kemper._ _Fred._ Come, girls, hug and kiss your Uncle Scrooge, he has come to make merry with us. (_Takes the girls to Scrooge, and endeavors to make them hug, doing most of the hugging himself._) Hug him hard! This is Topper, and this is Snapper, they are both sweet on the girls. (_All laugh._) _Julia and Sarah._ Oh, you bad man. _Fred._ Come, let us lose no time. What do you say to a game? Shall it be blind man's buff? _All._ Agreed. _Fred._ Come, Uncle Scrooge, the oldest, first. _Scro._ Do with me as you please; it is Christmas Day. (_They play a lively game, falling over chairs, etc. Scrooge catches each lady, and guesses wrong, until he gets Mrs. Merry, who, in turn, catches Topper, who pulls the bandage down and goes for Julia, and pretends that he tells who she is by the way the hair is fixed, etc. Scrooge and Mrs. Kemper retire up stage, and converse._) _Julia._ Ah, that's not fair, you peeped. I won't play any more. (_Goes up stage with Topper._) _Fred._ Well, I could have guessed that catch, and it's nothing more than fair that he should peep before making it. It seems, my dear, that our company have divided into couples. Ought we not demand an explanation? _Mrs. M._ As master of the house, it is your duty. _Fred._ Mr. Thomas Topper and others, we have long suspected you of some horrible design against the peace and happiness of this family. What say you to the charge? _Julia._ On behalf our clients, we plead guilty. _Sarah._ And urge extenuating circumstances. _Fred._ Then nothing more remains, but for the Court to pronounce sentence, which is, that you be placed under the bonds of matrimony, at such time and place as may suit your convenience. But, Madam Belle Kemper and Ebenezer Scrooge, what have you to say in your defense. _Mrs. K._ Only this, that Christmas works wonders. _Scro._ In other words, Mrs. Kemper finds that Christmas has restored me to a primitive condition, and leaves it to time to test the merits of the happy change. (_To audience._) We all have cause to bless Christmas, and it shall always be my delight to wish you A Merry Christmas, and A Happy New Year, with Tiny Tim's addition of "God bless us every one." _CURTAIN._ * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Corrections were made in the text where part of a phrase or name was only partially italic. For example, on page 34, the "F." of _Mr. F._ on one part of dialogue had been printed as "_Mr._ F." These things were repaired. Page iii, "peice" changed to "piece" (piece can be performed) Page vi, "past" changed to "Past" (hearth for the Spirit of Christmas Past) Page vii, "Suit" changed to "Suite" (Fireplace L. Suite of) Page vii, "dressar" changed to "dresser" (oranges on dresser) Page viii, "Windew" changed to "Window" (G. Window L. C.) Page viii, "Cratchet's" changed to "Cratchit's" (SCENE V.--Bob Cratchit's) Page 10, "calender" changed to "calendar" (the long calendar of) Page 12, "Sch." changed to "Scro." (_Scro._. Oh! I was afraid) Page 15, "make" changed to "made" (I made it link) Page 16, "invisable" changed to "invisible" (sat invisible beside) Page 19, "use" changed to "used" (than he used to be) Page 19, "Gho." changed to "Scro." (_Scro._ Know it!) Page 20, "to" changed to "too" (the world too much) Page 21, "chosing" changed to "choosing" (or choosing her) Page 23, "mistleto" changed to "mistletoe" (also holly, mistletoe) Page 25, "Hurrrh" changed to "Hurrah" (Hurrah! Hurrah! Here's) Page 26, "ahd" changed to "and" (than before, and Tiny) Page 28, "Scro." changed to "Spir." (_Spir._ Begone! hideous) Page 28, "desert" changed to "dessert" (around the dessert table) Page 29, "househeepers" changed to "housekeepers" (these young housekeepers) Page 29, "vain" changed to "vein" (puts him in the vein) Page 31, "prepered" changed to "prepared" (I am prepared to) Page 31, "be ore" changed to "before" (before us. Lead) Page 32, "That" changed to "That's" (That's all I know) Page 33, "skrieks" changed to "shrieks" (how it shrieks!) Page 34, "mysel" changed to "myself" (I ruin myself) Page 45, "Suapper" changed to "Snapper" (and this is Snapper) 
19337	----	A CHRISTMAS CAROL By CHARLES DICKENS ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE ALFRED WILLIAMS New York THE PLATT & PECK CO. _Copyright, 1905, by_ THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY [Illustration: "He had been Tim's blood horse all the way from church."] INTRODUCTION The combined qualities of the realist and the idealist which Dickens possessed to a remarkable degree, together with his naturally jovial attitude toward life in general, seem to have given him a remarkably happy feeling toward Christmas, though the privations and hardships of his boyhood could have allowed him but little real experience with this day of days. Dickens gave his first formal expression to his Christmas thoughts in his series of small books, the first of which was the famous "Christmas Carol," the one perfect chrysolite. The success of the book was immediate. Thackeray wrote of it: "Who can listen to objections regarding such a book as this? It seems to me a national benefit, and to every man or woman who reads it, a personal kindness." This volume was put forth in a very attractive manner, with illustrations by John Leech, who was the first artist to make these characters live, and his drawings were varied and spirited. There followed upon this four others: "The Chimes," "The Cricket on the Hearth," "The Battle of Life," and "The Haunted Man," with illustrations on their first appearance by Doyle, Maclise, and others. The five are known to-day as the "Christmas Books." Of them all the "Carol" is the best known and loved, and "The Cricket on the Hearth," although third in the series, is perhaps next in point of popularity, and is especially familiar to Americans through Joseph Jefferson's characterisation of Caleb Plummer. Dickens seems to have put his whole self into these glowing little stories. Whoever sees but a clever ghost story in the "Christmas Carol" misses its chief charm and lesson, for there is a different meaning in the movements of Scrooge and his attendant spirits. A new life is brought to Scrooge when he, "running to his window, opened it and put out his head. No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; Golden sun-light; Heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious! Glorious!" All this brightness has its attendant shadow, and deep from the childish heart comes that true note of pathos, the ever memorable toast of Tiny Tim, "God bless Us, Every One!" "The Cricket on the Hearth" strikes a different note. Charmingly, poetically, the sweet chirping of the little cricket is associated with human feelings and actions, and at the crisis of the story decides the fate and fortune of the carrier and his wife. Dickens's greatest gift was characterization, and no English writer, save Shakespeare, has drawn so many and so varied characters. It would be as absurd to interpret all of these as caricatures as to deny Dickens his great and varied powers of creation. Dickens exaggerated many of his comic and satirical characters, as was his right, for caricature and satire are very closely related, while exaggeration is the very essence of comedy. But there remains a host of characters marked by humour and pathos. Yet the pictorial presentation of Dickens's characters has ever tended toward the grotesque. The interpretations in this volume aim to eliminate the grosser phases of the caricature in favour of the more human. If the interpretations seem novel, if Scrooge be not as he has been pictured, it is because a more human Scrooge was desired--a Scrooge not wholly bad, a Scrooge of a better heart, a Scrooge to whom the resurrection described in this story was possible. It has been the illustrator's whole aim to make these people live in some form more fully consistent with their types. GEORGE ALFRED WILLIAMS. _Chatham, N.J._ CONTENTS A CHRISTMAS CAROL STAVE PAGE I _Marley's Ghost_ 11 II _The First of the Three Spirits_ 32 III _The Second of the Three Spirits_ 51 IV _The Last of the Spirits_ 76 V _The End of it_ 93 ILLUSTRATIONS A CHRISTMAS CAROL _"He had been Tim's blood horse all the way from church."_ Frontispiece _"A Merry Christmas, Uncle! God save you!" cried a cheerful voice._ 14 _To sit staring at those fixed glazed eyes in silence, for a moment, would play, Scrooge felt, the very deuce with him._ 26 _"You recollect the way?" inquired the spirit. "Remember it!" cried Scrooge, with fervour; "I could walk it blindfold."_ 36 _"Why, it's Ali Baba!" Scrooge exclaimed in ecstasy. "It's dear old honest Ali Baba!"_ 38 A CHRISTMAS CAROL In Prose BEING A GHOST STORY OF CHRISTMAS STAVE ONE MARLEY'S GHOST Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail. Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. You will, therefore, permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail. Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain. The mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot--say St. Paul's Church-yard, for instance--literally to astonish his son's weak mind. Scrooge never painted out Old Marley's name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley, but he answered to both names. It was all the same to him. Oh! but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas. External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often "came down" handsomely and Scrooge never did. Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, "My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me?" No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. Even the blind men's dogs appeared to know him; and, when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, "No eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!" But what did Scrooge care? It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call "nuts" to Scrooge. Once upon a time--of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve--old Scrooge sat busy in his counting-house. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal: and he could hear the people in the court outside go wheezing up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warm them. The City clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already--it had not been light all day--and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighbouring offices, like ruddy smears upon the palpable brown air. The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense without, that, although the court was of the narrowest, the houses opposite were mere phantoms. To see the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that nature lived hard by and was brewing on a large scale. The door of Scrooge's counting-house was open, that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire, but the clerk's fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. But he couldn't replenish it, for Scrooge kept the coal-box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with the shovel, the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part. Wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to warm himself at the candle; in which effort, not being a man of strong imagination, he failed. "A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!" cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge's nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach. "Bah!" said Scrooge. "Humbug!" He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge's, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again. "Christmas a humbug, uncle!" said Scrooge's nephew. "You don't mean that, I am sure?" "I do," said Scrooge. "Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough." "Come, then," returned the nephew gaily. "What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You're rich enough." Scrooge, having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, "Bah!" again; and followed it up with "Humbug!" "Don't be cross, uncle!" said the nephew. [Illustration: _"A Merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!" cried a cheerful voice._] "What else can I be," returned the uncle, "when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out upon merry Christmas! What's Christmas-time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, and not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books, and having every item in 'em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I could work my will," said Scrooge indignantly, "every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!" "Uncle!" pleaded the nephew. "Nephew!" returned the uncle sternly, "keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine." "Keep it!" repeated Scrooge's nephew. "But you don't keep it." "Let me leave it alone, then," said Scrooge. "Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done you!" "There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say," returned the nephew; "Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas-time, when it has come round--apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that--as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it _has_ done me good, and _will_ do me good; and I say, God bless it!" The clerk in the tank involuntarily applauded. Becoming immediately sensible of the impropriety, he poked the fire, and extinguished the last frail spark for ever. "Let me hear another sound from _you_," said Scrooge, "and you'll keep your Christmas by losing your situation! You're quite a powerful speaker, sir," he added, turning to his nephew. "I wonder you don't go into Parliament." "Don't be angry, uncle. Come! Dine with us to-morrow." Scrooge said that he would see him----Yes, indeed he did. He went the whole length of the expression, and said that he would see him in that extremity first. "But why?" cried Scrooge's nephew. "Why?" "Why did you get married?" said Scrooge. "Because I fell in love." "Because you fell in love!" growled Scrooge, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas. "Good afternoon!" "Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened. Why give it as a reason for not coming now?" "Good afternoon," said Scrooge. "I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends?" "Good afternoon!" said Scrooge. "I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel to which I have been a party. But I have made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas humour to the last. So A Merry Christmas, uncle!" "Good afternoon," said Scrooge. "And A Happy New Year!" "Good afternoon!" said Scrooge. His nephew left the room without an angry word, notwithstanding. He stopped at the outer door to bestow the greetings of the season on the clerk, who, cold as he was, was warmer than Scrooge; for he returned them cordially. "There's another fellow," muttered Scrooge, who overheard him: "my clerk, with fifteen shillings a week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry Christmas. I'll retire to Bedlam." This lunatic, in letting Scrooge's nephew out, had let two other people in. They were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and now stood, with their hats off, in Scrooge's office. They had books and papers in their hands, and bowed to him. "Scrooge and Marley's, I believe," said one of the gentlemen, referring to his list. "Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge, or Mr. Marley?" "Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years," Scrooge replied. "He died seven years ago, this very night." "We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner," said the gentleman, presenting his credentials. It certainly was; for they had been two kindred spirits. At the ominous word "liberality" Scrooge frowned, and shook his head, and handed the credentials back. "At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge," said the gentleman, taking up a pen, "it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir." "Are there no prisons?" asked Scrooge. "Plenty of prisons," said the gentleman, laying down the pen again. "And the Union workhouses?" demanded Scrooge. "Are they still in operation?" "They are. Still," returned the gentleman, "I wish I could say they were not." "The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?" said Scrooge. "Both very busy, sir." "Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course," said Scrooge. "I am very glad to hear it." "Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude," returned the gentleman, "a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?" "Nothing!" Scrooge replied. "You wish to be anonymous?" "I wish to be left alone," said Scrooge. "Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don't make merry myself at Christmas, and I can't afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned--they cost enough; and those who are badly off must go there." "Many can't go there; and many would rather die." "If they would rather die," said Scrooge, "they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides--excuse me--I don't know that." "But you might know it," observed the gentleman. "It's not my business," Scrooge returned. "It's enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people's. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!" Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the gentlemen withdrew. Scrooge resumed his labours with an improved opinion of himself, and in a more facetious temper than was usual with him. Meanwhile the fog and darkness thickened so, that people ran about with flaring links, proffering their services to go before horses in carriages, and conduct them on their way. The ancient tower of a church, whose gruff old bell was always peeping slily down at Scrooge out of a Gothic window in the wall, became invisible, and struck the hours and quarters in the clouds, with tremulous vibrations afterwards, as if its teeth were chattering in its frozen head up there. The cold became intense. In the main street, at the corner of the court, some labourers were repairing the gas-pipes, and had lighted a great fire in a brazier, round which a party of ragged men and boys were gathered: warming their hands and winking their eyes before the blaze in rapture. The water-plug being left in solitude, its overflowings suddenly congealed, and turned to misanthropic ice. The brightness of the shops, where holly sprigs and berries crackled in the lamp heat of the windows, made pale faces ruddy as they passed. Poulterers' and grocers' trades became a splendid joke: a glorious pageant, with which it was next to impossible to believe that such dull principles as bargain and sale had anything to do. The Lord Mayor, in the stronghold of the mighty Mansion House, gave orders to his fifty cooks and butlers to keep Christmas as a Lord Mayor's household should; and even the little tailor, whom he had fined five shillings on the previous Monday for being drunk and blood-thirsty in the streets, stirred up to-morrow's pudding in his garret, while his lean wife and the baby sallied out to buy the beef. Foggier yet, and colder! Piercing, searching, biting cold. If the good St. Dunstan had but nipped the Evil Spirit's nose with a touch of such weather as that, instead of using his familiar weapons, then indeed he would have roared to lusty purpose. The owner of one scant young nose, gnawed and mumbled by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed by dogs, stooped down at Scrooge's keyhole to regale him with a Christmas carol; but, at the first sound of "God bless you, merry gentleman, May nothing you dismay!" Scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action, that the singer fled in terror, leaving the keyhole to the fog, and even more congenial frost. At length the hour of shutting up the counting-house arrived. With an ill-will Scrooge dismounted from his stool, and tacitly admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the tank, who instantly snuffed his candle out, and put on his hat. "You'll want all day to-morrow, I suppose?" said Scrooge. "If quite convenient, sir." "It's not convenient," said Scrooge, "and it's not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it, you'd think yourself ill used, I'll be bound?" The clerk smiled faintly. "And yet," said Scrooge, "you don't think _me_ ill used when I pay a day's wages for no work." The clerk observed that it was only once a year. "A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of December!" said Scrooge, buttoning his great-coat to the chin. "But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning." The clerk promised that he would; and Scrooge walked out with a growl. The office was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk, with the long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist (for he boasted no great-coat), went down a slide on Cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honour of its being Christmas-eve, and then ran home to Camden Town as hard as he could pelt, to play at blindman's buff. Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker's book, went home to bed. He lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and have forgotten the way out again. It was old enough now, and dreary enough; for nobody lived in it but Scrooge, the other rooms being all let out as offices. The yard was so dark that even Scrooge, who knew its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands. The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it seemed as if the Genius of the Weather sat in mournful meditation on the threshold. Now, it is a fact that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it was very large. It is also a fact that Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place; also that Scrooge had as little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the City of London, even including--which is a bold word--the corporation, aldermen, and livery. Let it also be borne in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed one thought on Marley since his last mention of his seven-years'-dead partner that afternoon. And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change--not a knocker, but Marley's face. Marley's face. It was not in impenetrable shadow, as the other objects in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Scrooge as Marley used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned up on its ghostly forehead. The hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath of hot air; and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. That, and its livid colour, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face, and beyond its control, rather than a part of its own expression. As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again. To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue. But he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished, turned it sturdily, walked in, and lighted his candle. He _did_ pause, with a moment's irresolution, before he shut the door; and he _did_ look cautiously behind it first, as if he half expected to be terrified with the sight of Marley's pigtail sticking out into the hall. But there was nothing on the back of the door, except the screws and nuts that held the knocker on, so he said, "Pooh, pooh!" and closed it with a bang. The sound resounded through the house like thunder. Every room above, and every cask in the wine merchant's cellars below, appeared to have a separate peal of echoes of its own. Scrooge was not a man to be frightened by echoes. He fastened the door, and walked across the hall, and up the stairs: slowly, too: trimming his candle as he went. You may talk vaguely about driving a coach and six up a good old flight of stairs, or through a bad young Act of Parliament; but I mean to say you might have got a hearse up that staircase, and taken it broadwise, with the splinter-bar towards the wall, and the door towards the balustrades: and done it easy. There was plenty of width for that, and room to spare; which is perhaps the reason why Scrooge thought he saw a locomotive hearse going on before him in the gloom. Half-a-dozen gas-lamps out of the street wouldn't have lighted the entry too well, so you may suppose that it was pretty dark with Scrooge's dip. Up Scrooge went, not caring a button for that. Darkness is cheap, and Scrooge liked it. But, before he shut his heavy door, he walked through his rooms to see that all was right. He had just enough recollection of the face to desire to do that. Sitting-room, bedroom, lumber-room. All as they should be. Nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa; a small fire in the grate; spoon and basin ready; and the little saucepan of gruel (Scrooge had a cold in his head) upon the hob. Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall. Lumber-room as usual. Old fire-guard, old shoes, two fish baskets, washing-stand on three legs, and a poker. Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himself in; double locked himself in, which was not his custom. Thus secured against surprise, he took off his cravat; put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and his nightcap; and sat down before the fire to take his gruel. It was a very low fire indeed; nothing on such a bitter night. He was obliged to sit close to it, and brood over it, before he could extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel. The fire-place was an old one, built by some Dutch merchant long ago, and paved all round with quaint Dutch tiles, designed to illustrate the Scriptures. There were Cains and Abels, Pharaoh's daughters, Queens of Sheba, Angelic messengers descending through the air on clouds like feather beds, Abrahams, Belshazzars, Apostles putting off to sea in butter-boats, hundreds of figures to attract his thoughts; and yet that face of Marley, seven years dead, came like the ancient Prophet's rod, and swallowed up the whole. If each smooth tile had been a blank at first, with power to shape some picture on its surface from the disjointed fragments of his thoughts, there would have been a copy of old Marley's head on every one. "Humbug!" said Scrooge; and walked across the room. After several turns he sat down again. As he threw his head back in the chair, his glance happened to rest upon a bell, a disused bell, that hung in the room, and communicated, for some purpose now forgotten, with a chamber in the highest story of the building. It was with great astonishment, and with a strange, inexplicable dread, that, as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every bell in the house. This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour. The bells ceased, as they had begun, together. They were succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below, as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine merchant's cellar. Scrooge then remembered to have heard that ghosts in haunted houses were described as dragging chains. The cellar door flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard the noise much louder on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door. "It's humbug still!" said Scrooge. "I won't believe it." His colour changed, though, when, without a pause, it came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes. Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried, "I know him! Marley's Ghost!" and fell again. The same face: the very same. Marley in his pigtail, usual waistcoat, tights, and boots; the tassels on the latter bristling, like his pigtail, and his coat-skirts, and the hair upon his head. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made (for Scrooge observed it closely) of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel. His body was transparent; so that Scrooge, observing him, and looking through his waistcoat, could see the two buttons on his coat behind. Scrooge had often heard it said that Marley had no bowels, but he had never believed it until now. No, nor did he believe it even now. Though he looked the phantom through and through, and saw it standing before him; though he felt the chilling influence of its death-cold eyes; and marked the very texture of the folded kerchief bound about its head and chin, which wrapper he had not observed before; he was still incredulous, and fought against his senses. "How now!" said Scrooge, caustic and cold as ever. "What do you want with me?" "Much!"--Marley's voice, no doubt about it. "Who are you?" "Ask me who I _was_." "Who _were_ you, then?" said Scrooge, raising his voice. "You're particular, for a shade." He was going to say "_to_ a shade," but substituted this, as more appropriate. "In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley." "Can you--can you sit down?" asked Scrooge, looking doubtfully at him. "I can." "Do it, then." Scrooge asked the question, because he didn't know whether a ghost so transparent might find himself in a condition to take a chair; and felt that, in the event of its being impossible, it might involve the necessity of an embarrassing explanation. But the Ghost sat down on the opposite side of the fire-place, as if he were quite used to it. "You don't believe in me," observed the Ghost. "I don't," said Scrooge. "What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your own senses?" "I don't know," said Scrooge. "Why do you doubt your senses?" "Because," said Scrooge, "a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!" Scrooge was not much in the habit of cracking jokes, nor did he feel in his heart by any means waggish then. The truth is, that he tried to be smart, as a means of distracting his own attention, and keeping down his terror; for the spectre's voice disturbed the very marrow in his bones. To sit staring at those fixed glazed eyes in silence, for a moment, would play, Scrooge felt, the very deuce with him. There was something very awful, too, in the spectre's being provided with an infernal atmosphere of his own. Scrooge could not feel it himself, but this was clearly the case; for though the Ghost sat perfectly motionless, its hair, and skirts, and tassels were still agitated as by the hot vapour from an oven. "You see this toothpick?" said Scrooge, returning quickly to the charge, for the reason just assigned; and wishing, though it were only for a second, to divert the vision's stony gaze from himself. "I do," replied the Ghost. "You are not looking at it," said Scrooge. "But I see it," said the Ghost, "notwithstanding." "Well!" returned Scrooge, "I have but to swallow this, and be for the rest of my days persecuted by a legion of goblins, all of my own creation. Humbug, I tell you; humbug!" At this the spirit raised a frightful cry, and shook its chain with such a dismal and appalling noise, that Scrooge held on tight to his chair, to save himself from falling in a swoon. But how much greater was his horror when the phantom, taking off the bandage round his head, as if it were too warm to wear indoors, its lower jaw dropped down upon its breast! Scrooge fell upon his knees, and clasped his hands before his face. "Mercy!" he said. "Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?" "Man of the worldly mind!" replied the Ghost, "do you believe in me or not?" "I do," said Scrooge. "I must. But why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?" [Illustration: _To sit staring at those fixed glazed eyes in silence, for a moment, would play, Scrooge felt, the very deuce with him._] "It is required of every man," the Ghost returned, "that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide; and, if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world--oh, woe is me!--and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!" Again the spectre raised a cry, and shook its chain and wrung its shadowy hands. "You are fettered," said Scrooge, trembling. "Tell me why?" "I wear the chain I forged in life," replied the Ghost. "I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free-will, and of my own free-will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to _you_?" Scrooge trembled more and more. "Or would you know," pursued the Ghost, "the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as long as this, seven Christmas-eves ago. You have laboured on it since. It is a ponderous chain!" Scrooge glanced about him on the floor, in the expectation of finding himself surrounded by some fifty or sixty fathoms of iron cable, but he could see nothing. "Jacob!" he said imploringly. "Old Jacob Marley, tell me more! Speak comfort to me, Jacob!" "I have none to give," the Ghost replied. "It comes from other regions, Ebenezer Scrooge, and is conveyed by other ministers, to other kinds of men. Nor can I tell you what I would. A very little more is all permitted to me. I cannot rest, I cannot stay, I cannot linger anywhere. My spirit never walked beyond our counting-house--mark me;--in life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits of our money-changing hole; and weary journeys lie before me!" It was a habit with Scrooge, whenever he became thoughtful, to put his hands in his breeches pockets. Pondering on what the Ghost had said, he did so now, but without lifting up his eyes, or getting off his knees. "You must have been very slow about it, Jacob," Scrooge observed in a business-like manner, though with humility and deference. "Slow!" the Ghost repeated. "Seven years dead," mused Scrooge. "And travelling all the time?" "The whole time," said the Ghost. "No rest, no peace. Incessant torture of remorse." "You travel fast?" said Scrooge. "On the wings of the wind," replied the Ghost. "You might have got over a great quantity of ground in seven years," said Scrooge. The Ghost, on hearing this, set up another cry, and clanked its chain so hideously in the dead silence of the night, that the Ward would have been justified in indicting it for a nuisance. "Oh! captive, bound, and double-ironed," cried the phantom, "not to know that ages of incessant labour, by immortal creatures, for this earth must pass into eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is all developed! Not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness! Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunities misused! Yet such was I! Oh, such was I!" "But you were always a good man of business, Jacob," faltered Scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself. "Business!" cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. "Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence were, all, my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!" It held up its chain at arm's length, as if that were the cause of all its unavailing grief, and flung it heavily upon the ground again. "At this time of the rolling year," the spectre said, "I suffer most. Why did I walk through crowds of fellow-beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed Star which led the Wise Men to a poor abode? Were there no poor homes to which its light would have conducted _me_?" Scrooge was very much dismayed to hear the spectre going on at this rate, and began to quake exceedingly. "Hear me!" cried the Ghost. "My time is nearly gone." "I will," said Scrooge. "But don't be hard upon me! Don't be flowery, Jacob! Pray!" "How it is that I appear before you in a shape that you can see, I may not tell. I have sat invisible beside you many and many a day." It was not an agreeable idea. Scrooge shivered, and wiped the perspiration from his brow. "That is no light part of my penance," pursued the Ghost. "I am here to-night to warn you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer." "You were always a good friend to me," said Scrooge. "Thankee!" "You will be haunted," resumed the Ghost, "by Three Spirits." Scrooge's countenance fell almost as low as the Ghost's had done. "Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Jacob?" he demanded in a faltering voice. "It is." "I--I think I'd rather not," said Scrooge. "Without their visits," said the Ghost, "you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first to-morrow when the bell tolls One." "Couldn't I take 'em all at once, and have it over, Jacob?" hinted Scrooge. "Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. The third, upon the next night when the last stroke of Twelve has ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us!" When it had said these words, the spectre took its wrapper from the table, and bound it round its head as before. Scrooge knew this by the smart sound its teeth made when the jaws were brought together by the bandage. He ventured to raise his eyes again, and found his supernatural visitor confronting him in an erect attitude, with its chain wound over and about its arm. The apparition walked backward from him; and, at every step it took, the window raised itself a little, so that, when the spectre reached it, it was wide open. It beckoned Scrooge to approach, which he did. When they were within two paces of each other, Marley's Ghost held up its hand, warning him to come no nearer. Scrooge stopped. Not so much in obedience as in surprise and fear; for, on the raising of the hand, he became sensible of confused noises in the air; incoherent sounds of lamentation and regret; wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and self-accusatory. The spectre, after listening for a moment, joined in the mournful dirge; and floated out upon the bleak, dark night. Scrooge followed to the window: desperate in his curiosity. He looked out. The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither in restless haste, and moaning as they went. Every one of them wore chains like Marley's Ghost; some few (they might be guilty governments) were linked together; none were free. Many had been personally known to Scrooge in their lives. He had been quite familiar with one old ghost in a white waistcoat, with a monstrous iron safe attached to its ankle, who cried piteously at being unable to assist a wretched woman with an infant, whom it saw below upon a doorstep. The misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in human matters, and had lost the power for ever. Whether these creatures faded into mist, or mist enshrouded them, he could not tell. But they and their spirit voices faded together; and the night became as it had been when he walked home. Scrooge closed the window, and examined the door by which the Ghost had entered. It was double locked, as he had locked it with his own hands, and the bolts were undisturbed. He tried to say "Humbug!" but stopped at the first syllable. And being, from the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his glimpse of the Invisible World, or the dull conversation of the Ghost, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of repose, went straight to bed without undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant. STAVE TWO THE FIRST OF THE THREE SPIRITS When Scrooge awoke it was so dark, that, looking out of bed, he could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of his chamber. He was endeavouring to pierce the darkness with his ferret eyes, when the chimes of a neighbouring church struck the four quarters. So he listened for the hour. To his great astonishment, the heavy bell went on from six to seven, and from seven to eight, and regularly up to twelve; then stopped. Twelve! It was past two when he went to bed. The clock was wrong. An icicle must have got into the works. Twelve! He touched the spring of his repeater, to correct this most preposterous clock. Its rapid little pulse beat twelve, and stopped. "Why, it isn't possible," said Scrooge, "that I can have slept through a whole day and far into another night. It isn't possible that anything has happened to the sun, and this is twelve at noon!" The idea being an alarming one, he scrambled out of bed, and groped his way to the window. He was obliged to rub the frost off with the sleeve of his dressing-gown before he could see anything; and could see very little then. All he could make out was, that it was still very foggy and extremely cold, and that there was no noise of people running to and fro, and making a great stir, as there unquestionably would have been if night had beaten off bright day, and taken possession of the world. This was a great relief, because "Three days after sight of this First of Exchange pay to Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge or his order," and so forth, would have become a mere United States security if there were no days to count by. Scrooge went to bed again, and thought, and thought, and thought it over and over, and could make nothing of it. The more he thought, the more perplexed he was; and, the more he endeavoured not to think, the more he thought. Marley's Ghost bothered him exceedingly. Every time he resolved within himself, after mature inquiry, that it was all a dream, his mind flew back again, like a strong spring released, to its first position, and presented the same problem to be worked all through, "Was it a dream or not?" Scrooge lay in this state until the chime had gone three quarters more, when he remembered, on a sudden, that the Ghost had warned him of a visitation when the bell tolled one. He resolved to lie awake until the hour was passed; and, considering that he could no more go to sleep than go to Heaven, this was, perhaps, the wisest resolution in his power. The quarter was so long, that he was more than once convinced he must have sunk into a doze unconsciously, and missed the clock. At length it broke upon his listening ear. "Ding, dong!" "A quarter past," said Scrooge, counting. "Ding, dong!" "Half past," said Scrooge. "Ding, dong!" "A quarter to it," said Scrooge. "Ding, dong!" "The hour itself," said Scrooge triumphantly, "and nothing else!" He spoke before the hour bell sounded, which it now did with a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy ONE. Light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and the curtains of his bed were drawn. The curtains of his bed were drawn aside, I tell you, by a hand. Not the curtains at his feet, nor the curtains at his back, but those to which his face was addressed. The curtains of his bed were drawn aside; and Scrooge, starting up into a half-recumbent attitude, found himself face to face with the unearthly visitor who drew them: as close to it as I am now to you, and I am standing in the spirit at your elbow. It was a strange figure--like a child: yet not so like a child as like an old man, viewed through some supernatural medium, which gave him the appearance of having receded from the view, and being diminished to a child's proportions. Its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back, was white, as if with age; and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it, and the tenderest bloom was on the skin. The arms were very long and muscular; the hands the same, as if its hold were of uncommon strength. Its legs and feet, most delicately formed, were, like those upper members, bare. It wore a tunic of the purest white; and round its waist was bound a lustrous belt, the sheen of which was beautiful. It held a branch of fresh green holly in its hand: and, in singular contradiction of that wintry emblem, had its dress trimmed with summer flowers. But the strangest thing about it was, that from the crown of its head there sprung a bright clear jet of light, by which all this was visible; and which was doubtless the occasion of its using, in its duller moments, a great extinguisher for a cap, which it now held under its arm. Even this, though, when Scrooge looked at it with increasing steadiness, was _not_ its strangest quality. For, as its belt sparkled and glittered, now in one part and now in another, and what was light one instant at another time was dark, so the figure itself fluctuated in its distinctness: being now a thing with one arm, now with one leg, now with twenty legs, now a pair of legs without a head, now a head without a body: of which dissolving parts no outline would be visible in the dense gloom wherein they melted away. And, in the very wonder of this, it would be itself again; distinct and clear as ever. "Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?" asked Scrooge. "I am!" The voice was soft and gentle. Singularly low, as if, instead of being so close beside him, it were at a distance. "Who and what are you?" Scrooge demanded. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Past." "Long Past?" inquired Scrooge; observant of its dwarfish stature. "No. Your past." Perhaps Scrooge could not have told anybody why, if anybody could have asked him; but he had a special desire to see the Spirit in his cap; and begged him to be covered. "What!" exclaimed the Ghost, "would you so soon put out, with worldly hands, the light I give? Is it not enough that you are one of those whose passions made this cap, and force me through whole trains of years to wear it low upon my brow?" Scrooge reverently disclaimed all intention to offend or any knowledge of having wilfully "bonneted" the Spirit at any period of his life. He then made bold to inquire what business brought him there. "Your welfare!" said the Ghost. Scrooge expressed himself much obliged, but could not help thinking that a night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to that end. The Spirit must have heard him thinking, for it said immediately: "Your reclamation, then. Take heed!" It put out its strong hand as it spoke, and clasped him gently by the arm. "Rise! and walk with me!" It would have been in vain for Scrooge to plead that the weather and the hour were not adapted to pedestrian purposes; that bed was warm, and the thermometer a long way below freezing; that he was clad but lightly in his slippers, dressing-gown, and nightcap; and that he had a cold upon him at that time. The grasp, though gentle as a woman's hand, was not to be resisted. He rose: but, finding that the Spirit made towards the window, clasped its robe in supplication. "I am a mortal," Scrooge remonstrated, "and liable to fall." "Bear but a touch of my hand _there_," said the Spirit, laying it upon his heart, "and you shall be upheld in more than this!" As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood upon an open country road, with fields on either hand. The city had entirely vanished. Not a vestige of it was to be seen. The darkness and the mist had vanished with it, for it was a clear, cold, winter day, with the snow upon the ground. "Good Heaven!" said Scrooge, clasping his hands together as he looked about him. "I was bred in this place. I was a boy here!" The Spirit gazed upon him mildly. Its gentle touch, though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still present to the old man's sense of feeling. He was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long forgotten! "Your lip is trembling," said the Ghost. "And what is that upon your cheek?" Scrooge muttered, with an unusual catching in his voice, that it was a pimple; and begged the Ghost to lead him where he would. "You recollect the way?" inquired the Spirit. "Remember it!" cried Scrooge with fervour; "I could walk it blindfold." "Strange to have forgotten it for so many years!" observed the Ghost. "Let us go on." [Illustration: _"You recollect the way?" inquired the spirit. "Remember it!" cried Scrooge with fervour; "I could walk it blindfold."_] They walked along the road, Scrooge recognising every gate, and post, and tree, until a little market-town appeared in the distance, with its bridge, its church, and winding river. Some shaggy ponies now were seen trotting towards them with boys upon their backs, who called to other boys in country gigs and carts, driven by farmers. All these boys were in great spirits, and shouted to each other, until the broad fields were so full of merry music, that the crisp air laughed to hear it. "These are but shadows of the things that have been," said the Ghost. "They have no consciousness of us." The jocund travellers came on; and as they came, Scrooge knew and named them every one. Why was he rejoiced beyond all bounds to see them? Why did his cold eye glisten, and his heart leap up as they went past? Why was he filled with gladness when he heard them give each other Merry Christmas, as they parted at cross-roads and by-ways for their several homes? What was merry Christmas to Scrooge? Out upon merry Christmas! What good had it ever done to him? "The school is not quite deserted," said the Ghost. "A solitary child, neglected by his friends, is left there still." Scrooge said he knew it. And he sobbed. They left the high-road by a well-remembered lane, and soon approached a mansion of dull red brick, with a little weather-cock surmounted cupola on the roof and a bell hanging in it. It was a large house, but one of broken fortunes: for the spacious offices were little used, their walls were damp and mossy, their windows broken, and their gates decayed. Fowls clucked and strutted in the stables; and the coach-houses and sheds were overrun with grass. Nor was it more retentive of its ancient state within; for, entering the dreary hall, and glancing through the open doors of many rooms, they found them poorly furnished, cold, and vast. There was an earthly savour in the air, a chilly bareness in the place, which associated itself somehow with too much getting up by candle-light, and not too much to eat. They went, the Ghost and Scrooge, across the hall, to a door at the back of the house. It opened before them, and disclosed a long, bare, melancholy room, made barer still by lines of plain deal forms and desks. At one of these a lonely boy was reading near a feeble fire; and Scrooge sat down upon a form, and wept to see his poor forgotten self as he had used to be. Not a latent echo in the house, not a squeak and scuffle from the mice behind the panelling, not a drip from the half-thawed water-spout in the dull yard behind, not a sigh among the leafless boughs of one despondent poplar, not the idle swinging of an empty storehouse door, no, not a clicking in the fire, but fell upon the heart of Scrooge with softening influence, and gave a freer passage to his tears. The Spirit touched him on the arm, and pointed to his younger self, intent upon his reading. Suddenly a man in foreign garments: wonderfully real and distinct to look at: stood outside the window, with an axe stuck in his belt, and leading by the bridle an ass laden with wood. "Why, it's Ali Baba!" Scrooge exclaimed in ecstasy. "It's dear old honest Ali Baba! Yes, yes, I know. One Christmas-time when yonder solitary child was left here all alone, he _did_ come, for the first time, just like that. Poor boy! And Valentine," said Scrooge, "and his wild brother, Orson; there they go! And what's his name, who was put down in his drawers, asleep, at the gate of Damascus; don't you see him? And the Sultan's Groom turned upside down by the Genii: there he is upon his head! Serve him right! I'm glad of it. What business had _he_ to be married to the Princess?" To hear Scrooge expending all the earnestness of his nature on such subjects, in a most extraordinary voice between laughing and crying; and to see his heightened and excited face; would have been a surprise to his business friends in the City, indeed. [Illustration: _"Why, it's Ali Baba!" Scrooge exclaimed in ecstasy. "It's dear old honest Ali Baba."_] "There's the Parrot!" cried Scrooge. "Green body and yellow tail, with a thing like a lettuce growing out of the top of his head; there he is! Poor Robin Crusoe he called him, when he came home again after sailing round the island. 'Poor Robin Crusoe, where have you been, Robin Crusoe?' The man thought he was dreaming, but he wasn't. It was the Parrot, you know. There goes Friday, running for his life to the little creek! Halloa! Hoop! Halloo!" Then, with a rapidity of transition very foreign to his usual character, he said, in pity for his former self, "Poor boy!" and cried again. "I wish," Scrooge muttered, putting his hand in his pocket, and looking about him, after drying his eyes with his cuff: "but it's too late now." "What is the matter?" asked the Spirit. "Nothing," said Scrooge. "Nothing. There was a boy singing a Christmas Carol at my door last night. I should like to have given him something: that's all." The Ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved its hand: saying, as it did so, "Let us see another Christmas!" Scrooge's former self grew larger at the words, and the room became a little darker and more dirty. The panels shrunk, the windows cracked; fragments of plaster fell out of the ceiling, and the naked laths were shown instead; but how all this was brought about Scrooge knew no more than you do. He only knew that it was quite correct: that everything had happened so; that there he was, alone again, when all the other boys had gone home for the jolly holidays. He was not reading now, but walking up and down despairingly. Scrooge looked at the Ghost, and, with a mournful shaking of his head, glanced anxiously towards the door. It opened; and a little girl, much younger than the boy, came darting in, and, putting her arms about his neck, and often kissing him, addressed him as her "dear, dear brother." "I have come to bring you home, dear brother!" said the child, clapping her tiny hands, and bending down to laugh. "To bring you home, home, home!" "Home, little Fan?" returned the boy. "Yes!" said the child, brimful of glee. "Home for good and all. Home for ever and ever. Father is so much kinder than he used to be, that home's like Heaven! He spoke so gently to me one dear night when I was going to bed, that I was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home; and he said Yes, you should; and sent me in a coach to bring you. And you're to be a man!" said the child, opening her eyes; "and are never to come back here; but first we're to be together all the Christmas long, and have the merriest time in all the world." "You are quite a woman, little Fan!" exclaimed the boy. She clapped her hands and laughed, and tried to touch his head; but, being too little, laughed again, and stood on tiptoe to embrace him. Then she began to drag him, in her childish eagerness, towards the door; and he, nothing loath to go, accompanied her. A terrible voice in the hall cried, "Bring down Master Scrooge's box, there!" and in the hall appeared the schoolmaster himself, who glared on Master Scrooge with a ferocious condescension, and threw him into a dreadful state of mind by shaking hands with him. He then conveyed him and his sister into the veriest old well of a shivering best parlour that ever was seen, where the maps upon the wall, and the celestial and terrestrial globes in the windows, were waxy with cold. Here he produced a decanter of curiously light wine, and a block of curiously heavy cake, and administered instalments of those dainties to the young people: at the same time sending out a meagre servant to offer a glass of "something" to the postboy who answered that he thanked the gentleman, but, if it was the same tap as he had tasted before, he had rather not. Master Scrooge's trunk being by this time tied on to the top of the chaise, the children bade the schoolmaster good-bye right willingly; and, getting into it, drove gaily down the garden sweep; the quick wheels dashing the hoar frost and snow from off the dark leaves of the evergreens like spray. "Always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered," said the Ghost. "But she had a large heart!" "So she had," cried Scrooge. "You're right. I will not gainsay it, Spirit. God forbid!" "She died a woman," said the Ghost, "and had, as I think, children." "One child," Scrooge returned. "True," said the Ghost. "Your nephew!" Scrooge seemed uneasy in his mind; and answered briefly, "Yes." Although they had but that moment left the school behind them, they were now in the busy thoroughfares of a city, where shadowy passengers passed and repassed; where shadowy carts and coaches battled for the way, and all the strife and tumult of a real city were. It was made plain enough, by the dressing of the shops, that here, too, it was Christmas-time again; but it was evening, and the streets were lighted up. The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door, and asked Scrooge if he knew it. "Know it!" said Scrooge. "Was I apprenticed here?" They went in. At sight of an old gentleman in a Welsh wig, sitting behind such a high desk, that if he had been two inches taller, he must have knocked his head against the ceiling, Scrooge cried in great excitement: "Why, it's old Fezziwig! Bless his heart, it's Fezziwig alive again!" Old Fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up at the clock, which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands; adjusted his capacious waistcoat; laughed all over himself, from his shoes to his organ of benevolence; and called out, in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial voice: "Yo ho, there! Ebenezer! Dick!" Scrooge's former self, now grown a young man, came briskly in, accompanied by his fellow-'prentice. "Dick Wilkins, to be sure!" said Scrooge to the Ghost. "Bless me, yes. There he is. He was very much attached to me, was Dick. Poor Dick! Dear, dear!" "Yo ho, my boys!" said Fezziwig. "No more work to-night. Christmas-eve, Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer! Let's have the shutters up," cried old Fezziwig with a sharp clap of his hands, "before a man can say Jack Robinson!" You wouldn't believe how those two fellows went at it! They charged into the street with the shutters--one, two, three--had 'em up in their places--four, five, six--barred 'em and pinned 'em--seven, eight, nine--and came back before you could have got to twelve, panting like race-horses. "Hilli-ho!" cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk with wonderful agility. "Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here! Hilli-ho, Dick! Chirrup, Ebenezer!" Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life for evermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ball-room as you would desire to see upon a winter's night. In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty stomachaches. In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. In came the three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and lovable. In came the six young followers whose hearts they broke. In came all the young men and women employed in the business. In came the housemaid, with her cousin the baker. In came the cook, with her brother's particular friend the milkman. In came the boy from over the way, who was suspected of not having board enough from his master; trying to hide himself behind the girl from next door but one, who was proved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress. In they all came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling; in they all came, any how and every how. Away they all went, twenty couple at once; hands half round and back again the other way; down the middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them! When this result was brought about, old Fezziwig, clapping his hands to stop the dance, cried out, "Well done!" and the fiddler plunged his hot face into a pot of porter, especially provided for that purpose. But, scorning rest upon his reappearance, he instantly began again, though there were no dancers yet, as if the other fiddler had been carried home, exhausted, on a shutter, and he were a bran-new man resolved to beat him out of sight, or perish. There were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances, and there was cake, and there was negus, and there was a great piece of Cold Roast, and there was a great piece of Cold Boiled, and there were mince-pies, and plenty of beer. But the great effect of the evening came after the Roast and Boiled, when the fiddler (an artful dog, mind! The sort of man who knew his business better than you or I could have told it him!) struck up "Sir Roger de Coverley." Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top couple, too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who _would_ dance, and had no notion of walking. But if they had been twice as many--ah! four times--old Fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig. As to _her_, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If that's not high praise, tell me higher, and I'll use it. A positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig's calves. They shone in every part of the dance like moons. You couldn't have predicted, at any given time, what would become of them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all through the dance; advance and retire, both hands to your partner, bow and curtsy, cork-screw, thread-the-needle, and back again to your place; Fezziwig "cut"--cut so deftly, that he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again without a stagger. When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side the door, and, shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas. When everybody had retired but the two 'prentices, they did the same to them; and thus the cheerful voices died away, and the lads were left to their beds; which were under a counter in the back-shop. During the whole of this time Scrooge had acted like a man out of his wits. His heart and soul were in the scene, and with his former self. He corroborated everything, remembered everything, enjoyed everything, and underwent the strangest agitation. It was not until now, when the bright faces of his former self and Dick were turned from them, that he remembered the Ghost, and became conscious that it was looking full upon him, while the light upon its head burnt very clear. "A small matter," said the Ghost, "to make these silly folks so full of gratitude." "Small!" echoed Scrooge. The Spirit signed to him to listen to the two apprentices, who were pouring out their hearts in praise of Fezziwig; and, when he had done so, said: "Why! Is it not? He has spent but a few pounds of your mortal money: three or four, perhaps. Is that so much that he deserves this praise?" "It isn't that," said Scrooge, heated by the remark, and speaking unconsciously like his former, not his latter self. "It isn't that, Spirit. He has the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. Say that his power lies in words and looks; in things so slight and insignificant that it is impossible to add and count 'em up: what then? The happiness he gives is quite as great as if it cost a fortune." He felt the Spirit's glance, and stopped. "What is the matter?" asked the Ghost. "Nothing particular," said Scrooge. "Something, I think?" the Ghost insisted. "No," said Scrooge, "no. I should like to be able to say a word or two to my clerk just now. That's all." His former self turned down the lamps as he gave utterance to the wish; and Scrooge and the Ghost again stood side by side in the open air. "My time grows short," observed the Spirit. "Quick!" This was not addressed to Scrooge, or to any one whom he could see, but it produced an immediate effect. For again Scrooge saw himself. He was older now; a man in the prime of life. His face had not the harsh and rigid lines of later years; but it had begun to wear the signs of care and avarice. There was an eager, greedy, restless motion in the eye, which showed the passion that had taken root, and where the shadow of the growing tree would fall. He was not alone, but sat by the side of a fair young girl in a mourning dress: in whose eyes there were tears, which sparkled in the light that shone out of the Ghost of Christmas Past. "It matters little," she said softly. "To you, very little. Another idol has displaced me; and, if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve." "What Idol has displaced you?" he rejoined. "A golden one." "This is the even-handed dealing of the world!" he said. "There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; and there is nothing it professes to condemn with such severity as the pursuit of wealth!" "You fear the world too much," she answered gently. "All your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master passion, Gain, engrosses you. Have I not?" "What then?" he retorted. "Even if I have grown so much wiser, what then? I am not changed towards you." She shook her head. "Am I?" "Our contract is an old one. It was made when we were both poor, and content to be so, until, in good season, we could improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry. You _are_ changed. When it was made you were another man." "I was a boy," he said impatiently. "Your own feeling tells you that you were not what you are," she returned. "I am. That which promised happiness when we were one in heart is fraught with misery now that we are two. How often and how keenly I have thought of this I will not say. It is enough that I _have_ thought of it, and can release you." "Have I ever sought release?" "In words. No. Never." "In what, then?" "In a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another atmosphere of life; another Hope as its great end. In everything that made my love of any worth or value in your sight. If this had never been between us," said the girl, looking mildly, but with steadiness, upon him, "tell me, would you seek me out and try to win me now? Ah, no!" He seemed to yield to the justice of this supposition in spite of himself. But he said, with a struggle, "You think not." "I would gladly think otherwise if I could," she answered. "Heaven knows! When _I_ have learned a Truth like this, I know how strong and irresistible it must be. But if you were free to-day, to-morrow, yesterday, can even I believe that you would choose a dowerless girl--you who, in your very confidence with her, weigh everything by Gain: or, choosing her, if for a moment you were false enough to your one guiding principle to do so, do I not know that your repentance and regret would surely follow? I do; and I release you. With a full heart, for the love of him you once were." He was about to speak; but, with her head turned from him, she resumed. "You may--the memory of what is past half makes me hope you will--have pain in this. A very, very brief time, and you will dismiss the recollection of it gladly, as an unprofitable dream, from which it happened well that you awoke. May you be happy in the life you have chosen!" She left him, and they parted. "Spirit!" said Scrooge, "show me no more! Conduct me home. Why do you delight to torture me?" "One shadow more!" exclaimed the Ghost. "No more!" cried Scrooge. "No more! I don't wish to see it. Show me no more!" But the relentless Ghost pinioned him in both his arms, and forced him to observe what happened next. They were in another scene and place; a room, not very large or handsome, but full of comfort. Near to the winter fire sat a beautiful young girl, so like that last that Scrooge believed it was the same, until he saw _her_, now a comely matron, sitting opposite her daughter. The noise in this room was perfectly tumultuous, for there were more children there than Scrooge in his agitated state of mind could count; and, unlike the celebrated herd in the poem, they were not forty children conducting themselves like one, but every child was conducting itself like forty. The consequences were uproarious beyond belief; but no one seemed to care; on the contrary, the mother and daughter laughed heartily, and enjoyed it very much; and the latter, soon beginning to mingle in the sports, got pillaged by the young brigands most ruthlessly. What would I not have given to be one of them! Though I never could have been so rude, no, no! I wouldn't for the wealth of all the world have crushed that braided hair, and torn it down; and, for the precious little shoe, I wouldn't have plucked it off, God bless my soul! to save my life. As to measuring her waist in sport, as they did, bold young brood, I couldn't have done it; I should have expected my arm to have grown round it for a punishment, and never come straight again. And yet I should have dearly liked, I own, to have touched her lips; to have questioned her, that she might have opened them; to have looked upon the lashes of her downcast eyes, and never raised a blush; to have let loose waves of hair, an inch of which would be a keepsake beyond price: in short, I should have liked, I do confess, to have had the lightest licence of a child, and yet to have been man enough to know its value. But now a knocking at the door was heard, and such a rush immediately ensued that she, with laughing face and plundered dress, was borne towards it in the centre of a flushed and boisterous group, just in time to greet the father, who came home attended by a man laden with Christmas toys and presents. Then the shouting and the struggling, and the onslaught that was made on the defenceless porter! The scaling him, with chairs for ladders, to dive into his pockets, despoil him of brown-paper parcels, hold on tight by his cravat, hug him round the neck, pummel his back, and kick his legs in irrepressible affection! The shouts of wonder and delight with which the development of every package was received! The terrible announcement that the baby had been taken in the act of putting a doll's frying-pan into his mouth, and was more than suspected of having swallowed a fictitious turkey, glued on a wooden platter! The immense relief of finding this a false alarm! The joy, and gratitude, and ecstasy! They are all indescribable alike. It is enough that by degrees, the children and their emotions got out of the parlour, and, by one stair at a time, up to the top of the house, where they went to bed, and so subsided. And now Scrooge looked on more attentively than ever, when the master of the house, having his daughter leaning fondly on him, sat down with her and her mother at his own fireside; and when he thought that such another creature, quite as graceful and as full of promise, might have called him father, and been a spring-time in the haggard winter of his life, his sight grew very dim indeed. "Belle," said the husband, turning to his wife with a smile, "I saw an old friend of yours this afternoon." "Who was it?" "Guess!" "How can I? Tut, don't I know?" she added in the same breath, laughing as he laughed. "Mr. Scrooge." "Mr. Scrooge it was. I passed his office window; and as it was not shut up, and he had a candle inside, I could scarcely help seeing him. His partner lies upon the point of death, I hear; and there he sat alone. Quite alone in the world, I do believe." "Spirit!" said Scrooge in a broken voice, "remove me from this place." "I told you these were shadows of the things that have been," said the Ghost. "That they are what they are, do not blame me!" "Remove me!" Scrooge exclaimed. "I cannot bear it!" He turned upon the Ghost, and seeing that it looked upon him with a face in which in some strange way there were fragments of all the faces it had shown him, wrestled with it. "Leave me! Take me back! Haunt me no longer!" In the struggle--if that can be called a struggle in which the Ghost, with no visible resistance on its own part, was undisturbed by any effort of its adversary--Scrooge observed that its light was burning high and bright; and dimly connecting that with its influence over him, he seized the extinguisher cap, and by a sudden action pressed it down upon its head. The Spirit dropped beneath it, so that the extinguisher covered its whole form; but, though Scrooge pressed it down with all his force, he could not hide the light, which streamed from under it in an unbroken flood upon the ground. He was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in his own bedroom. He gave the cap a parting squeeze, in which his hand relaxed; and had barely time to reel to bed before he sank into a heavy sleep. STAVE THREE THE SECOND OF THE THREE SPIRITS Awaking in the middle of a prodigiously tough snore, and sitting up in bed to get his thoughts together, Scrooge had no occasion to be told that the bell was again upon the stroke of One. He felt that he was restored to consciousness in the right nick of time, for the especial purpose of holding a conference with the second messenger dispatched to him through Jacob Marley's intervention. But, finding that he turned uncomfortably cold when he began to wonder which of his curtains this new spectre would draw back, he put them every one aside with his own hands, and, lying down again, established a sharp look-out all round the bed. For he wished to challenge the Spirit on the moment of its appearance, and did not wish to be taken by surprise and made nervous. Gentlemen of the free-and-easy sort, who plume themselves on being acquainted with a move or two, and being usually equal to the time of day, express the wide range of their capacity for adventure by observing that they are good for anything from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter; between which opposite extremes, no doubt, there lies a tolerably wide and comprehensive range of subjects. Without venturing for Scrooge quite as hardily as this, I don't mind calling on you to believe that he was ready for a good broad field of strange appearances, and that nothing between a baby and a rhinoceros would have astonished him very much. Now, being prepared for almost anything, he was not by any means prepared for nothing; and consequently, when the bell struck One, and no shape appeared, he was taken with a violent fit of trembling. Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour went by, yet nothing came. All this time he lay upon his bed, the very core and centre of a blaze of ruddy light, which streamed upon it when the clock proclaimed the hour; and which, being only light, was more alarming than a dozen ghosts, as he was powerless to make out what it meant, or would be at; and was sometimes apprehensive that he might be at that very moment an interesting case of spontaneous combustion, without having the consolation of knowing it. At last, however, he began to think--as you or I would have thought at first; for it is always the person not in the predicament who knows what ought to have been done in it, and would unquestionably have done it too--at last, I say, he began to think that the source and secret of this ghostly light might be in the adjoining room, from whence, on further tracing it, it seemed to shine. This idea taking full possession of his mind, he got up softly, and shuffled in his slippers to the door. The moment Scrooge's hand was on the lock, a strange voice called him by his name, and bade him enter. He obeyed. It was his own room. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked a perfect grove; from every part of which bright gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there; and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney as that dull petrifaction of a hearth had never known in Scrooge's time, or Marley's, or for many and many a winter season gone. Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. In easy state upon this couch there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see; who bore a glowing torch, in shape not unlike Plenty's horn, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on Scrooge as he came peeping round the door. "Come in!" exclaimed the Ghost. "Come in! and know me better, man!" Scrooge entered timidly, and hung his head before this Spirit. He was not the dogged Scrooge he had been; and, though the Spirit's eyes were clear and kind, he did not like to meet them. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," said the Spirit. "Look upon me!" Scrooge reverently did so. It was clothed in one simple deep green robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur. This garment hung so loosely on the figure, that its capacious breast was bare, as if disdaining to be warded or concealed by any artifice. Its feet, observable beneath the ample folds of the garment, were also bare; and on its head it wore no other covering than a holly wreath, set here and there with shining icicles. Its dark brown curls were long and free; free as its genial face, its sparkling eye, its open hand, its cheery voice, its unconstrained demeanour, and its joyful air. Girded round its middle was an antique scabbard; but no sword was in it, and the ancient sheath was eaten up with rust. "You have never seen the like of me before!" exclaimed the Spirit. "Never," Scrooge made answer to it. "Have never walked forth with the younger members of my family; meaning (for I am very young) my elder brothers born in these later years?" pursued the Phantom. "I don't think I have," said Scrooge. "I am afraid I have not. Have you had many brothers, Spirit?" "More than eighteen hundred," said the Ghost. "A tremendous family to provide for," muttered Scrooge. The Ghost of Christmas Present rose. "Spirit," said Scrooge submissively, "conduct me where you will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learnt a lesson which is working now. To-night, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it." "Touch my robe!" Scrooge did as he was told, and held it fast. Holly, mistletoe, red berries, ivy, turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, meat, pigs, sausages, oysters, pies, puddings, fruit, and punch, all vanished instantly. So did the room, the fire, the ruddy glow, the hour of night, and they stood in the city streets on Christmas morning, where (for the weather was severe) the people made a rough, but brisk and not unpleasant kind of music, in scraping the snow from the pavement in front of their dwellings, and from the tops of their houses, whence it was mad delight to the boys to see it come plumping down into the road below, and splitting into artificial little snow-storms. The house-fronts looked black enough, and the windows blacker, contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow upon the roofs, and with the dirtier snow upon the ground; which last deposit had been ploughed up in deep furrows by the heavy wheels of carts and waggons; furrows that crossed and recrossed each other hundreds of times where the great streets branched off; and made intricate channels, hard to trace, in the thick yellow mud and icy water. The sky was gloomy, and the shortest streets were choked up with a dingy mist, half thawed, half frozen, whose heavier particles descended in a shower of sooty atoms, as if all the chimneys in Great Britain had, by one consent, caught fire, and were blazing away to their dear hearts' content. There was nothing very cheerful in the climate or the town, and yet was there an air of cheerfulness abroad that the clearest summer air and brightest summer sun might have endeavoured to diffuse in vain. For, the people who were shovelling away on the housetops were jovial and full of glee; calling out to one another from the parapets, and now and then exchanging a facetious snowball--better-natured missile far than many a wordy jest--laughing heartily if it went right, and not less heartily if it went wrong. The poulterers' shops were still half open, and the fruiterers' were radiant in their glory. There were great, round, pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and tumbling out into the street in their apoplectic opulence. There were ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed Spanish onions, shining in the fatness of their growth like Spanish Friars, and winking from their shelves in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by, and glanced demurely at the hung-up mistletoe. There were pears and apples clustered high in blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shopkeepers' benevolence, to dangle from conspicuous hooks that people's mouths might water gratis as they passed; there were piles of filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered leaves; there were Norfolk Biffins, squab and swarthy, setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper bags, and eaten after dinner. The very gold and silver fish, set forth among these choice fruits in a bowl, though members of a dull and stagnant-blooded race, appeared to know that there was something going on; and, to a fish, went gasping round and round their little world in slow and passionless excitement. The Grocers'! oh, the Grocers'! nearly closed, with perhaps two shutters down, or one; but through those gaps such glimpses! It was not alone that the scales descending on the counter made a merry sound, or that the twine and roller parted company so briskly, or that the canisters were rattled up and down like juggling tricks, or even that the blended scents of tea and coffee were so grateful to the nose, or even that the raisins were so plentiful and rare, the almonds so extremely white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and straight, the other spices so delicious, the candied fruits so caked and spotted with molten sugar as to make the coldest lookers-on feel faint, and subsequently bilious. Nor was it that the figs were moist and pulpy, or that the French plums blushed in modest tartness from their highly-decorated boxes, or that everything was good to eat and in its Christmas dress; but the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day, that they tumbled up against each other at the door, crashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and committed hundreds of the like mistakes, in the best humour possible; while the Grocer and his people were so frank and fresh, that the polished hearts with which they fastened their aprons behind might have been their own, worn outside for general inspection, and for Christmas daws to peck at if they chose. But soon the steeples called good people all to church and chapel, and away they came, flocking through the streets in their best clothes, and with their gayest faces. And at the same time there emerged, from scores of by-streets, lanes, and nameless turnings, innumerable people, carrying their dinners to the bakers' shops. The sight of these poor revellers appeared to interest the Spirit very much, for he stood with Scrooge beside him in a baker's doorway, and, taking off the covers as their bearers passed, sprinkled incense on their dinners from his torch. And it was a very uncommon kind of torch, for once or twice, when there were angry words between some dinner-carriers who had jostled each other, he shed a few drops of water on them from it, and their good-humour was restored directly. For they said, it was a shame to quarrel upon Christmas-day. And so it was! God love it, so it was! In time the bells ceased, and the bakers were shut up; and yet there was a genial shadowing forth of all these dinners, and the progress of their cooking, in the thawed blotch of wet above each baker's oven; where the pavement smoked as if its stones were cooking too. "Is there a peculiar flavour in what you sprinkle from your torch?" asked Scrooge. "There is. My own." "Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day?" asked Scrooge. "To any kindly given. To a poor one most." "Why to a poor one most?" asked Scrooge. "Because it needs it most." "Spirit!" said Scrooge after a moment's thought. "I wonder you, of all the beings in the many worlds about us, should desire to cramp these people's opportunities of innocent enjoyment." "I!" cried the Spirit. "You would deprive them of their means of dining every seventh day, often the only day on which they can be said to dine at all," said Scrooge; "wouldn't you?" "I!" cried the Spirit. "You seek to close these places on the Seventh Day," said Scrooge. "And it comes to the same thing." "_I_ seek!" exclaimed the Spirit. "Forgive me if I am wrong. It has been done in your name, or at least in that of your family," said Scrooge. "There are some upon this earth of yours," returned the Spirit, "who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name, who are as strange to us, and all our kith and kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us." Scrooge promised that he would; and they went on, invisible, as they had been before, into the suburbs of the town. It was a remarkable quality of the Ghost (which Scrooge had observed at the baker's), that, notwithstanding his gigantic size, he could accommodate himself to any place with ease; and that he stood beneath a low roof quite as gracefully and like a supernatural creature as it was possible he could have done in any lofty hall. And perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in showing off this power of his, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty nature, and his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to Scrooge's clerk's; for there he went, and took Scrooge with him, holding to his robe; and, on the threshold of the door, the Spirit smiled, and stopped to bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the sprinklings of his torch. Think of that! Bob had but fifteen "Bob" a week himself; he pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his Christian name; and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his four-roomed house! Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap, and make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and, getting the corners of his monstrous shirt collar (Bob's private property, conferred upon his son and heir in honour of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable Parks. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own; and, basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and onion, these young Cratchits danced about the table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud, although his collars nearly choked him) blew the fire, until the slow potatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out and peeled. "What has ever got your precious father, then?" said Mrs. Cratchit. "And your brother, Tiny Tim? And Martha warn't as late last Christmas-day by half an hour!" "Here's Martha, mother!" said a girl, appearing as she spoke. "Here's Martha, mother!" cried the two young Cratchits. "Hurrah! There's _such_ a goose, Martha!" "Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!" said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her with officious zeal. "We'd a deal of work to finish up last night," replied the girl, "and had to clear away this morning, mother!" "Well! never mind so long as you are come," said Mrs. Cratchit. "Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye!" "No, no! There's father coming," cried the two young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once. "Hide, Martha, hide!" So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter, exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him; and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed to look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame! "Why, where's our Martha?" cried Bob Cratchit, looking round. "Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit. "Not coming!" said Bob with a sudden declension in his high spirits; for he had been Tim's blood horse all the way from church, and had come home rampant. "Not coming upon Christmas-day!" Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper. "And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs. Cratchit when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's content. "As good as gold," said Bob, "and better. Somehow, he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas-day who made lame beggars walk and blind men see." Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty. His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool beside the fire; and while Bob, turning up his cuffs--as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby--compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and round, and put it on the hob to simmer, Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession. Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course--and, in truth, it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and, mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah! There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits, in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows! But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone--too nervous to bear witnesses--to take the pudding up, and bring it in. Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back-yard and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose--a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors were supposed. Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastrycook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that! That was the pudding! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered--flushed, but smiling proudly--with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top. Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that, now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing. At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass. Two tumblers and a custard cup without a handle. These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed: "A merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!" Which all the family re-echoed. "God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all. He sat very close to his father's side, upon his little stool. Bob held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him. "Spirit," said Scrooge with an interest he had never felt before, "tell me if Tiny Tim will live." "I see a vacant seat," replied the Ghost, "in the poor chimney-corner, and a crutch without an owner, carefully preserved. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, the child will die." "No, no," said Scrooge. "Oh, no, kind Spirit! say he will be spared." "If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, none other of my race," returned the Ghost, "will find him here. What then? If he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population." Scrooge hung his head to hear his own words quoted by the Spirit, and was overcome with penitence and grief. "Man," said the Ghost, "if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered What the surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be that, in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. Oh God! to hear the Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!" Scrooge bent before the Ghost's rebuke, and, trembling, cast his eyes upon the ground. But he raised them speedily on hearing his own name. "Mr. Scrooge!" said Bob. "I'll give you Mr. Scrooge, the Founder of the Feast!" "The Founder of the Feast, indeed!" cried Mrs. Cratchit, reddening. "I wish I had him here. I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he'd have a good appetite for it." "My dear," said Bob, "the children! Christmas-day." "It should be Christmas-day, I am sure," said she, "on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Scrooge. You know he is, Robert! Nobody knows it better than you do, poor fellow!" "My dear!" was Bob's mild answer. "Christmas-day." "I'll drink his health for your sake and the Day's," said Mrs. Cratchit, "not for his. Long life to him! A merry Christmas and a happy New Year! He'll be very merry and very happy, I have no doubt!" The children drank the toast after her. It was the first of their proceedings which had no heartiness in it. Tiny Tim drank it last of all, but he didn't care twopence for it. Scrooge was the Ogre of the family. The mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party, which was not dispelled for full five minutes. After it had passed away they were ten times merrier than before, from the mere relief of Scrooge the Baleful being done with. Bob Cratchit told them how he had a situation in his eye for Master Peter, which would bring in, if obtained, full five-and-sixpence weekly. The two young Cratchits laughed tremendously at the idea of Peter's being a man of business; and Peter himself looked thoughtfully at the fire from between his collars, as if he were deliberating what particular investments he should favour when he came into the receipt of that bewildering income. Martha, who was a poor apprentice at a milliner's, then told them what kind of work she had to do, and how many hours she worked at a stretch, and how she meant to lie abed to-morrow morning for a good long rest; to-morrow being a holiday she passed at home. Also how she had seen a countess and a lord some days before, and how the lord "was much about as tall as Peter"; at which Peter pulled up his collars so high, that you couldn't have seen his head if you had been there. All this time the chestnuts and the jug went round and round; and by-and-by they had a song, about a lost child travelling in the snow, from Tiny Tim, who had a plaintive little voice, and sang it very well indeed. There was nothing of high mark in this. They were not a handsome family; they were not well dressed; their shoes were far from being waterproof; their clothes were scanty; and Peter might have known, and very likely did, the inside of a pawn-broker's. But they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented with the time; and when they faded, and looked happier yet in the bright sprinklings of the Spirit's torch at parting, Scrooge had his eye upon them, and especially on Tiny Tim, until the last. By this time it was getting dark, and snowing pretty heavily; and as Scrooge and the Spirit went along the streets, the brightness of the roaring fires in kitchens, parlours, and all sorts of rooms was wonderful. Here, the flickering of the blaze showed preparations for a cosy dinner, with hot plates baking through and through before the fire, and deep red curtains, ready to be drawn to shut out cold and darkness. There, all the children of the house were running out into the snow to meet their married sisters, brothers, cousins, uncles, aunts, and be the first to greet them. Here, again, were shadows on the window blinds of guests assembling; and there a group of handsome girls, all hooded and fur-booted, and all chattering at once, tripped lightly off to some near neighbour's house; where, woe upon the single man who saw them enter--artful witches, well they knew it--in a glow! But, if you had judged from the numbers of people on their way to friendly gatherings, you might have thought that no one was at home to give them welcome when they got there, instead of every house expecting company, and piling up its fires half-chimney high. Blessings on it, how the Ghost exulted! How it bared its breadth of breast, and opened its capacious palm, and floated on, outpouring, with a generous hand, its bright and harmless mirth on everything within its reach! The very lamp-lighter, who ran on before, dotting the dusky street with specks of light, and who was dressed to spend the evening somewhere, laughed out loudly as the Spirit passed, though little kenned the lamp-lighter that he had any company but Christmas. And now, without a word of warning from the Ghost, they stood upon a bleak and desert moor, where monstrous masses of rude stone were cast about, as though it were the burial-place or giants; and water spread itself wheresoever it listed; or would have done so, but for the frost that held it prisoner; and nothing grew but moss and furze, and coarse, rank grass. Down in the west the setting sun had left a streak of fiery red, which glared upon the desolation for an instant, like a sullen eye, and, frowning lower, lower, lower yet, was lost in the thick gloom of darkest night. "What place is this?" asked Scrooge. "A place where Miners live, who labour in the bowels of the earth," returned the Spirit. "But they know me. See!" A light shone from the window of a hut, and swiftly they advanced towards it. Passing through the wall of mud and stone, they found a cheerful company assembled round a glowing fire. An old, old man and woman, with their children and their children's children, and another generation beyond that, all decked out gaily in their holiday attire. The old man, in a voice that seldom rose above the howling of the wind upon the barren waste, was singing them a Christmas song; it had been a very old song when he was a boy; and from time to time they all joined in the chorus. So surely as they raised their voices, the old man got quite blithe and loud; and, so surely as they stopped, his vigour sank again. The Spirit did not tarry here, but bade Scrooge hold his robe, and, passing on above the moor, sped whither? Not to sea? To sea. To Scrooge's horror, looking back, he saw the last of the land, a frightful range of rocks, behind them; and his ears were deafened by the thundering of water, as it rolled and roared, and raged among the dreadful caverns it had worn, and fiercely tried to undermine the earth. Built upon a dismal reef of sunken rocks, some league or so from shore, on which the waters chafed and dashed, the wild year through, there stood a solitary lighthouse. Great heaps of seaweed clung to its base, and storm-birds--born of the wind, one might suppose, as seaweed of the water--rose and fell about it, like the waves they skimmed. But, even here, two men who watched the light had made a fire that through the loophole in the thick stone wall shed out a ray of brightness on the awful sea. Joining their horny hands over the rough table at which they sat, they wished each other Merry Christmas in their can of grog; and one of them, the elder too, with his face all damaged and scarred with hard weather, as the figure-head of an old ship might be, struck up a sturdy song that was like a gale in itself. Again the Ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea--on, on--until, being far away, as he told Scrooge, from any shore, they lighted on a ship. They stood beside the helmsman at the wheel, the look-out in the bow, the officers who had the watch; dark, ghostly figures in their several stations; but every man among them hummed a Christmas tune, or had a Christmas thought, or spoke below his breath to his companion of some bygone Christmas-day, with homeward hopes belonging to it. And every man on board, waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word for one another on that day than on any day in the year; and had shared to some extent in its festivities; and had remembered those he cared for at a distance, and had known that they delighted to remember him. It was a great surprise to Scrooge, while listening to the moaning of the wind, and thinking what a solemn thing it was to move on through the lonely darkness over an unknown abyss, whose depths were secrets as profound as death: it was a great surprise to Scrooge, while thus engaged, to hear a hearty laugh. It was a much greater surprise to Scrooge to recognise it as his own nephew's, and to find himself in a bright, dry, gleaming room, with the Spirit standing smiling by his side, and looking at that same nephew with approving affability! "Ha, ha!" laughed Scrooge's nephew. "Ha, ha, ha!" If you should happen, by any unlikely chance, to know a man more blessed in a laugh than Scrooge's nephew, all I can say is, I should like to know him too. Introduce him to me, and I'll cultivate his acquaintance. It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that, while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good-humour. When Scrooge's nephew laughed in this way, holding his sides, rolling his head, and twisting his face into the most extravagant contortions, Scrooge's niece, by marriage, laughed as heartily as he. And their assembled friends, being not a bit behindhand, roared out lustily. "Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha!" "He said that Christmas was a humbug, as I live!" cried Scrooge's nephew. "He believed it, too!" "More shame for him, Fred!" said Scrooge's niece indignantly. Bless those women! they never do anything by halves. They are always in earnest. She was very pretty; exceedingly pretty. With a dimpled, surprised-looking, capital face; a ripe little mouth, that seemed made to be kissed--as no doubt it was; all kinds of good little dots about her chin, that melted into one another when she laughed; and the sunniest pair of eyes you ever saw in any little creature's head. Altogether she was what you would have called provoking, you know; but satisfactory, too. Oh, perfectly satisfactory! "He's a comical old fellow," said Scrooge's nephew, "that's the truth; and not so pleasant as he might be. However, his offences carry their own punishment, and I have nothing to say against him." "I'm sure he is very rich, Fred," hinted Scrooge's niece. "At least, you always tell _me_ so." "What of that, my dear?" said Scrooge's nephew. "His wealth is of no use to him. He don't do any good with it. He don't make himself comfortable with it. He hasn't the satisfaction of thinking--ha, ha, ha!--that he is ever going to benefit Us with it." "I have no patience with him," observed Scrooge's niece. Scrooge's niece's sisters, and all the other ladies, expressed the same opinion. "Oh, I have!" said Scrooge's nephew. "I am sorry for him; I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself always. Here he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with us. What's the consequence? He don't lose much of a dinner." "Indeed, I think he loses a very good dinner," interrupted Scrooge's niece. Everybody else said the same, and they must be allowed to have been competent judges, because they had just had dinner; and, with the dessert upon the table, were clustered round the fire, by lamp-light. "Well! I am very glad to hear it," said Scrooge's nephew, "because I haven't any great faith in these young housekeepers. What do _you_ say, Topper?" Topper had clearly got his eye upon one of Scrooge's niece's sisters, for he answered that a bachelor was a wretched outcast, who had no right to express an opinion on the subject. Whereat Scrooge's niece's sister--the plump one with the lace tucker, not the one with the roses--blushed. "Do go on, Fred," said Scrooge's niece, clapping her hands. "He never finishes what he begins to say! He is such a ridiculous fellow!" Scrooge's nephew revelled in another laugh, and, as it was impossible to keep the infection off, though the plump sister tried hard to do it with aromatic vinegar, his example was unanimously followed. "I was only going to say," said Scrooge's nephew, "that the consequence of his taking a dislike to us, and not making merry with us, is, as I think, that he loses some pleasant moments, which could do him no harm. I am sure he loses pleasanter companions than he can find in his own thoughts, either in his mouldy old office or his dusty chambers. I mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not, for I pity him. He may rail at Christmas till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it--I defy him--if he finds me going there in good temper, year after year, and saying, 'Uncle Scrooge, how are you?' If it only puts him in the vein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds, _that's_ something; and I think I shook him yesterday." It was their turn to laugh, now, at the notion of his shaking Scrooge. But, being thoroughly good-natured, and not much caring what they laughed at, so that they laughed at any rate, he encouraged them in their merriment, and passed the bottle, joyously. After tea they had some music. For they were a musical family, and knew what they were about when they sung a Glee or Catch, I can assure you: especially Topper, who could growl away in the bass like a good one, and never swell the large veins in his forehead, or get red in the face over it. Scrooge's niece played well upon the harp; and played, among other tunes, a simple little air (a mere nothing: you might learn to whistle it in two minutes), which had been familiar to the child who fetched Scrooge from the boarding-school, as he had been reminded by the Ghost of Christmas Past. When this strain of music sounded, all the things that Ghost had shown him came upon his mind; he softened more and more; and thought that if he could have listened to it often, years ago, he might have cultivated the kindnesses of life for his own happiness with his own hands, without resorting to the sexton's spade that buried Jacob Marley. But they didn't devote the whole evening to music. After awhile they played at forfeits; for it is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a child himself. Stop! There was first a game at blindman's buff. Of course there was. And I no more believe Topper was really blind than I believe he had eyes in his boots. My opinion is, that it was a done thing between him and Scrooge's nephew; and that the Ghost of Christmas Present knew it. The way he went after that plump sister in the lace tucker was an outrage on the credulity of human nature. Knocking down the fire-irons, tumbling over the chairs, bumping up against the piano, smothering himself amongst the curtains, wherever she went, there went he! He always knew where the plump sister was. He wouldn't catch anybody else. If you had fallen up against him (as some of them did) on purpose, he would have made a feint of endeavouring to seize you, which would have been an affront to your understanding, and would instantly have sidled off in the direction of the plump sister. She often cried out that it wasn't fair; and it really was not. But when, at last, he caught her; when, in spite of all her silken rustlings, and her rapid flutterings past him, he got her into a corner whence there was no escape, then his conduct was the most execrable. For his pretending not to know her; his pretending that it was necessary to touch her head-dress, and further to assure himself of her identity by pressing a certain ring upon her finger, and a certain chain about her neck, was vile, monstrous! No doubt she told him her opinion of it when, another blind man being in office, they were so very confidential together behind the curtains. Scrooge's niece was not one of the blindman's buff party, but was made comfortable with a large chair and a footstool, in a snug corner where the Ghost and Scrooge were close behind her. But she joined in the forfeits, and loved her love to admiration with all the letters of the alphabet. Likewise at the game of How, When, and Where, she was very great, and, to the secret joy of Scrooge's nephew, beat her sisters hollow: though they were sharp girls too, as Topper could have told you. There might have been twenty people there, young and old, but they all played, and so did Scrooge; for, wholly forgetting, in the interest he had in what was going on, that his voice made no sound in their ears, he sometimes came out with his guess quite loud, and very often guessed right, too, for the sharpest needle, best Whitechapel, warranted not to cut in the eye, was not sharper than Scrooge; blunt as he took it in his head to be. The Ghost was greatly pleased to find him in this mood, and looked upon him with such favour, that he begged like a boy to be allowed to stay until the guests departed. But this the Spirit said could not be done. "Here is a new game," said Scrooge. "One half-hour, Spirit, only one!" It was a game called Yes and No, where Scrooge's nephew had to think of something, and the rest must find out what; he only answering to their questions yes or no, as the case was. The brisk fire of questioning to which he was exposed elicited from him that he was thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal, an animal that growled and grunted sometimes, and talked sometimes, and lived in London, and walked about the streets, and wasn't made a show of, and wasn't led by anybody, and didn't live in a menagerie, and was never killed in a market, and was not a horse, or an ass, or a cow, or a bull, or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. At every fresh question that was put to him, this nephew burst into a fresh roar of laughter; and was so inexpressibly tickled, that he was obliged to get up off the sofa, and stamp. At last the plump sister, falling into a similar state, cried out: "I have found it out! I know what it is, Fred! I know what it is!" "What is it?" cried Fred. "It's your uncle Scro-o-o-o-oge!" Which it certainly was. Admiration was the universal sentiment, though some objected that the reply to "Is it a bear?" ought to have been "Yes": inasmuch as an answer in the negative was sufficient to have diverted their thoughts from Mr. Scrooge, supposing they had ever had any tendency that way. "He has given us plenty of merriment, I am sure," said Fred, "and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health. Here is a glass of mulled wine ready to our hand at the moment; and I say, 'Uncle Scrooge!'" "Well! Uncle Scrooge!" they cried. "A merry Christmas and a happy New Year to the old man, whatever he is!" said Scrooge's nephew. "He wouldn't take it from me, but may he have it nevertheless. Uncle Scrooge!" Uncle Scrooge had imperceptibly become so gay and light of heart, that he would have pledged the unconscious company in return, and thanked them in an inaudible speech, if the Ghost had given him time. But the whole scene passed off in the breath of the last word spoken by his nephew; and he and the Spirit were again upon their travels. Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they visited, but always with a happy end. The Spirit stood beside sick-beds, and they were cheerful; on foreign lands, and they were close at home; by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater hope; by poverty, and it was rich. In almshouse, hospital, and gaol, in misery's every refuge, where vain man in his little brief authority had not made fast the door, and barred the Spirit out, he left his blessing, and taught Scrooge his precepts. It was a long night, if it were only a night; but Scrooge had his doubts of this, because the Christmas holidays appeared to be condensed into the space of time they passed together. It was strange, too, that, while Scrooge remained unaltered in his outward form, the Ghost grew older, clearly older. Scrooge had observed this change, but never spoke of it, until they left a children's Twelfth-Night party, when, looking at the Spirit as they stood together in an open place, he noticed that its hair was grey. "Are spirits' lives so short?" asked Scrooge. "My life upon this globe is very brief," replied the Ghost. "It ends to-night." "To-night!" cried Scrooge. "To-night at midnight. Hark! The time is drawing near." The chimes were ringing the three-quarters past eleven at that moment. "Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask," said Scrooge, looking intently at the Spirit's robe, "but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw?" "It might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it," was the Spirit's sorrowful reply. "Look here." From the foldings of its robe it brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment. "Oh, Man! look here! Look, look, down here!" exclaimed the Ghost. They were a boy and girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread. Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude. "Spirit! are they yours?" Scrooge could say no more. "They are Man's," said the Spirit, looking down upon them. "And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware of them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it!" cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. "Slander those who tell it ye! Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse! And bide the end!" "Have they no refuge or resource?" cried Scrooge. "Are there no prisons?" said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. "Are there no workhouses?" The bell struck Twelve. Scrooge looked about him for the Ghost, and saw it not. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction of old Jacob Marley, and, lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming like a mist along the ground towards him. STAVE FOUR THE LAST OF THE SPIRITS The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. When it came near him, Scrooge bent down upon his knee; for in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery. It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible, save one outstretched hand. But for this, it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded. He felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. He knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved. "I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?" said Scrooge. The Spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its hand. "You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us," Scrooge pursued. "Is that so, Spirit?" The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head. That was the only answer he received. Although well used to ghostly company by this time, Scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it. The Spirit paused a moment, as observing his condition, and giving him time to recover. But Scrooge was all the worse for this. It thrilled him with a vague uncertain horror to know that, behind the dusky shroud, there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him, while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost, could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap of black. "Ghost of the Future!" he exclaimed, "I fear you more than any spectre I have seen. But, as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?" It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them. "Lead on!" said Scrooge. "Lead on! The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit!" The phantom moved away as it had come towards him. Scrooge followed in the shadow of its dress, which bore him up, he thought, and carried him along. They scarcely seemed to enter the City; for the City rather seemed to spring up about them, and encompass them of its own act. But there they were in the heart of it; on 'Change, amongst the merchants; who hurried up and down, and chinked the money in their pockets, and conversed in groups, and looked at their watches, and trifled thoughtfully with their great gold seals; and so forth, as Scrooge had seen them often. The Spirit stopped beside one little knot of business men. Observing that the hand was pointed to them, Scrooge advanced to listen to their talk. "No," said a great fat man with a monstrous chin, "I don't know much about it either way. I only know he's dead." "When did he die?" inquired another. "Last night, I believe." "Why, what was the matter with him?" asked a third, taking a vast quantity of snuff out of a very large snuff-box. "I thought he'd never die." "God knows," said the first with a yawn. "What has he done with his money?" asked a red-faced gentleman with a pendulous excrescence on the end of his nose, that shook like the gills of a turkey-cock. "I haven't heard," said the man with the large chin, yawning again. "Left it to his company, perhaps. He hasn't left it to _me_. That's all I know." This pleasantry was received with a general laugh. "It's likely to be a very cheap funeral," said the same speaker; "for, upon my life, I don't know of anybody to go to it. Suppose we make up a party, and volunteer?" "I don't mind going if a lunch is provided," observed the gentleman with the excrescence on his nose. "But I must be fed if I make one." Another laugh. "Well, I am the most disinterested among you, after all," said the first speaker, "for I never wear black gloves, and I never eat lunch. But I'll offer to go if anybody else will. When I come to think of it, I'm not at all sure that I wasn't his most particular friend; for we used to stop and speak whenever we met. Bye, bye!" Speakers and listeners strolled away, and mixed with other groups. Scrooge knew the men, and looked towards the Spirit for an explanation. The Phantom glided on into a street. Its finger pointed to two persons meeting. Scrooge listened again, thinking that the explanation might lie here. He knew these men, also, perfectly. They were men of business: very wealthy, and of great importance. He had made a point always of standing well in their esteem: in a business point of view, that is; strictly in a business point of view. "How are you?" said one. "How are you?" returned the other. "Well!" said the first. "Old Scratch has got his own at last, hey?" "So I am told," returned the second. "Cold, isn't it?" "Seasonable for Christmas-time. You are not a skater, I suppose?" "No. No. Something else to think of. Good morning!" Not another word. That was their meeting, their conversation, and their parting. Scrooge was at first inclined to be surprised that the Spirit should attach importance to conversations apparently so trivial; but, feeling assured that they must have some hidden purpose, he set himself to consider what it was likely to be. They could scarcely be supposed to have any bearing on the death of Jacob, his old partner, for that was Past, and this Ghost's province was the Future. Nor could he think of any one immediately connected with himself, to whom he could apply them. But nothing doubting that, to whomsoever they applied, they had some latent moral for his own improvement, he resolved to treasure up every word he heard, and everything he saw; and especially to observe the shadow of himself when it appeared. For he had an expectation that the conduct of his future self would give him the clue he missed, and would render the solution of these riddles easy. He looked about in that very place for his own image, but another man stood in his accustomed corner, and, though the clock pointed to his usual time of day for being there, he saw no likeness of himself among the multitudes that poured in through the Porch. It gave him little surprise, however; for he had been revolving in his mind a change of life, and thought and hoped he saw his new-born resolutions carried out in this. Quiet and dark, beside him stood the Phantom, with its outstretched hand. When he roused himself from his thoughtful quest, he fancied, from the turn of the hand, and its situation in reference to himself, that the Unseen Eyes were looking at him keenly. It made him shudder, and feel very cold. They left the busy scene, and went into an obscure part of the town, where Scrooge had never penetrated before, although he recognised its situation and its bad repute. The ways were foul and narrow; the shops and houses wretched; the people half naked, drunken, slipshod, ugly. Alleys and archways, like so many cesspools, disgorged their offences of smell, and dirt, and life upon the straggling streets; and the whole quarter reeked with crime, with filth and misery. Far in this den of infamous resort, there was a low-browed, beetling shop, below a pent-house roof, where iron, old rags, bottles, bones, and greasy offal were bought. Upon the floor within were piled up heaps of rusty keys, nails, chains, hinges, files, scales, weights, and refuse iron of all kinds. Secrets that few would like to scrutinise were bred and hidden in mountains of unseemly rags, masses of corrupted fat, and sepulchres of bones. Sitting in among the wares he dealt in, by a charcoal stove made of old bricks, was a grey-haired rascal, nearly seventy years of age, who had screened himself from the cold air without by a frouzy curtaining of miscellaneous tatters hung upon a line, and smoked his pipe in all the luxury of calm retirement. Scrooge and the Phantom came into the presence of this man, just as a woman with a heavy bundle slunk into the shop. But she had scarcely entered, when another woman, similarly laden, came in too, and she was closely followed by a man in faded black, who was no less startled by the sight of them than they had been upon the recognition of each other. After a short period of blank astonishment, in which the old man with the pipe had joined them, they all three burst into a laugh. "Let the charwoman alone to be the first!" cried she who had entered first. "Let the laundress alone to be the second; and let the undertaker's man alone to be the third. Look here, old Joe, here's a chance! If we haven't all three met here without meaning it!" "You couldn't have met in a better place," said old Joe, removing his pipe from his mouth. "Come into the parlour. You were made free of it long ago, you know; and the other two an't strangers. Stop till I shut the door of the shop. Ah! How it skreeks! There an't such a rusty bit of metal in the place as its own hinges, I believe; and I'm sure there's no such old bones here as mine. Ha! ha! We're all suitable to our calling, we're well matched. Come into the parlour. Come into the parlour." The parlour was the space behind the screen of rags. The old man raked the fire together with an old stair-rod, and, having trimmed his smoky lamp (for it was night) with the stem of his pipe, put it into his mouth again. While he did this, the woman who had already spoken threw her bundle on the floor, and sat down in a flaunting manner on a stool; crossing her elbows on her knees, and looking with a bold defiance at the other two. "What odds, then? What odds, Mrs. Dilber?" said the woman. "Every person has a right to take care of themselves. _He_ always did!" "That's true, indeed!" said the laundress. "No man more so." "Why, then, don't stand staring as if you was afraid, woman! Who's the wiser? We're not going to pick holes in each other's coats, I suppose?" "No, indeed!" said Mrs. Dilber and the man together. "We should hope not." "Very well, then!" cried the woman. "That's enough. Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose?" "No, indeed," said Mrs. Dilber, laughing. "If he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, a wicked old screw," pursued the woman, "why wasn't he natural in his lifetime? If he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with Death, instead of lying gasping out his last there, alone by himself." "It's the truest word that ever was spoke," said Mrs. Dilber, "It's a judgment on him." "I wish it was a little heavier judgment," replied the woman; "and it should have been, you may depend upon it, if I could have laid my hands on anything else. Open that bundle, old Joe, and let me know the value of it. Speak out plain. I'm not afraid to be the first, nor afraid for them to see it. We knew pretty well that we were helping ourselves before we met here, I believe. It's no sin. Open the bundle, Joe." But the gallantry of her friends would not allow of this; and the man in faded black, mounting the breach first, produced _his_ plunder. It was not extensive. A seal or two, a pencil-case, a pair of sleeve-buttons, and a brooch of no great value, were all. They were severally examined and appraised by old Joe, who chalked the sums he was disposed to give for each upon the wall, and added them up into a total when he found that there was nothing more to come. "That's your account," said Joe, "and I wouldn't give another sixpence, if I was to be boiled for not doing it. Who's next?" Mrs. Dilber was next. Sheets and towels, a little wearing apparel, two old-fashioned silver tea-spoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a few boots. Her account was stated on the wall in the same manner. "I always give too much to ladies. It's a weakness of mine, and that's the way I ruin myself," said old Joe. "That's your account. If you asked me for another penny, and made it an open question, I'd repent of being so liberal, and knock off half-a-crown." "And now undo _my_ bundle, Joe," said the first woman. Joe went down on his knees for the greater convenience of opening it, and, having unfastened a great many knots, dragged out a large heavy roll of some dark stuff. "What do you call this?" said Joe. "Bed-curtains?" "Ah!" returned the woman, laughing and leaning forward on her crossed arms. "Bed-curtains!" "You don't mean to say you took 'em down, rings and all, with him lying there?" said Joe. "Yes, I do," replied the woman. "Why not?" "You were born to make your fortune," said Joe, "and you'll certainly do it." "I certainly shan't hold my hand, when I can get anything in it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a man as He was, I promise you, Joe," returned the woman coolly. "Don't drop that oil upon the blankets, now." "His blankets?" asked Joe. "Whose else's do you think?" replied the woman. "He isn't likely to take cold without 'em, I dare say." "I hope he didn't die of anything catching? Eh?" said old Joe, stopping in his work, and looking up. "Don't you be afraid of that," returned the woman. "I an't so fond of his company that I'd loiter about him for such things, if he did. Ah! You may look through that shirt till your eyes ache; but you won't find a hole in it, nor a threadbare place. It's the best he had, and a fine one too. They'd have wasted it, if it hadn't been for me." "What do you call wasting of it?" asked old Joe. "Putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure," replied the woman with a laugh. "Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off again. If calico an't good enough for such a purpose, it isn't good enough for anything. It's quite as becoming to the body. He can't look uglier than he did in that one." Scrooge listened to this dialogue in horror. As they sat grouped about their spoil, in the scanty light afforded by the old man's lamp, he viewed them with a detestation and disgust which could hardly have been greater, though they had been obscene demons, marketing the corpse itself. "Ha, ha!" laughed the same woman when old Joe, producing a flannel bag with money in it, told out their several gains upon the ground. "This is the end of it, you see! He frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead! Ha, ha, ha!" "Spirit!" said Scrooge, shuddering from head to foot. "I see, I see. The case of this unhappy man might be my own. My life tends that way now. Merciful Heaven, what is this?" He recoiled in terror, for the scene had changed, and now he almost touched a bed: a bare, uncurtained bed: on which, beneath a ragged sheet, there lay a something covered up, which, though it was dumb, announced itself in awful language. The room was very dark, too dark to be observed with any accuracy, though Scrooge glanced round it in obedience to a secret impulse, anxious to know what kind of room it was. A pale light, rising in the outer air, fell straight upon the bed: and on it, plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of this man. Scrooge glanced towards the Phantom. Its steady hand was pointed to the head. The cover was so carelessly adjusted that the slightest raising of it, the motion of a finger upon Scrooge's part, would have disclosed the face. He thought of it, felt how easy it would be to do, and longed to do it; but had no more power to withdraw the veil than to dismiss the spectre at his side. Oh, cold, cold, rigid, dreadful Death, set up thine altar here, and dress it with such terrors as thou hast at thy command: for this is thy dominion! But of the loved, revered, and honoured head thou canst not turn one hair to thy dread purposes, or make one feature odious. It is not that the hand is heavy, and will fall down when released; it is not that the heart and pulse are still; but that the hand WAS open, generous, and true; the heart brave, warm, and tender; and the pulse a man's. Strike, Shadow, strike! And see his good deeds springing from the wound, to sow the world with life immortal! No voice pronounced these words in Scrooge's ears, and yet he heard them when he looked upon the bed. He thought, if this man could be raised up now, what would be his foremost thoughts? Avarice, hard dealing, griping cares? They have brought him to a rich end, truly! He lay, in the dark, empty house, with not a man, a woman, or a child to say he was kind to me in this or that, and for the memory of one kind word I will be kind to him. A cat was tearing at the door, and there was a sound of gnawing rats beneath the hearth-stone. What _they_ wanted in the room of death, and why they were so restless and disturbed, Scrooge did not dare to think. "Spirit!" he said, "this is a fearful place. In leaving it, I shall not leave its lesson, trust me. Let us go!" Still the Ghost pointed with an unmoved finger to the head. "I understand you," Scrooge returned, "and I would do it if I could. But I have not the power, Spirit. I have not the power." Again it seemed to look upon him. "If there is any person in the town who feels emotion caused by this man's death," said Scrooge, quite agonised, "show that person to me, Spirit! I beseech you." The Phantom spread its dark robe before him for a moment, like a wing; and, withdrawing it, revealed a room by daylight, where a mother and her children were. She was expecting some one, and with anxious eagerness; for she walked up and down the room; started at every sound; looked out from the window; glanced at the clock; tried, but in vain, to work with her needle; and could hardly bear the voices of her children in their play. At length the long-expected knock was heard. She hurried to the door, and met her husband; a man whose face was careworn and depressed, though he was young. There was a remarkable expression in it now; a kind of serious delight of which he felt ashamed, and which he struggled to repress. He sat down to the dinner that had been hoarding for him by the fire, and, when she asked him faintly what news (which was not until after a long silence), he appeared embarrassed how to answer. "Is it good," she said, "or bad?" to help him. "Bad," he answered. "We are quite ruined?" "No. There is hope yet, Caroline." "If _he_ relents," she said, amazed, "there is! Nothing is past hope, if such a miracle has happened." "He is past relenting," said her husband. "He is dead." She was a mild and patient creature, if her face spoke truth; but she was thankful in her soul to hear it, and she said so with clasped hands. She prayed forgiveness the next moment, and was sorry; but the first was the emotion of her heart. "What the half-drunken woman, whom I told you of last night, said to me when I tried to see him and obtain a week's delay, and what I thought was a mere excuse to avoid me, turns out to have been quite true. He was not only very ill, but dying, then." "To whom will our debt be transferred?" "I don't know. But, before that time, we shall be ready with the money; and, even though we were not, it would be bad fortune indeed to find so merciless a creditor in his successor. We may sleep to-night with light hearts, Caroline!" Yes. Soften it as they would, their hearts were lighter. The children's faces, hushed and clustered round to hear what they so little understood, were brighter; and it was a happier house for this man's death! The only emotion that the Ghost could show him, caused by the event, was one of pleasure. "Let me see some tenderness connected with a death," said Scrooge; "or that dark chamber, Spirit, which we left just now, will be for ever present to me." The Ghost conducted him through several streets familiar to his feet; and, as they went along, Scrooge looked here and there to find himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. They entered poor Bob Cratchit's house,--the dwelling he had visited before,--and found the mother and the children seated round the fire. Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits were as still as statues in one corner, and sat looking up at Peter, who had a book before him. The mother and her daughters were engaged in sewing. But surely they were very quiet! "'And he took a child, and set him in the midst of them.'" Where had Scrooge heard those words? He had not dreamed them. The boy must have read them out, as he and the Spirit crossed the threshold. Why did he not go on? The mother laid her work upon the table, and put her hand up to her face. "The colour hurts my eyes," she said. The colour? Ah, poor Tiny Tim! "They're better now again," said Cratchit's wife. "It makes them weak by candle-light; and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father, when he comes home, for the world. It must be near his time." "Past it rather," Peter answered, shutting up his book. "But I think he has walked a little slower than he used, these few last evenings, mother." They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in a steady, cheerful voice, that only faltered once: "I have known him walk with--I have known him walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder very fast indeed." "And so have I," cried Peter. "Often." "And so have I," exclaimed another. So had all. "But he was very light to carry," she resumed, intent upon her work, "and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble: no trouble. And there is your father at the door!" She hurried out to meet him; and little Bob in his comforter--he had need of it, poor fellow--came in. His tea was ready for him on the hob, and they all tried who should help him to it most. Then the two young Cratchits got upon his knees, and laid, each child, a little cheek against his face, as if they said, "Don't mind it, father. Don't be grieved!" Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to all the family. He looked at the work upon the table, and praised the industry and speed of Mrs. Cratchit and the girls. They would be done long before Sunday, he said. "Sunday! You went to-day, then, Robert?" said his wife. "Yes, my dear," returned Bob. "I wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you'll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on a Sunday. My little, little child!" cried Bob. "My little child!" He broke down all at once. He couldn't help it. If he could have helped it, he and his child would have been farther apart, perhaps, than they were. He left the room, and went up-stairs into the room above, which was lighted cheerfully, and hung with Christmas. There was a chair set close beside the child, and there were signs of some one having been there lately. Poor Bob sat down in it, and, when he had thought a little and composed himself, he kissed the little face. He was reconciled to what had happened, and went down again quite happy. They drew about the fire, and talked; the girls and mother working still. Bob told them of the extraordinary kindness of Mr. Scrooge's nephew, whom he had scarcely seen but once, and who, meeting him in the street that day, and seeing that he looked a little--"just a little down, you know," said Bob, inquired what had happened to distress him. "On which," said Bob, "for he is the pleasantest-spoken gentleman you ever heard, I told him. 'I am heartily sorry for it, Mr. Cratchit,' he said, 'and heartily sorry for your good wife.' By-the-bye, how he ever knew _that_ I don't know." "Knew what, my dear?" "Why, that you were a good wife," replied Bob. "Everybody knows that," said Peter. "Very well observed, my boy!" cried Bob. "I hope they do. 'Heartily sorry,' he said, 'for your good wife. If I can be of service to you in any way,' he said, giving me his card, 'that's where I live. Pray come to me.' Now, it wasn't," cried Bob, "for the sake of anything he might be able to do for us, so much as for his kind way, that this was quite delightful. It really seemed as if he had known our Tiny Tim, and felt with us." "I'm sure he's a good soul!" said Mrs. Cratchit. "You would be sure of it, my dear," returned Bob, "if you saw and spoke to him. I shouldn't be at all surprised--mark what I say!--if he got Peter a better situation." "Only hear that, Peter," said Mrs. Cratchit. "And then," cried one of the girls, "Peter will be keeping company with some one, and setting up for himself." "Get along with you!" retorted Peter, grinning. "It's just as likely as not," said Bob, "one of these days; though there's plenty of time for that, my dear. But, however and whenever we part from one another, I am sure we shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim--shall we--or this first parting that there was among us?" "Never, father!" cried they all. "And I know," said Bob, "I know, my dears, that when we recollect how patient and how mild he was, although he was a little, little child, we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves, and forget poor Tiny Tim in doing it." "No, never, father!" they all cried again. "I am very happy," said little Bob, "I am very happy!" Mrs. Cratchit kissed him, his daughters kissed him, the two young Cratchits kissed him, and Peter and himself shook hands. Spirit of Tiny Tim, thy childish essence was from God! "Spectre," said Scrooge, "something informs me that our parting moment is at hand. I know it, but I know not how. Tell me what man that was whom we saw lying dead?" The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come conveyed him, as before--though at a different time, he thought: indeed, there seemed no order in these latter visions, save that they were in the Future--into the resorts of business men, but showed him not himself. Indeed, the Spirit did not stay for anything, but went straight on, as to the end just now desired, until besought by Scrooge to tarry for a moment. "This court," said Scrooge, "through which we hurry now, is where my place of occupation is, and has been for a length of time. I see the house. Let me behold what I shall be in days to come." The Spirit stopped; the hand was pointed elsewhere. "The house is yonder," Scrooge exclaimed. "Why do you point away?" The inexorable finger underwent no change. Scrooge hastened to the window of his office, and looked in. It was an office still, but not his. The furniture was not the same, and the figure in the chair was not himself. The Phantom pointed as before. He joined it once again, and, wondering why and whither he had gone, accompanied it until they reached an iron gate. He paused to look round before entering. A churchyard. Here, then, the wretched man, whose name he had now to learn, lay underneath the ground. It was a worthy place. Walled in by houses; overrun by grass and weeds, the growth of vegetation's death, not life; choked up with too much burying; fat with repleted appetite. A worthy place! The Spirit stood among the graves, and pointed down to One. He advanced towards it trembling. The Phantom was exactly as it had been, but he dreaded that he saw new meaning in its solemn shape. "Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point," said Scrooge, "answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that Will be, or are they shadows of the things that May be only?" Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood. "Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead," said Scrooge. "But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me!" The Spirit was immovable as ever. Scrooge crept towards it, trembling as he went; and, following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name, EBENEZER SCROOGE. "Am _I_ that man who lay upon the bed?" he cried upon his knees. The finger pointed from the grave to him, and back again. "No, Spirit! Oh no, no!" The finger still was there. "Spirit!" he cried, tight clutching at its robe, "hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I am past all hope?" For the first time the hand appeared to shake. "Good Spirit," he pursued, as down upon the ground he fell before it: "your nature intercedes for me, and pities me. Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me by an altered life?" The kind hand trembled. "I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone!" In his agony, he caught the spectral hand. It sought to free itself, but he was strong in his entreaty, and detained it. The Spirit, stronger yet, repulsed him. Holding up his hands in a last prayer to have his fate reversed, he saw an alteration in the Phantom's hood and dress. It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost. STAVE FIVE THE END OF IT Yes! and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in! "I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!" Scrooge repeated as he scrambled out of bed. "The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. Oh, Jacob Marley! Heaven and the Christmas Time be praised for this! I say it on my knees, old Jacob; on my knees!" He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his broken voice would scarcely answer to his call. He had been sobbing violently in his conflict with the Spirit, and his face was wet with tears. "They are not torn down," cried Scrooge, folding one of his bed-curtains in his arms, "they are not torn down, rings and all. They are here--I am here--the shadows of the things that would have been may be dispelled. They will be. I know they will!" His hands were busy with his garments all this time; turning them inside out, putting them on upside down, tearing them, mislaying them, making them parties to every kind of extravagance. "I don't know what to do!" cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in the same breath; and making a perfect Laocoön of himself with his stockings. "I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a school-boy. I am as giddy as a drunken man. A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to all the world! Hallo here! Whoop! Hallo!" He had frisked into the sitting-room, and was now standing there: perfectly winded. "There's the saucepan that the gruel was in!" cried Scrooge, starting off again, and going round the fire-place. "There's the door by which the Ghost of Jacob Marley entered! There's the corner where the Ghost of Christmas Present sat! There's the window where I saw the wandering Spirits! It's all right, it's all true, it all happened. Ha, ha, ha!" Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh. The father of a long, long line of brilliant laughs! "I don't know what day of the month it is," said Scrooge. "I don't know how long I have been among the Spirits. I don't know anything. I'm quite a baby. Never mind. I don't care. I'd rather be a baby. Hallo! Whoop! Hallo here!" He was checked in his transports by the churches ringing out the lustiest peals he had ever heard. Clash, clash, hammer; ding, dong, bell! Bell, dong, ding; hammer, clang, clash! Oh, glorious, glorious! Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; Golden sun-light; Heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious! Glorious! "What's to-day?" cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him. "EH?" returned the boy with all his might of wonder. "What's to-day, my fine fellow?" said Scrooge. "To-day!" replied the boy. "Why, CHRISTMAS DAY." "It's Christmas Day!" said Scrooge to himself. "I haven't missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can. Hallo, my fine fellow!" "Hallo!" returned the boy. "Do you know the Poulterer's in the next street but one, at the corner?" Scrooge inquired. "I should hope I did," replied the lad. "An intelligent boy!" said Scrooge. "A remarkable boy! Do you know whether they've sold the prize Turkey that was hanging up there?--Not the little prize Turkey: the big one?" "What! the one as big as me?" returned the boy. "What a delightful boy!" said Scrooge. "It's a pleasure to talk to him. Yes, my buck!" "It's hanging there now," replied the boy. "Is it?" said Scrooge. "Go and buy it." "Walk-ER!" exclaimed the boy. "No, no," said Scrooge, "I am in earnest. Go and buy it, and tell 'em to bring it here, that I may give them the directions where to take it. Come back with the man, and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less than five minutes, and I'll give you half-a-crown!" The boy was off like a shot. He must have had a steady hand at a trigger who could have got a shot off half so fast. "I'll send it to Bob Cratchit's," whispered Scrooge, rubbing his hands, and splitting with a laugh. "He shan't know who sends it. It's twice the size of Tiny Tim. Joe Miller never made such a joke as sending it to Bob's will be!" The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one; but write it he did, somehow, and went down-stairs to open the street-door, ready for the coming of the poulterer's man. As he stood there, waiting his arrival, the knocker caught his eye. "I shall love it as long as I live!" cried Scrooge, patting it with his hand. "I scarcely ever looked at it before. What an honest expression it has in its face! It's a wonderful knocker!--Here's the Turkey. Hallo! Whoop! How are you? Merry Christmas!" It _was_ a Turkey! He never could have stood upon his legs, that bird. He would have snapped 'em short off in a minute, like sticks of sealing-wax. "Why, it's impossible to carry that to Camden Town," said Scrooge. "You must have a cab." The chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with which he paid for the Turkey, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab, and the chuckle with which he recompensed the boy, were only to be exceeded by the chuckle with which he sat down breathless in his chair again, and chuckled till he cried. Shaving was not an easy task, for his hand continued to shake very much; and shaving requires attention, even when you don't dance while you are at it. But, if he had cut the end of his nose off, he would have put a piece of sticking-plaster over it, and been quite satisfied. He dressed himself "all in his best," and at last got out into the streets. The people were by this time pouring forth, as he had seen them with the Ghost of Christmas Present; and, walking with his hands behind him, Scrooge regarded every one with a delighted smile. He looked so irresistibly pleasant, in a word, that three or four good-humoured fellows said, "Good morning, sir! A merry Christmas to you!" And Scrooge said often afterwards that, of all the blithe sounds he had ever heard, those were the blithest in his ears. He had not gone far when, coming on towards him, he beheld the portly gentleman who had walked into his counting-house the day before, and said, "Scrooge and Marley's, I believe?" It sent a pang across his heart to think how this old gentleman would look upon him when they met; but he knew what path lay straight before him, and he took it. "My dear sir," said Scrooge, quickening his pace, and taking the old gentleman by both his hands, "how do you do? I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you. A merry Christmas to you, sir!" "Mr. Scrooge?" "Yes," said Scrooge. "That is my name, and I fear it may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon. And will you have the goodness----" Here Scrooge whispered in his ear. "Lord bless me!" cried the gentleman, as if his breath were taken away. "My dear Mr. Scrooge, are you serious?" "If you please," said Scrooge. "Not a farthing less. A great many back-payments are included in it, I assure you. Will you do me that favour?" "My dear sir," said the other, shaking hands with him, "I don't know what to say to such munifi----" "Don't say anything, please," retorted Scrooge. "Come and see me. Will you come and see me?" "I will!" cried the old gentleman. And it was clear he meant to do it. "Thankee," said Scrooge. "I am much obliged to you. I thank you fifty times. Bless you!" He went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted the children on the head, and questioned beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of houses, and up to the windows; and found that everything could yield him pleasure. He had never dreamed that any walk--that anything--could give him so much happiness. In the afternoon he turned his steps towards his nephew's house. He passed the door a dozen times before he had the courage to go up and knock. But he made a dash, and did it. "Is your master at home, my dear?" said Scrooge to the girl. Nice girl! Very. "Yes sir." "Where is he, my love?" said Scrooge. "He's in the dining-room, sir, along with mistress. I'll show you up-stairs, if you please." "Thankee. He knows me," said Scrooge, with his hand already on the dining-room lock. "I'll go in here, my dear." He turned it gently, and sidled his face in round the door. They were looking at the table (which was spread out in great array); for these young housekeepers are always nervous on such points, and like to see that everything is right. "Fred!" said Scrooge. Dear heart alive, how his niece by marriage started! Scrooge had forgotten, for the moment, about her sitting in the corner with the footstool, or he wouldn't have done it on any account. "Why, bless my soul!" cried Fred, "who's that?" "It's I. Your uncle Scrooge. I have come to dinner. Will you let me in, Fred?" Let him in! It is a mercy he didn't shake his arm off. He was at home in five minutes. Nothing could be heartier. His niece looked just the same. So did Topper when _he_ came. So did the plump sister when _she_ came. So did every one when _they_ came. Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, won-der-ful happiness! But he was early at the office next morning. Oh, he was early there! If he could only be there first, and catch Bob Cratchit coming late! That was the thing he had set his heart upon. And he did it; yes, he did! The clock struck nine. No Bob. A quarter past. No Bob. He was full eighteen minutes and a half behind his time. Scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come into the tank. His hat was off before he opened the door; his comforter too. He was on his stool in a jiffy; driving away with his pen, as if he were trying to overtake nine o'clock. "Hallo!" growled Scrooge in his accustomed voice as near as he could feign it. "What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?" "I am very sorry, sir," said Bob. "I _am_ behind my time." "You are!" repeated Scrooge. "Yes. I think you are. Step this way, sir, if you please." "It's only once a year, sir," pleaded Bob, appearing from the tank. "It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir." "Now, I'll tell you what, my friend," said Scrooge. "I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore," he continued, leaping from his stool, and giving Bob such a dig in the waistcoat that he staggered back into the tank again: "and therefore I am about to raise your salary!" Bob trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler. He had a momentary idea of knocking Scrooge down with it, holding him, and calling to the people in the court for help and a strait-waistcoat. "A merry Christmas, Bob!" said Scrooge with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. "A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year! I'll raise your salary, and endeavour to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop, Bob! Make up the fires and buy another coal-scuttle before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit!" * * * * * Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man as the good old City knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and, knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him. He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the Total-Abstinence Principle ever afterwards; and it was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One! 
30368	----	Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net A CHRISTMAS CAROL THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT Charles Dickens [Illustration] _A Facsimile of the Manuscript in The Pierpont Morgan Library_ with a Transcript of the First Edition and John Leech's Illustrations [Illustration: _Mr. Fezziwig's Ball._] [Illustration: A CHRISTMAS CAROL BY CHARLES DICKENS] A CHRISTMAS CAROL THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT _by_ _Charles Dickens_ [Illustration] a facsimile of the manuscript in The Pierpont Morgan Library _with the illustrations of John Leech and the text from the first edition_. [Illustration: Mr. Fezziwig's Ball. _London · Chapman & Hall, 186 Strand._] [_This illustration is reproduced in full color on the inside front cover._] A CHRISTMAS CAROL NOTE TO READER All inconsistencies of spelling and punctuation in the First Edition have been retained by the Publishers. The portions of manuscript reproduced on pages 38, 42, 56, 58, 70, 92 and 136 appeared originally on the verso of the facing manuscript page. /Title/ A Christmas Carol In Prose Being a Ghost Story of Christmas By Charles Dickens ------------------------------- The Illustrations by John Leech ------------------------------- Chapman and Hall 186 Strand MDCCCXLIII /My own, and only, MS of the Book/ Charles Dickens [Illustration: Original manuscript of the Title Page.] PREFACE I have endeavoured in this Ghostly little book, to raise the Ghost of an Idea, which shall not put my readers out of humour with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me. May it haunt their houses pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it. Their faithful Friend and Servant, C. D. December, 1843. [Illustration: Original manuscript of the Preface.] STAVE I. MARLEY'S GHOST. Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail. Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail. Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain. The mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot--say Saint Paul's Churchyard for instance--literally to astonish his son's weak mind. Scrooge never painted out Old Marley's name. There it [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 1.] stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley, but he answered to both names: it was all the same to him. Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas. External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, nor wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often "came down" handsomely, and Scrooge never did. Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, "My dear Scrooge, how are you? when will you come to see me?" No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. Even the blindmen's dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, "no eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!" But what did Scrooge care? It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call "nuts" to Scrooge. Once upon a time--of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve--old Scrooge sat busy in his counting-house. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal: and he could hear the [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 2.] people in the court outside go wheezing up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the pavement-stones to warm them. The city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already: it had not been light all day: and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighbouring offices, like ruddy smears upon the palpable brown air. The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense without, that although the court was of the narrowest, the houses opposite were mere phantoms. To see the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that Nature lived hard by, and was brewing on a large scale. The door of Scrooge's counting-house was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire, but the clerk's fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. But he couldn't replenish it, for Scrooge kept the coal-box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with the shovel, the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part. Wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to warm himself at the candle; in which effort, not being a man of a strong imagination, he failed. "A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!" cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge's nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach. "Bah!" said Scrooge, "Humbug!" He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge's, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again. "Christmas a humbug, uncle!" said Scrooge's nephew. "You don't mean that, I am sure." "I do," said Scrooge. "Merry Christmas! what right have you to be merry? what reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough." "Come, then," returned the nephew gaily. "What right have you to be dismal? what reason have you to be morose? You're rich enough." Scrooge having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, "Bah!" again; and followed it up with "Humbug." "Don't be cross, uncle," said the nephew. "What else can I be" returned the uncle, "when I live in such [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 3.] a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out upon merry Christmas! What's Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, and not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in 'em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I could work my will," said Scrooge, indignantly, "every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas,' on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!" "Uncle!" pleaded the nephew. "Nephew!" returned the uncle, sternly, "keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine." "Keep it!" repeated Scrooge's nephew. "But you don't keep it." "Let me leave it alone, then," said Scrooge. "Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done you!" "There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say," returned the nephew: "Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round--apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that--as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it _has_ done me good, and _will_ do me good; and I say, God bless it!" The clerk in the tank involuntarily applauded: becoming immediately sensible of the impropriety, he poked the fire, and extinguished the last frail spark for ever. "Let me hear another sound from _you_" said Scrooge, "and you'll keep your Christmas by losing your situation. You're quite a powerful speaker, sir," he added, turning to his nephew. "I wonder you don't go into Parliament." "Don't be angry, uncle. Come! Dine with us to-morrow." Scrooge said that he would see him--yes, indeed he did. He went the whole length of the expression, and said that he would see him in that extremity first. [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 4.] "But why?" cried Scrooge's nephew. "Why?" "Why did you get married?" said Scrooge. "Because I fell in love." "Because you fell in love!" growled Scrooge, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas. "Good afternoon!" "Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened. Why give it as a reason for not coming now?" "Good afternoon," said Scrooge. "I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends?" "Good afternoon," said Scrooge. "I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel, to which I have been a party. But I have made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas humour to the last. So A Merry Christmas, uncle!" "Good afternoon!" said Scrooge. "And A Happy New Year!" "Good afternoon!" said Scrooge. His nephew left the room without an angry word, notwithstanding. He stopped at the outer door to bestow the greetings of the season on the clerk, who, cold as he was, was warmer than Scrooge; for he returned them cordially. "There's another fellow," muttered Scrooge; who overheard him: "my clerk, with fifteen shillings a-week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry Christmas. I'll retire to Bedlam." This lunatic, in letting Scrooge's nephew out, had let two other people in. They were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and now stood, with their hats off, in Scrooge's office. They had books and papers in their hands, and bowed to him. "Scrooge and Marley's, I believe," said one of the gentlemen, referring to his list. "Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge, or Mr. Marley?" "Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years," Scrooge replied. "He died seven years ago, this very night." "We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner," said the gentleman, presenting his credentials. It certainly was; for they had been two kindred spirits. At the ominous word "liberality," Scrooge frowned, and shook his head, and handed the credentials back. [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 5.] "At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge," said the gentleman, taking up a pen, "it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir." "Are there no prisons?" asked Scrooge. "Plenty of prisons," said the gentleman, laying down the pen again. "And the Union workhouses?" demanded Scrooge. "Are they still in operation?" "They are. Still," returned the gentleman, "I wish I could say they were not." "The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?" said Scrooge. "Both very busy, sir." "Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course," said Scrooge. "I'm very glad to hear it." "Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude," returned the gentleman, "a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?" "Nothing!" Scrooge replied. "You wish to be anonymous?" "I wish to be left alone," said Scrooge. "Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don't make merry myself at Christmas, and I can't afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned: they cost enough: and those who are badly off must go there." "Many can't go there; and many would rather die." "If they would rather die," said Scrooge, "they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides--excuse me--I don't know that." "But you might know it," observed the gentleman. "It's not my business," Scrooge returned. "It's enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people's. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!" Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the gentlemen withdrew. Scrooge resumed his labours with an improved opinion of himself, and in a more facetious temper than was usual with him. [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 6.] Meanwhile the fog and darkness thickened so, that people ran about with flaring links, proffering their services to go before horses in carriages, and conduct them on their way. The ancient tower of a church, whose gruff old bell was always peeping slily down at Scrooge out of a gothic window in the wall, became invisible, and struck the hours and quarters in the clouds, with tremulous vibrations afterwards, as if its teeth were chattering in its frozen head up there. The cold became intense. In the main street, at the corner of the court, some labourers were repairing the gas-pipes, and had lighted a great fire in a brazier, round which a party of ragged men and boys were gathered: warming their hands and winking their eyes before the blaze in rapture. The waterplug being left in solitude, its overflowings sullenly congealed, and turned to misanthropic ice. The brightness of the shops where holly sprigs and berries crackled in the lamp-heat of the windows, made pale faces ruddy as they passed. Poulterers' and grocers' trades became a splendid joke: a glorious pageant, with which it was next to impossible to believe that such dull principles as bargain and sale had anything to do. The Lord Mayor, in the stronghold of the mighty Mansion House, gave orders to his fifty cooks and butlers to keep Christmas as a Lord Mayor's household should; and even the little tailor, whom he had fined five shillings on the previous Monday for being drunk and blood-thirsty in the streets, stirred up to-morrow's pudding in his garret, while his lean wife and the baby sallied out to buy the beef. Foggier yet, and colder! Piercing, searching, biting cold. If the good Saint Dunstan had but nipped the Evil Spirit's nose with a touch of such weather as that, instead of using his familiar weapons, then indeed he would have roared to lusty purpose. The owner of one scant young nose, gnawed and mumbled by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed by dogs, stooped down at Scrooge's keyhole to regale him with a Christmas carol: but at the first sound of-- "God bless you merry gentleman! May nothing you dismay!" Scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action, that the singer fled in terror, leaving the keyhole to the fog and even more congenial frost. At length the hour of shutting up the counting-house arrived. With an ill-will Scrooge dismounted from his stool, and tacitly admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the Tank, who instantly snuffed his candle out, and put on his hat. "You'll want all day to-morrow, I suppose?" said Scrooge. [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 7.] "If quite convenient, Sir." "It's not convenient," said Scrooge, "and it's not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it, you'd think yourself ill used, I'll be bound?" The clerk smiled faintly. "And yet," said Scrooge, "you don't think _me_ ill-used, when I pay a day's wages for no work." The clerk observed that it was only once a year. "A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of December!" said Scrooge, buttoning his great-coat to the chin. "But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning!" The clerk promised that he would; and Scrooge walked out with a growl. The office was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk, with the long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist (for he boasted no great-coat), went down a slide on Cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honour of its being Christmas-eve, and then ran home to Camden Town as hard as he could pelt, to play at blindman's-buff. Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the news-papers, and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker's-book, went home to bed. He lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and have forgotten the way out again. It was old enough now, and dreary enough, for nobody lived in it but Scrooge, the other rooms being all let out as offices. The yard was so dark that even Scrooge, who knew its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands. The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it seemed as if the Genius of the Weather sat in mournful meditation on the threshold. Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it was very large. It is also a fact, that Scrooge had seen it night and morning during his whole residence in that place; also that Scrooge had as little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the City of London, even including--which is a bold word--the corporation, aldermen, and livery. Let it also be borne in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed one thought on Marley, since his last mention of his seven-years' dead partner that afternoon. And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change: not a knocker, but [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 8.] Marley's face. Marley's face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Scrooge as Marley used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned up upon its ghostly forehead. The hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot-air; and though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. That, and its livid colour, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be, in spite of the face and beyond its control, rather than a part of its own expression. As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again. To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue. But he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished, turned it sturdily, walked in, and lighted his candle. He _did_ pause, with a moment's irresolution, before he shut the door; and he _did_ look cautiously behind it first, as if he half-expected to be terrified with the sight of Marley's pigtail sticking out into the hall. But there was nothing on the back of the door, except the screws and nuts that held the knocker on; so he said "Pooh, pooh!" and closed it with a bang. The sound resounded through the house like thunder. Every room above, and every cask in the wine-merchant's cellars below, appeared to have a separate peal of echoes of its own. Scrooge was not a man to be frightened by echoes. He fastened the door, and walked across the hall, and up the stairs: slowly too: trimming his candle as he went. You may talk vaguely about driving a coach-and-six up a good old flight of stairs, or through a bad young Act of Parliament; but I mean to say you might have got a hearse up that staircase, and taken it broadwise, with the splinter-bar towards the wall, and the door towards the balustrades: and done it easy. There was plenty of width for that, and room to spare; which is perhaps the reason why Scrooge thought he saw a locomotive hearse going on before him in the gloom. Half a dozen gas-lamps out of the street wouldn't have lighted the entry too well, so you may suppose that it was pretty dark with Scrooge's dip. Up Scrooge went, not caring a button for that: darkness is cheap, and Scrooge liked it. But before he shut his heavy door, he walked through his rooms to see that all was right. He had just enough recollection [Illustration: Original manuscript of page 9.] of the face to desire to do that. Sitting room, bed-room, lumber-room. All as they should be. Nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa; a small fire in the grate; spoon and basin ready; and the little saucepan of gruel (Scrooge had a cold in his head) upon the hob. Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall. Lumber-room as usual. Old fire-guard, old shoes, two fish-baskets, washing-stand on three legs, and a poker. Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himself in; double-locked himself in, which was not his custom. Thus secured against surprise, he took off his cravat; put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and his night-cap; and sat down before the fire to take his gruel. It was a very low fire indeed; nothing on such a bitter night. He was obliged to sit close to it, and brood over it, before he could extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel. The fire-place was an old one, built by some Dutch merchant long ago, and paved all round with quaint Dutch tiles, designed to illustrate the Scriptures. There were Cains and Abels; Pharaoh's daughters, Queens of Sheba, Angelic messengers descending through the air on clouds like feather-beds, Abrahams, Belshazzars, Apostles putting off to sea in butter-boats, hundreds of figures, to attract his thoughts; and yet that face of Marley, seven years dead, came like the ancient Prophet's rod, and swallowed up the whole. If each smooth tile had been a blank at first, with power to shape some picture on its surface from the disjointed fragments of his thoughts, there would have been a copy of old Marley's head on every one. "Humbug!" said Scrooge; and walked across the room. After several turns, he sat down again. As he threw his head back in the chair, his glance happened to rest upon a bell, a disused bell, that hung in the room, and communicated for some purpose now forgotten with a chamber in the highest story of the building. It was with great astonishment, and with a strange, inexplicable dread, that as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every bell in the house. This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour. The bells ceased as they had begun, together. They were succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below; as if some person were dragging [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 10.] a heavy chain over the casks in the wine-merchant's cellar. Scrooge then remembered to have heard that ghosts in haunted houses were described as dragging chains. The cellar-door flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard the noise much louder, on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door. "It's humbug still!" said Scrooge. "I won't believe it." His colour changed though, when, without a pause, it came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes. Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried "I know him! Marley's Ghost!" and fell again. The same face: the very same. Marley in his pig-tail, usual waistcoat, tights, and boots; the tassels on the latter bristling, like his pigtail, and his coat-skirts, and the hair upon his head. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made (for Scrooge observed it closely) of cashboxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel. His body was transparent: so that Scrooge, observing him, and looking through his waistcoat, could see the two buttons on his coat behind. Scrooge had often heard it said that Marley had no bowels, but he had never believed it until now. No, nor did he believe it even now. Though he looked the phantom through and through, and saw it standing before him; though he felt the chilling influence of its death-cold eyes; and marked the very texture of the folded kerchief bound about its head and chin, which wrapper he had not observed before: he was still incredulous, and fought against his senses. "How now!" said Scrooge, caustic and cold as ever. "What do you want with me?" "Much!"--Marley's voice, no doubt about it. "Who are you?" "Ask me who I _was_." "Who _were_ you then?" said Scrooge, raising his voice. "You're particular--for a shade." He was going to say "_to_ a shade," but substituted this, as more appropriate. "In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley." "Can you--can you sit down?" asked Scrooge, looking doubtfully at him. "I can." "Do it then." Scrooge asked the question, because he didn't know whether a ghost so [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 11.] [Illustration] [Illustration: _Marley's Ghost._] _London · Chapman & Hall, 186 Strand._ [_This illustration is reproduced in full color on the front cover._] transparent might find himself in a condition to take a chair; and felt that in the event of its being impossible, it might involve the necessity of an embarrassing explanation. But the ghost sat down on the opposite side of the fire-place, as if he were quite used to it. "You don't believe in me," observed the Ghost. "I don't," said Scrooge. "What evidence would you have of my reality, beyond that of your senses?" "I don't know," said Scrooge. "Why do you doubt your senses?" "Because," said Scrooge, "a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!" Scrooge was not much in the habit of cracking jokes, nor did he feel, in his heart, by any means waggish then. The truth is, that he tried to be smart, as a means of distracting his own attention, and keeping down his terror; for the spectre's voice disturbed the very marrow in his bones. To sit, staring at those fixed, glazed eyes, in silence for a moment, would play, Scrooge felt, the very deuce with him. There was something very awful, too, in the spectre's being provided with an infernal atmosphere of its own. Scrooge could not feel it himself, but this was clearly the case; for though the Ghost sat perfectly motionless, its hair, and skirts, and tassels, were still agitated as by the hot vapour from an oven. "You see this toothpick?" said Scrooge, returning quickly to the charge, for the reason just assigned; and wishing, though it were only for a second, to divert the vision's stony gaze from himself. "I do," replied the Ghost. "You are not looking at it," said Scrooge. "But I see it," said the Ghost, "notwithstanding." "Well!" returned Scrooge. "I have but to swallow this, and be for the rest of my days persecuted by a legion of goblins, all of my own creation. Humbug, I tell you--humbug!" At this, the spirit raised a frightful cry, and shook its chain with such a dismal and appalling noise, that Scrooge held on tight to his chair, to save himself from falling in a swoon. But how much greater was his horror, when the phantom taking off the bandage round its head, as if it were too [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 12.] warm to wear in-doors, its lower jaw dropped down upon its breast! Scrooge fell upon his knees, and clasped his hands before his face. "Mercy!" he said. "Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?" "Man of the worldly mind!" replied the Ghost, "do you believe in me or not?" "I do," said Scrooge. "I must. But why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?" "It is required of every man," the Ghost returned, "that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world--oh, woe is me!--and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!" Again the spectre raised a cry, and shook its chain, and wrung its shadowy hands. "You are fettered," said Scrooge, trembling. "Tell me why?" "I wear the chain I forged in life," replied the Ghost. "I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to _you_?" Scrooge trembled more and more. "Or would you know," pursued the Ghost, "the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as long as this, seven Christmas Eves ago. You have laboured on it, since. It is a ponderous chain!" Scrooge glanced about him on the floor, in the expectation of finding himself surrounded by some fifty or sixty fathoms of iron cable: but he could see nothing. "Jacob," he said, imploringly. "Old Jacob Marley, tell me more. Speak comfort to me, Jacob." "I have none to give," the Ghost replied. "It comes from other regions, Ebenezer Scrooge, and is conveyed by other ministers, to other kinds of men. Nor can I tell you what I would. A very little more, is all permitted to me. I cannot rest, I cannot stay, I cannot linger anywhere. My spirit never walked beyond our counting-house--mark me!--in life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits of our money-changing hole; and weary journeys lie before me!" It was a habit with Scrooge, whenever he became thoughtful, [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 13.] to put his hands in his breeches pockets. Pondering on what the Ghost had said, he did so now, but without lifting up his eyes, or getting off his knees. "You must have been very slow about it, Jacob," Scrooge observed, in a business-like manner, though with humility and deference. "Slow!" the Ghost repeated. "Seven years dead," mused Scrooge. "And travelling all the time?" "The whole time," said the Ghost. "No rest, no peace. Incessant torture of remorse." "You travel fast?" said Scrooge. "On the wings of the wind," replied the Ghost. "You might have got over a great quantity of ground in seven years," said Scrooge. The Ghost, on hearing this, set up another cry, and clanked its chain so hideously in the dead silence of the night, that the Ward would have been justified in indicting it for a nuisance. "Oh, captive, bound, and double-ironed," cried the phantom, "not to know, that ages of incessant labour by immortal creatures, for this earth must pass into eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is all developed. Not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness. Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunities misused! Yet such was I! Oh! such was I!" "But you were always a good man of business, Jacob," faultered Scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself. "Business!" cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. "Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!" It held up its chain at arm's length, as if that were the cause of all its unavailing grief, and flung it heavily upon the ground again. "At this time of the rolling year," the spectre said, "I suffer most. Why did I walk through the crowds of fellow-beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed Star which led the Wise Men to a poor abode? Were there no poor homes to which its light would have conducted _me_!" Scrooge was very much dismayed to hear the spectre going on at [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 14.] this rate, and began to quake exceedingly. "Hear me!" cried the Ghost. "My time is nearly gone." "I will," said Scrooge. "But don't be hard upon me! Don't be flowery, Jacob! Pray!" "How it is that I appear before you in a shape that you can see, I may not tell. I have sat invisible beside you many and many a day." It was not an agreeable idea. Scrooge shivered, and wiped the perspiration from his brow. "That is no light part of my penance," pursued the Ghost. "I am here to-night to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer." "You were always a good friend to me," said Scrooge. "Thank'ee!" "You will be haunted," resumed the Ghost, "by Three Spirits." Scrooge's countenance fell almost as low as the Ghost's had done. "Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Jacob?" he demanded, in a faultering voice. "It is." "I--I think I'd rather not," said Scrooge. "Without their visits," said the Ghost, "you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first to-morrow, when the bell tolls one." "Couldn't I take 'em all at once, and have it over, Jacob?" hinted Scrooge. "Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. The third upon the next night when the last stroke of twelve has ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us!" When it had said these words, the spectre took its wrapper from the table, and bound it round its head, as before. Scrooge knew this, by the smart sound its teeth made, when the jaws were brought together by the bandage. He ventured to raise his eyes again, and found his supernatural visitor confronting him in an erect attitude, with its chain wound over and about its arm. The apparition walked backward from him; and at every step it took, the window raised itself a little, so that when the spectre reached it, it was wide open. It beckoned Scrooge to approach, which he did. When they were within two paces of each other, Marley's Ghost held up its hand, warning him to come no nearer. Scrooge stopped. Not so much in obedience, as in surprise and fear: for on the raising of the hand, he became sensible of confused noises in the [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 15.] [Illustration: Verso of original manuscript Page 16.] air; incoherent sounds of lamentation and regret; wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and self-accusatory. The spectre, after listening for a moment, joined in the mournful dirge; and floated out upon the bleak, dark night. Scrooge followed to the window: desperate in his curiosity. He looked out. The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither in restless haste, and moaning as they went. Every one of them wore chains like Marley's Ghost; some few (they might be guilty governments) were linked together; none were free. Many had been personally known to Scrooge in their lives. He had been quite familiar with one old ghost, in a white waistcoat, with a monstrous iron safe attached to its ancle, who cried piteously at being unable to assist a wretched woman with an infant, whom it saw below, upon a door-step. The misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in human matters, and had lost the power for ever. Whether these creatures faded into mist, or mist enshrouded them, he could not tell. But they and their spirit voices faded together; and the night became as it had been when he walked home. Scrooge closed the window, and examined the door by which the Ghost had entered. It was double-locked, as he had locked it with his own hands, and the bolts were undisturbed. He tried to say "Hum-bug!" but stopped at the first syllable. And being, from the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his glimpse of the Invisible World, or the dull conversation of the Ghost, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of repose; went straight to bed, without undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant. [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 16.] STAVE II. THE FIRST OF THE THREE SPIRITS. When Scrooge awoke, it was so dark, that looking out of bed, he could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of his chamber. He was endeavouring to pierce the darkness with his ferret eyes, when the chimes of a neighbouring church struck the four quarters. So he listened for the hour. To his great astonishment the heavy bell went on from six to seven, and from seven to eight, and regularly up to twelve; then stopped. Twelve! It was past two when he went to bed. The clock was wrong. An icicle must have got into the works. Twelve! He touched the spring of his repeater, to correct this most preposterous clock. Its rapid little pulse beat twelve; and stopped. "Why, it isn't possible," said Scrooge, "that I can have slept through a whole day and far into another night. It isn't possible that anything has happened to the sun, and this is twelve at noon!" The idea being an alarming one, he scrambled out of bed, and groped his way to the window. He was obliged to rub the frost off with the sleeve of his dressing-gown before he could see anything; and could see very little then. All he could make out was, that it was still very foggy and extremely cold, and that there was no noise of people running to and fro, and making a great stir, as there unquestionably would have been if night had beaten off bright day, and taken possession of the world. This was a great relief, because "three days after sight of this First of Exchange pay to Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge or his order," and so forth, would have become a mere United States' security if there were no days to count by. Scrooge went to bed again, and thought, and thought, and thought it over and over and over, and could make nothing of it. The more he thought, the more perplexed he was; and the more he endeavoured not to think, the more he thought. Marley's Ghost bothered him exceedingly. Every time he resolved within himself, after mature inquiry, that it was all a dream, his mind flew back again like a strong spring released, to its first position, and presented the same problem to be worked all through, "Was it a dream or not?" Scrooge lay in this state until the chimes had gone three quarters more, when he remembered, on a sudden, that the Ghost had [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 17.] [Illustration: Verso of original manuscript of Page 18.] warned him of a visitation when the bell tolled one. He resolved to lie awake until the hour was past; and considering that he could no more go to sleep than go to Heaven, this was perhaps the wisest resolution in his power. The quarter was so long, that he was more than once convinced he must have sunk into a doze unconsciously, and missed the clock. At length it broke upon his listening ear. "Ding, dong!" "A quarter past," said Scrooge, counting. "Ding, dong!" "Half past!" said Scrooge. "Ding, dong!" "A quarter to it," said Scrooge. "Ding, dong!" "The hour itself," said Scrooge, triumphantly, "and nothing else!" He spoke before the hour bell sounded, which it now did with a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy ONE. Light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and the curtains of his bed were drawn. The curtains of his bed were drawn aside, I tell you, by a hand. Not the curtains at his feet, nor the curtains at his back, but those to which his face was addressed. The curtains of his bed were drawn aside; and Scrooge, starting up into a half-recumbent attitude, found himself face to face with the unearthly visitor who drew them: as close to it as I am now to you, and I am standing in the spirit at your elbow. It was a strange figure--like a child: yet not so like a child as like an old man, viewed through some supernatural medium, which gave him the appearance of having receded from the view, and being diminished to a child's proportions. Its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back, was white as if with age; and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it, and the tenderest bloom was on the skin. The arms were very long and muscular; the hands the same, as if its hold were of uncommon strength. Its legs and feet, most delicately formed, were, like those upper members, bare. It wore a tunic of the purest white; and round its waist was bound a lustrous belt, the sheen of which was beautiful. It held a branch of fresh green holly in its hand; and, in singular contradiction of that wintry emblem, had its dress trimmed with summer flowers. But the strangest thing about it was, that from the crown of its head there sprung a bright clear jet of light, by which all this was visible; and which was doubtless the occasion of its using, in its duller moments, a great extinguisher for [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 18.] a cap, which it now held under its arm. Even this, though, when Scrooge looked at it with increasing steadiness, was _not_ its strangest quality. For as its belt sparkled and glittered now in one part and now in another, and what was light one instant, at another time was dark, so the figure itself fluctuated in its distinctness: being now a thing with one arm, now with one leg, now with twenty legs, now a pair of legs without a head, now a head without a body: of which dissolving parts, no outline would be visible in the dense gloom wherein they melted away. And in the very wonder of this, it would be itself again; distinct and clear as ever. "Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?" asked Scrooge. "I am!" The voice was soft and gentle. Singularly low, as if instead of being so close beside him, it were at a distance. "Who, and what are you?" Scrooge demanded. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Past." "Long past?" inquired Scrooge: observant of its dwarfish stature. "No. Your past." Perhaps, Scrooge could not have told anybody why, if anybody could have asked him; but he had a special desire to see the Spirit in his cap; and begged him to be covered. "What" exclaimed the Ghost, "would you so soon put out, with worldly hands, the light I give? Is it not enough that you are one of those whose passions made this cap, and force me through whole trains of years to wear it low upon my brow!" Scrooge reverently disclaimed all intention to offend, or any knowledge of having wilfully "bonneted" the Spirit at any period of his life. He then made bold to inquire what business brought him there. "Your welfare!" said the Ghost. Scrooge expressed himself much obliged, but could not help thinking that a night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to that end. The Spirit must have heard him thinking, for it said immediately: "Your reclamation, then. Take heed!" It put out its strong hand as it spoke, and clasped him gently by the arm. "Rise! and walk with me!" It would have been in vain for Scrooge to plead that the weather and the hour were not adapted to pedestrian purposes; that bed was warm, and the thermometer a long way below freezing; that he was clad but lightly in his slippers, [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 19.] dressing-gown, and nightcap; and that he had a cold upon him at that time. The grasp, though gentle as a woman's hand, was not to be resisted. He rose: but finding that the Spirit made towards the window, clasped its robe in supplication. "I am a mortal," Scrooge remonstrated, "and liable to fall." "Bear but a touch of my hand _there_," said the Spirit, laying it upon his heart, "and you shall be upheld in more than this!" As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood upon an open country road, with fields on either hand. The city had entirely vanished. Not a vestige of it was to be seen. The darkness and the mist had vanished with it, for it was a clear, cold, winter day, with snow upon the ground. "Good Heaven!" said Scrooge, clasping his hands together, as he looked about him. "I was bred in this place. I was a boy here!" The Spirit gazed upon him mildly. Its gentle touch, though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still present to the old man's sense of feeling. He was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long, forgotten! "Your lip is trembling," said the Ghost. "And what is that upon your cheek?" Scrooge muttered, with an unusual catching in his voice, that it was a pimple; and begged the Ghost to lead him where he would. "You recollect the way?" inquired the Spirit. "Remember it!" cried Scrooge with fervour--"I could walk it blindfold." "Strange to have forgotten it for so many years!" observed the Ghost. "Let us go on." They walked along the road; Scrooge recognising every gate, and post, and tree; until a little market-town appeared in the distance, with its bridge, its church, and winding river. Some shaggy ponies now were seen trotting towards them with boys upon their backs, who called to other boys in country gigs and carts, driven by farmers. All these boys were in great spirits, and shouted to each other, until the broad fields were so full of merry music, that the crisp air laughed to hear it. "These are but shadows of the things that have been," said the Ghost. "They have no consciousness of us." The jocund travellers came on; and as they came, Scrooge knew and named them every one. Why was he rejoiced beyond all bounds to see them! Why did his cold eye glisten, and his heart [Illustration: Original manuscript of page 20.] leap up as they went past! Why was he filled with gladness when he heard them give each other Merry Christmas, as they parted at cross-roads and bye-ways, for their several homes! What was merry Christmas to Scrooge? Out upon merry Christmas! What good had it ever done to him? "The school is not quite deserted," said the Ghost. "A solitary child, neglected by his friends, is left there still." Scrooge said he knew it. And he sobbed. They left the high-road, by a well remembered lane, and soon approached a mansion of dull red brick, with a little weathercock-surmounted cupola, on the roof, and a bell hanging in it. It was a large house, but one of broken fortunes; for the spacious offices were little used, their walls were damp and mossy, their windows broken, and their gates decayed. Fowls clucked and strutted in the stables; and the coach-houses and sheds were overrun with grass. Nor was it more retentive of its ancient state, within; for entering the dreary hall, and glancing through the open doors of many rooms, they found them poorly furnished, cold, and vast. There was an earthy savour in the air, a chilly bareness in the place, which associated itself somehow with too much getting up by candle-light, and not too much to eat. They went, the Ghost and Scrooge, across the hall, to a door at the back of the house. It opened before them, and disclosed a long, bare, melancholy room, made barer still by lines of plain deal forms and desks. At one of these a lonely boy was reading near a feeble fire; and Scrooge sat down upon a form, and wept to see his poor forgotten self as he had used to be. Not a latent echo in the house, not a squeak and scuffle from the mice behind the panneling, not a drip from the half-thawed water-spout in the dull yard behind, not a sigh among the leafless boughs of one despondent poplar, not the idle swinging of an empty store-house door, no, not a clicking in the fire, but fell upon the heart of Scrooge with softening influence, and gave a freer passage to his tears. The Spirit touched him on the arm, and pointed to his young self, intent upon his reading. Suddenly a man, in foreign garments: wonderfully real and distinct to look at: stood outside the window, with an axe stuck in his belt, and leading an ass laden with wood by the bridle. "Why, it's Ali Baba!" Scrooge exclaimed in ecstacy. "It's dear old honest Ali Baba! Yes, yes, I know! One Christmas time, when yonder solitary child was left here all alone, he _did_ come, for the first [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 21.] time, just like that. Poor boy! And Valentine," said Scrooge, "and his wild brother, Orson; there they go! And what's his name, who was put down in his drawers, asleep, at the Gate of Damascus; don't you see him! And the Sultan's Groom turned upside-down by the Genii; there he is upon his head! Serve him right. I'm glad of it. What business had _he_ to be married to the Princess!" To hear Scrooge expending all the earnestness of his nature on such subjects, in a most extraordinary voice between laughing and crying; and to see his heightened and excited face; would have been a surprise to his business friends in the city, indeed. "There's the Parrot!" cried Scrooge. "Green body and yellow tail, with a thing like a lettuce growing out of the top of his head; there he is! Poor Robin Crusoe, he called him, when he came home again after sailing round the island. 'Poor Robin Crusoe, where have you been, Robin Crusoe?' The man thought he was dreaming, but he wasn't. It was the Parrot, you know. There goes Friday, running for his life to the little creek! Halloa! Hoop! Halloo!" Then, with a rapidity of transition very foreign to his usual character, he said, in pity for his former self, "Poor boy!" and cried again. "I wish," Scrooge muttered, putting his hand in his pocket, and looking about him, after drying his eyes with his cuff: "but it's too late now." "What is the matter?" asked the Spirit. "Nothing," said Scrooge. "Nothing. There was a boy singing a Christmas Carol at my door last night. I should like to have given him something: that's all." The Ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved its hand: saying as it did so, "Let us see another Christmas!" Scrooge's former self grew larger at the words, and the room became a little darker and more dirty. The panels shrunk, the windows cracked; fragments of plaster fell out of the ceiling, and the naked laths were shown instead; but how all this was brought about, Scrooge knew no more than you do. He only knew that it was quite correct; that everything had happened so; that there he was, alone again, when all the other boys had gone home for the jolly holidays. He was not reading now, but walking up and down despairingly. Scrooge looked at the Ghost, and with a mournful shaking of his head, glanced anxiously towards the door. It opened; and a little girl, much younger than the boy, came darting in, and putting her arms about his neck, and often kissing him, addressed him as her "Dear, dear brother." [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 22.] "I have come to bring you home, dear brother!" said the child, clapping her tiny hands, and bending down to laugh. "To bring you home, home, home!" "Home, little Fan?" returned the boy. "Yes!" said the child, brimful of glee. "Home, for good and all. Home, for ever and ever. Father is so much kinder than he used to be, that home's like Heaven! He spoke so gently to me one dear night when I was going to bed, that I was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home; and he said Yes, you should; and sent me in a coach to bring you. And you're to be a man!" said the child, opening her eyes, "and are never to come back here; but first, we're to be together all the Christmas long, and have the merriest time in all the world." "You are quite a woman, little Fan!" exclaimed the boy. She clapped her hands and laughed, and tried to touch his head; but being too little, laughed again, and stood on tiptoe to embrace him. Then she began to drag him, in her childish eagerness, towards the door; and he, nothing loth to go, accompanied her. A terrible voice in the hall cried, "Bring down Master Scrooge's box, there!" and in the hall appeared the schoolmaster himself, who glared on Master Scrooge with a ferocious condescension, and threw him into a dreadful state of mind by shaking hands with him. He then conveyed him and his sister into the veriest old well of a shivering best-parlour that ever was seen, where the maps upon the wall, and the celestial and terrestrial globes in the windows, were waxy with cold. Here he produced a decanter of curiously light wine, and a block of curiously heavy cake, and administered instalments of those dainties to the young people: at the same time, sending out a meagre servant to offer a glass of "something" to the postboy, who answered that he thanked the gentleman, but if it was the same tap as he had tasted before, he had rather not. Master Scrooge's trunk being by this time tied on to the top of the chaise, the children bade the schoolmaster good-bye right willingly; and getting into it, drove gaily down the garden-sweep; the quick wheels dashing the hoar-frost and snow from off the dark leaves of the evergreens like spray. "Always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered," said the Ghost. "But she had a large heart!" "So she had," cried Scrooge. "You're right. I'll not gainsay it, Spirit. God forbid!" "She died a woman," said the Ghost, "and had, as I [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 23.] think, children." "One child," Scrooge returned. "True," said the Ghost. "Your nephew!" Scrooge seemed uneasy in his mind; and answered briefly, "Yes." Although they had but that moment left the school behind them, they were now in the busy thoroughfares of a city, where shadowy passengers passed and repassed; where shadowy carts and coaches battled for the way, and all the strife and tumult of a real city were. It was made plain enough, by the dressing of the shops, that here too it was Christmas time again; but it was evening, and the streets were lighted up. The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door, and asked Scrooge if he knew it. "Know it!" said Scrooge. "Was I apprenticed here?" They went in. At sight of an old gentleman in a Welch wig, sitting behind such a high desk, that if he had been two inches taller he must have knocked his head against the ceiling, Scrooge cried in great excitement: "Why, it's old Fezziwig! Bless his heart; it's Fezziwig alive again!" Old Fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up at the clock, which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands; adjusted his capacious waistcoat; laughed all over himself, from his shoes to his organ of benevolence; and called out in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial voice: "Yo ho, there! Ebenezer! Dick!" Scrooge's former self, now grown a young man, came briskly in, accompanied by his fellow-'prentice. "Dick Wilkins, to be sure!" said Scrooge to the Ghost. "Bless me, yes. There he is. He was very much attached to me, was Dick. Poor Dick! Dear, dear!" "Yo ho, my boys!" said Fezziwig. "No more work to-night. Christmas Eve, Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer! Let's have the shutters up," cried old Fezziwig, with a sharp clap of his hands, "before a man can say, Jack Robinson!" You wouldn't believe how those two fellows went at it! They charged into the street with the shutters--one, two, three--had 'em up in their places--four, five, six--barred 'em and pinned 'em--seven, eight, nine--and came back before you could have got to twelve, panting like race-horses. "Hilli-ho!" cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk, with wonderful agility. "Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here! Hilli-ho, Dick! Chirrup, Ebenezer!" Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It was [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 24.] [Illustration: Verso of original manuscript Page 25.] done in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life for ever-more; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ball-room, as you would desire to see upon a winter's night. In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. In came the three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and loveable. In came the six young followers whose hearts they broke. In came all the young men and women employed in the business. In came the housemaid, with her cousin, the baker. In came the cook, with her brother's particular friend, the milkman. In came the boy from over the way, who was suspected of not having board enough from his master; trying to hide himself behind the girl from next door but one, who was proved to have had her ears pulled by her Mistress. In they all came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling; in they all came, anyhow and everyhow. Away they all went, twenty couple at once, hands half round and back again the other way; down the middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them. When this result was brought about, old Fezziwig, clapping his hands to stop the dance, cried out, "Well down!" and the fiddler plunged his hot face into a pot of porter, especially provided for that purpose. But scorning rest upon his reappearance, he instantly began again, though there were no dancers yet, as if the other fiddler had been carried home, exhausted, on a shutter; and he were a bran-new man resolved to beat him out of sight, or perish. There were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances, and there was cake, and there was negus, and there was a great piece of Cold Roast, and there was a great piece of Cold Boiled, and there were mince-pies, and plenty of beer. But the great effect of the evening came after the Roast and Boiled, when the fiddler (an artful dog, mind! The sort of man who knew his business better than you or I could have told it him!) struck up "Sir Roger de Coverley." Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top couple too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who _would_ dance, and had no notion of walking. But if they had been twice as many: ah, four times: old Fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig. As [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 25.] [Illustration: Verso of original manuscript Page 26.] to _her_, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If that's not high praise, tell me higher, and I'll use it. A positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig's calves. They shone in every part of the dance like moons. You couldn't have predicted, at any given time, what would become of 'em next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all through the dance; advance and retire, hold hands with your partner; bow and curtsey; corkscrew; thread-the-needle, and back again to your place; Fezziwig "cut"--cut so deftly, that he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again without a stagger. When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side the door, and shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas. When everybody had retired but the two 'prentices, they did the same to them; and thus the cheerful voices died away, and the lads were left to their beds; which were under a counter in the back-shop. During the whole of this time, Scrooge had acted like a man out of his wits. His heart and soul were in the scene, and with his former self. He corroborated everything, remembered everything, enjoyed everything, and underwent the strangest agitation. It was not until now, when the bright faces of his former self and Dick were turned from them, that he remembered the Ghost, and became conscious that it was looking full upon him, while the light upon its head burnt very clear. "A small matter," said the Ghost, "to make these silly folks so full of gratitude." "Small!" echoed Scrooge. The Spirit signed to him to listen to the two apprentices, who were pouring out their hearts in praise of Fezziwig: and when he had done so, said, "Why! Is it not? He has spent but a few pounds of your mortal money: three or four, perhaps. Is that so much that he deserves this praise?" "It isn't that," said Scrooge, heated by the remark, and speaking unconsciously like his former, not his latter, self. "It isn't that, Spirit. He has the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. Say that his power lies in words and looks; in things so slight and insignificant that it is impossible to add and count 'em up: what then? The happiness he gives, is quite as great as if it cost a fortune." He felt the Spirit's glance, and stopped. "What is the matter?" asked the Ghost. "Nothing particular," said Scrooge. "Something, I think?" the Ghost insisted. "No," said Scrooge, "No. I should like to be able to say a word or two to my clerk just now! That's all." [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 26.] His former self turned down the lamps as he gave utterance to the wish; and Scrooge and the Ghost again stood side by side in the open air. "My time grows short," observed the Spirit. "Quick!" This was not addressed to Scrooge, or to any one whom he could see, but it produced an immediate effect. For again Scrooge saw himself. He was older now; a man in the prime of life. His face had not the harsh and rigid lines of later years; but it had begun to wear the signs of care and avarice. There was an eager, greedy, restless motion in the eye, which showed the passion that had taken root, and where the shadow of the growing tree would fall. He was not alone, but sat by the side of a fair young girl in a mourning-dress: in whose eyes there were tears, which sparkled in the light that shone out of the Ghost of Christmas Past. "It matters little," she said, softly. "To you, very little. Another idol has displaced me; and if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come, as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve." "What Idol has displaced you?" he rejoined. "A golden one." "This is the even-handed dealing of the world!" he said. "There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; and there is nothing it professes to condemn with such severity as the pursuit of wealth!" "You fear the world too much," she answered, gently. "All your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master-passion, Gain, engrosses you. Have I not?" "What then?" he retorted. "Even if I have grown so much wiser, what then? I am not changed towards you." She shook her head. "Am I?" "Our contract is an old one. It was made when we were both poor and content to be so, until, in good season, we could improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry. You _are_ changed. When it was made, you were another man." "I was a boy," he said impatiently. "Your own feeling tells you that you were not what you are," she returned. "I am. That which promised happiness when we were one in heart, is fraught with misery now that we are two. How often and how keenly I have thought of this, I will not say. It is enough that I _have_ thought of it, and can release you." "Have I ever sought release?" [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 27.] "In words. No. Never." "In what, then?" "In a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another atmosphere of life; another Hope as its great end. In everything that made my love of any worth or value in your sight. If this had never been between us," said the girl, looking mildly, but with steadiness, upon him; "tell me, would you seek me out and try to win me now? Ah, no!" He seemed to yield to the justice of this supposition, in spite of himself. But he said, with a struggle, "You think not." "I would gladly think otherwise if I could," she answered, "Heaven knows! When _I_ have learned a Truth like this, I know how strong and irresistible it must be. But if you were free to-day, to-morrow, yesterday, can even I believe that you would choose a dowerless girl--you who, in your very confidence with her, weigh everything by Gain: or, choosing her, if for a moment you were false enough to your one guiding principle to do so, do I not know that your repentance and regret would surely follow? I do; and I release you. With a full heart, for the love of him you once were." He was about to speak; but with her head turned from him, she resumed. "You may--the memory of what is past half makes me hope you will--have pain in this. A very, very brief time, and you will dismiss the recollection of it, gladly, as an unprofitable dream, from which it happened well that you awoke. May you be happy in the life you have chosen!" She left him; and they parted. "Spirit!" said Scrooge, "show me no more! Conduct me home. Why do you delight to torture me?" "One shadow more!" exclaimed the Ghost. "No more!" cried Scrooge. "No more. I don't wish to see it. Show me no more!" But the relentless Ghost pinioned him in both his arms, and forced him to observe what happened next. They were in another scene and place: a room, not very large or handsome, but full of comfort. Near to the winter fire sat a beautiful young girl, so like the last that Scrooge believed it was the same, until he saw _her_, now a comely matron, sitting opposite her daughter. The noise in this room was perfectly tumultuous, for there were more children there, than Scrooge in his agitated state of mind could [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 28.] count; and, unlike the celebrated herd in the poem, they were not forty children conducting themselves like one, but every child was conducting itself like forty. The consequences were uproarious beyond belief; but no one seemed to care; on the contrary, the mother and daughter laughed heartily, and enjoyed it very much; and the latter, soon beginning to mingle in the sports, got pillaged by the young brigands most ruthlessly. What would I not have given to be one of them! Though I never could have been so rude, no, no! I wouldn't for the wealth of all the world have crushed that braided hair, and torn it down; and for the precious little shoe, I wouldn't have plucked it off, God bless my soul! to save my life. As to measuring her waist in sport, as they did, bold young brood, I couldn't have done it; I should have expected my arm to have grown round it for a punishment, and never come straight again. And yet I should have dearly liked, I own, to have touched her lips; to have questioned her, that she might have opened them; to have looked upon the lashes of her downcast eyes, and never raised a blush; to have let loose waves of hair, an inch of which would be a keepsake beyond price: in short, I should have liked, I do confess, to have had the lightest license of a child, and yet been man enough to know its value. But now a knocking at the door was heard, and such a rush immediately ensued that she with laughing face and plundered dress was borne towards it the centre of a flushed and boisterous group, just in time to greet the father, who, came home attended by a man laden with Christmas toys and presents. Then the shouting and the struggling, and the onslaught that was made on the defenceless porter! The scaling him, with chairs for ladders, to dive into his pockets, despoil him of brown-paper parcels, hold on tight by his cravat, hug him round the neck, pommel his back, and kick his legs in irrepressible affection! The shouts of wonder and delight with which the development of every package was received! The terrible announcement that the baby had been taken in the act of putting a doll's frying-pan into his mouth, and was more than suspected of having swallowed a fictitious turkey, glued on a wooden platter! The immense relief of finding this a false alarm! The joy, and gratitude, and ecstacy! They are all indescribable alike. It is enough that by degrees the children and their emotions got out of the parlour and by one stair at a time, up to the top of the house; where they went to bed, and so subsided. And now Scrooge looked on more attentively than ever, when the master of the house, having his daughter leaning fondly on him, sat down with her and her mother at his own fireside; and when he thought that such another [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 29.] creature, quite as graceful and as full of promise, might have called him father, and been a spring-time in the haggard winter of his life, his sight grew very dim indeed. "Belle," said the husband, turning to his wife with a smile, "I saw an old friend of yours this afternoon." "Who was it?" "Guess!" "How can I? Tut, don't I know," she added in the same breath, laughing as he laughed. "Mr. Scrooge." "Mr. Scrooge it was. I passed his office window; and as it was not shut up, and he had a candle inside, I could scarcely help seeing him. His partner lies upon the point of death, I hear; and there he sat alone. Quite alone in the world, I do believe." "Spirit!" said Scrooge in a broken voice, "remove me from this place." "I told you these were shadows of the things that have been," said the Ghost. "That they are what they are, do not blame me!" "Remove me!" Scrooge exclaimed. "I cannot bear it!" He turned upon the Ghost, and seeing that it looked upon him with a face, in which in some strange way there were fragments of all the faces it had shown him, wrestled with it. "Leave me! Take me back. Haunt me no longer!" In the struggle, if that can be called a struggle in which the Ghost with no visible resistance on its own part was undisturbed by any effort of its adversary, Scrooge observed that its light was burning high and bright; and dimly connecting that with its influence over him, he seized the extinguisher-cap, and by a sudden action pressed it down upon its head. The Spirit dropped beneath it, so that the extinguisher covered its whole form; but though Scrooge pressed it down with all his force, he could not hide the light: which streamed from under it, in an unbroken flood upon the ground. He was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in his own bedroom. He gave the cap a parting squeeze, in which his hand relaxed; and had barely time to reel to bed, before he sank into a heavy sleep. [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 30.] [Illustration] [Illustration: Scrooge's third Visitor. _London · Chapman & Hall, 186 Strand._] [_This illustration is reproduced in full color on the back cover._] [Illustration: Verso of original manuscript Page 31.] STAVE III. THE SECOND OF THE THREE SPIRITS. Awaking in the middle of a prodigiously tough snore, and sitting up in bed to get his thoughts together, Scrooge had no occasion to be told that the bell was again upon the stroke of One. He felt that he was restored to consciousness in the right nick of time, for the especial purpose of holding a conference with the second messenger despatched to him through Jacob Marley's intervention. But finding that he turned uncomfortably cold when he began to wonder which of his curtains this new spectre would draw back, he put them every one aside with his own hands; and lying down again, established a sharp look-out all round the bed. For he wished to challenge the Spirit on the moment of its appearance, and did not wish to be taken by surprise and made nervous. Gentlemen of the free-and-easy sort, who plume themselves on being acquainted with a move or two, and being usually equal to the time-of-day, express the wide range of their capacity for adventure by observing that they are good for anything from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter; between which opposite extremes, no doubt, there lies a tolerably wide and comprehensive range of subjects. Without venturing for Scrooge quite as hardily as this, I don't mind calling on you to believe that he was ready for a good broad field of strange appearances, and that nothing between a baby and a rhinoceros would have astonished him very much. Now, being prepared for almost anything, he was not by any means prepared for nothing; and, consequently, when the Bell struck One, and no shape appeared, he was taken with a violent fit of trembling. Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour went by, yet nothing came. All this time, he lay upon his bed, the very core and centre of a blaze of ruddy light, which streamed upon it when the clock proclaimed the hour; and which being only light, was more alarming than a dozen ghosts, as he was powerless to make out what it meant, or would be at; and was sometimes apprehensive that he might be at that very moment an interesting case of spontaneous combustion, without having the consolation of knowing it. At last, however, he began to think--as you or I would have thought at first; for it is always the person not in the predicament who knows what ought to have been done in it, and would unquestionably have done it too--at last, I say, he began to think that the source and secret of this ghostly light might be in the adjoining room: from [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 31.] whence, on further tracing it, it seemed to shine. This idea taking full possession of his mind, he got up softly and shuffled in his slippers to the door. The moment Scrooge's hand was on the lock, a strange voice called him by his name, and bade him enter. He obeyed. It was his own room. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked a perfect grove, from every part of which, bright gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there; and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney, as that dull petrifaction of a hearth had never known in Scrooge's time, or Marley's, or for many and many a winter season gone. Heaped up upon the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. In easy state upon this couch, there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see; who bore a glowing torch, in shape not unlike Plenty's horn, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on Scrooge, as he came peeping round the door. "Come in!" exclaimed the Ghost. "Come in! and know me better, man!" Scrooge entered timidly, and hung his head before this Spirit. He was not the dogged Scrooge he had been; and though its eyes were clear and kind, he did not like to meet them. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," said the Spirit. "Look upon me!" Scrooge reverently did so. It was clothed in one simple deep green robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur. This garment hung so loosely on the figure, that its capacious breast was bare, as if disdaining to be warded or concealed by any artifice. Its feet, observable beneath the ample folds of the garment, were also bare; and on its head it wore no other covering than a holly wreath set here and there with shining icicles. Its dark brown curls were long and free: free as its genial face, its sparkling eye, its open hand, its cheery voice, its unconstrained demeanour, and its joyful air. Girded round its middle was an antique scabbard; but no sword was in it, and the ancient sheath was eaten up with rust. "You have never seen the like of me before!" exclaimed [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 32.] the Spirit. "Never," Scrooge made answer to it. "Have never walked forth with the younger members of my family; meaning (for I am very young) my elder brothers born in these later years?" pursued the Phantom. "I don't think I have," said Scrooge. "I am afraid I have not. Have you had many brothers, Spirit?" "More than eighteen hundred," said the Ghost. "A tremendous family to provide for!" muttered Scrooge. The Ghost of Christmas Present rose. "Spirit," said Scrooge submissively, "conduct me where you will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learnt a lesson which is working now. To-night, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it." "Touch my robe!" Scrooge did as he was told, and held it fast. Holly, mistletoe, red berries, ivy, turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, meat, pigs, sausages, oysters, pies, puddings, fruit, and punch, all vanished instantly. So did the room, the fire, the ruddy glow, the hour of night, and they stood in the city streets on Christmas morning, where (for the weather was severe) the people made a rough, but brisk and not unpleasant kind of music, in scraping the snow from the pavement in front of their dwellings, and from the tops of their houses: whence it was mad delight to the boys to see it come plumping down into the road below, and splitting into artificial little snowstorms. The house fronts looked black enough, and the windows blacker, contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow upon the roofs, and with the dirtier snow upon the ground; which last deposit had been ploughed up in deep furrows by the heavy wheels of carts and waggons; furrows that crossed and recrossed each other hundreds of times where the great streets branched off, and made intricate channels, hard to trace, in the thick yellow mud and [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 33.] icy water. The sky was gloomy, and the shortest streets were choked up with a dingy mist, half thawed half frozen, whose heavier particles descended in a shower of sooty atoms, as if all the chimneys in Great Britain had, by one consent, caught fire, and were blazing away to their dear hearts' content. There was nothing very cheerful in the climate or the town, and yet was there an air of cheerfulness abroad that the clearest summer air and brightest summer sun might have endeavoured to diffuse in vain. For the people who were shovelling away on the house-tops were jovial and full of glee; calling out to one another from the parapets, and now and then exchanging a facetious snowball--better-natured missile far than many a wordy jest--laughing heartily if it went right, and not less heartily if it went wrong. The poulterers' shops were still half open, and the fruiterers' were radiant in their glory. There were great, round, pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and tumbling out into the street in their apoplectic opulence. There were ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed Spanish Onions, shining in the fatness of their growth like Spanish Friars; and winking from their shelves in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by, and glanced demurely at the hung-up mistletoe. There were pears and apples, clustered high in blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shopkeepers' benevolence, to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that people's mouths might water gratis as they passed; there were piles of filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered leaves; there were Norfolk Biffins, squab and swarthy, setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and eaten after dinner. The very gold and silver fish, set forth among these choice fruits in a bowl, though members of a dull and stagnant-blooded race, appeared to know that there was something going on; and, to a fish, went grasping round and round their little world in slow and passionless excitement. The Grocers'! oh the Grocers'! nearly closed, with perhaps two shutters down, or one; but through those gaps such glimpses! It was not alone that the scales descending on the counter made a merry sound, or that the twine and roller parted company so briskly, or that the canisters were rattled up and down like juggling tricks, or even that the blended scents of tea and coffee were so grateful to the nose, or even that the raisins were so plentiful and rare, the almonds so extremely white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and straight, the other spices so delicious, the candied fruits so caked and spotted with molten sugar as to make the coldest lookers-on feel faint and subsequently bilious. Nor was it that the figs were moist and [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 34.] pulpy, or that the French plums blushed in modest tartness from their highly-decorated boxes, or that everything was good to eat and in its Christmas dress: but the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day, that they tumbled up against each other at the door, clashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and committed hundreds of the like mistakes in the best humour possible; while the Grocer and his people were so frank and fresh that the polished hearts with which they fastened their aprons behind might have been their own, worn outside for general inspection, and for Christmas daws to peck at if they chose. But soon the steeples called good people all, to church and chapel, and away they came, flocking through the streets in their best clothes, and with their gayest faces. And at the same time there emerged from scores of bye streets, lanes, and nameless turnings, innumerable people, carrying their dinners to the bakers' shops. The sight of these poor revellers appeared to interest the Spirit very much, for he stood with Scrooge beside him in a baker's doorway, and taking off the covers as their bearers passed, sprinkled incense on their dinners from his torch. And it was a very uncommon kind of torch, for once or twice when there were angry words between some dinner-carriers who had jostled with each other, he shed a few drops of water on them from it, and their good humour was restored directly. For they said, it was a shame to quarrel upon Christmas Day. And so it was! God love it, so it was! In time the bells ceased, and the bakers' were shut up; and yet there was a genial shadowing forth of all these dinners and the progress of their cooking, in the thawed blotch of wet above each baker's oven; where the pavement smoked as if its stones were cooking too. "Is there a peculiar flavour in what you sprinkle from your torch?" asked Scrooge. "There is. My own." "Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day?" asked Scrooge. "To any kindly given. To a poor one most." "Why to a poor one most?" asked Scrooge. "Because it needs it most." "Spirit," said Scrooge, after a moment's thought, "I wonder you, of all the beings in the many worlds about us, should desire to cramp these people's opportunities of innocent enjoyment." "I!" cried the Spirit. "You would deprive them of their means of dining every seventh day, often the only day on which they can be said to dine at all," said Scrooge. "Wouldn't you?" "I!" cried the Spirit. [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 35.] "You seek to close these places on the Seventh Day?" said Scrooge. "And it comes to the same thing." "_I_ seek!" exclaimed the Spirit. "Forgive me if I am wrong. It has been done in your name, or at least in that of your family," said Scrooge. "There are some upon this earth of yours," returned the Spirit, "who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name; who are as strange to us and all our kith and kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us." Scrooge promised that he would; and they went on, invisible, as they had been before, into the suburbs of the town. It was a remarkable quality of the Ghost (which Scrooge had observed at the baker's) that notwithstanding his gigantic size, he could accommodate himself to any place with ease; and that he stood beneath a low roof quite as gracefully and like a supernatural creature, as it was possible he could have done in any lofty hall. And perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in showing off this power of his, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty nature, and his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to Scrooge's clerk's; for there he went, and took Scrooge with him, holding to his robe; and on the threshold of the door the Spirit smiled, and stopped to bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the sprinklings of his torch. Think of that! Bob had but fifteen "Bob" a-week himself; he pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his Christian name; and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his four-roomed house! Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his monstrous shirt-collar (Bob's private property, conferred upon his son and heir in honour of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable Parks. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own; and basking in luxurious thoughts of sage-and-onion, these young Cratchits danced about the table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud, although his collars nearly choked him) blew the fire, until the slow potatoes bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan-lid to be let out and peeled. "What has ever got your precious father then," said Mrs. Cratchit. "And your brother, Tiny Tim; and Martha warn't as late last Christmas Day by half-an-hour!" "Here's Martha, mother!" said a girl, appearing as she spoke. [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 36.] "Here's Martha, mother!" cried the two young Cratchits. "Hurrah! There's _such_ a goose, Martha!" "Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!" said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her, with officious zeal. "We'd a deal of work to finish up last night," replied the girl, "and had to clear away this morning, mother!" "Well! Never mind so long as you are come," said Mrs. Cratchit. "Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye!" "No no! There's father coming," cried the two young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once. "Hide Martha, hide!" So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him; and his thread-bare clothes darned up and brushed, to look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame! "Why, where's our Martha?" cried Bob Cratchit looking around. "Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit. "Not coming!" said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high spirits; for he had been Tim's blood horse all the way from church, and had come home rampant. "Not coming upon Christmas Day!" Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper. "And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs. Cratchit, when she had rallied Bob on his credulity and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's content. "As good as gold," said Bob, "and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see." Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty. His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool beside the fire; and while Bob, turning up his cuffs--as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby--compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and round and put it on the hob to simmer; Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession. [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 37.] Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course: and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah! There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by the apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with a great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows! But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone--too nervous to bear witnesses--to take the pudding up, and bring it in. Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose: a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors were supposed. Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house, and a pastry cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that! That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered: flushed, but smiling proudly: with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top. Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 38.] had had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing. At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel-full of chesnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass; two tumblers, and a custard-cup without a handle. These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chesnuts on the fire sputtered and crackled noisily. Then Bob proposed: "A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!" Which all the family re-echoed. "God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all. He sat very close to his father's side, upon his little stool. Bob held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him. "Spirit," said Scrooge, with an interest he had never felt before, "tell me if Tiny Tim will live." "I see a vacant seat," replied the Ghost, "in the poor chimney corner, and a crutch without an owner, carefully preserved. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, the child will die." "No, no," said Scrooge. "Oh no, kind Spirit! say he will be spared." "If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, none other of my race," returned the Ghost, "will find him here. What then? If he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population." Scrooge hung his head to hear his own words quoted by the Spirit, and was overcome with penitence and grief. "Man," said the Ghost, "if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered What the surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. Oh God! to hear the Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!" Scrooge bent before the Ghost's rebuke, and trembling cast his eyes upon the ground. But he raised them speedily, on hearing his own name. "Mr. Scrooge!" said Bob; "I'll give you Mr. Scrooge, the Founder of [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 39.] the Feast!" "The Founder of the Feast indeed!" cried Mrs. Cratchit, reddening. "I wish I had him here. I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he'd have a good appetite for it." "My dear," said Bob, "the children; Christmas Day." "It should be Christmas Day, I am sure," said she, "on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Scrooge. You know he is, Robert! Nobody knows it better than you do, poor fellow!" "My dear," was Bob's mild answer, "Christmas Day." "I'll drink his health for your sake and the Day's," said Mrs. Cratchit, "not for his. Long life to him! A Merry Christmas and a happy new year!--he'll be very merry and very happy, I have no doubt!" The children drank the toast after her. It was the first of their proceedings which had no heartiness in it. Tiny Tim drank it last of all, but he didn't care twopence for it. Scrooge was the Ogre of the family. The mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party, which was not dispelled for full five minutes. After it had passed away, they were ten times merrier than before, from the mere relief of Scrooge the Baleful being done with. Bob Cratchit told them how he had a situation in his eye for Master Peter, which would bring in, if obtained, full five-and-sixpence weekly. The two young Cratchits laughed tremendously at the idea of Peter's being a man of business; and Peter himself looked thoughtfully at the fire from between his collars, as if he were deliberating what particular investments he should favour when he came into the receipt of that bewildering income. Martha, who was a poor apprentice at a milliner's, then told them what kind of work she had to do, and how many hours she worked at a stretch, and how she meant to lie a-bed to-morrow morning for a good long rest; to-morrow being a holiday she passed at home. Also how she had seen a countess and a lord some days before, and how the lord "was much about as tall as Peter;" at which Peter pulled up his collars so high that you couldn't have seen his head if you had been there. All this time the chesnuts and the jug went round and round; and bye and bye they had a song, about a lost child travelling in the snow, from Tiny Tim; who had a plaintive little voice, and sang it very well indeed. There was nothing of high mark in this. They were not a handsome family; they were not well dressed; their shoes were far from being waterproof; their clothes were scanty; and Peter might have known, and very likely did, the inside of a pawnbroker's. But they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented with the time; and when they faded, and looked happier yet in the bright [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 40.] sprinklings of the Spirit's torch at parting, Scrooge had his eye upon them, and especially on Tiny Tim, until the last. By this time it was getting dark, and snowing pretty heavily; and as Scrooge and the Spirit went along the streets, the brightness of the roaring fires in kitchens, parlours, and all sorts of rooms, was wonderful. Here, the flickering of the blaze showed preparations for a cosy dinner, with hot plates baking through and through before the fire, and deep red curtains, ready to be drawn, to shut out cold and darkness. There, all the children of the house were running out into the snow to meet their married sisters, brothers, cousins, uncles, aunts, and be the first to greet them. Here, again, were shadows on the window-blind of guests assembling; and there a group of handsome girls, all hooded and fur-booted, and all chattering at once, tripped lightly off to some near neighbour's house; where, wo upon the single man who saw them enter--artful witches: well they knew it--in a glow! But if you had judged from the numbers of people on their way to friendly gatherings, you might have thought that no one was at home to give them welcome when they got there, instead of every house expecting company, and piling up its fires half-chimney high. Blessings on it, how the Ghost exulted! How it bared its breadth of breast, and opened its capacious palm, and floated on, outpouring, with a generous hand, its bright and harmless mirth on everything within its reach! The very lamplighter, who ran on before dotting the dusky street with specks of light, and who was dressed to spend the evening somewhere, laughed out loudly as the Spirit passed: though little kenned the lamplighter that he had any company but Christmas! And now, without a word of warning from the Ghost, they stood upon a bleak and desert moor, where monstrous masses of rude stone were cast about, as though it were the burial-place of giants; and water spread itself wheresoever it listed--or would have done so, but for the frost that held it prisoner; and nothing grew but moss and furze, and coarse, rank grass. Down in the west the setting sun had left a streak of fiery red, which glared upon the desolation for an instant, like a sullen eye, and frowning lower, lower, lower yet, was lost in the thick gloom of darkest night. "What place is this?" asked Scrooge. "A place where Miners live, who labour in the bowels of the earth," returned the Spirit. "But they know me. See!" A light shone from the window of a hut, and swiftly they advanced towards it. Passing through the wall of mud and stone, they found a cheerful company assembled round a glowing fire. An old, old man and woman, with their children and [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 41.] [Illustration: Verso of original manuscript Page 42.] their children's children, and another generation beyond that, all decked out gaily in their holiday attire. The old man, in a voice that seldom rose above the howling of the wind upon the barren waste, was singing them a Christmas song; it had been a very old song when he was a boy; and from time to time they all joined in the chorus. So surely as they raised their voices, the old man got quite blithe and loud; and so surely as they stopped, his vigour sank again. The Spirit did not tarry here, but bade Scrooge hold his robe, and passing on above the moor, sped whither? Not to sea? To sea. To Scrooge's horror, looking back, he saw the last of the land, a frightful range of rocks, behind them; and his ears were deafened by the thundering of water, as it rolled, and roared, and raged among the dreadful caverns it had worn, and fiercely tried to undermine the earth. Built upon a dismal reef of sunken rocks, some league or so from shore, on which the waters chafed and dashed, the wild year through, there stood a solitary lighthouse. Great heaps of sea-weed clung to its base, and storm-birds--born of the wind one might suppose, as sea-weed of the water--rose and fell about it, like the waves they skimmed. But even here, two men who watched the light had made a fire, that through the loophole in the thick stone wall shed out a ray of brightness on the awful sea. Joining their horny hands over the rough table at which they sat, they wished each other Merry Christmas in their can of grog; and one of them: the elder, too, with his face all damaged and scarred with hard weather, as the figure-head of an old ship might be: struck up a sturdy song that was like a Gale in itself. Again the Ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea--on, on--until, being far away, as he told Scrooge, from any shore, they lighted on a ship. They stood beside the helmsman at the wheel, the look-out in the bow, the officers who had the watch; dark, ghostly figures in their several stations; but every man among them hummed a Christmas tune, or had a Christmas thought, or spoke below his breath to his companion of some bygone Christmas Day, with homeward hopes belonging to it. And every man on board, waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word for another on that day than on any day in the year; and had shared to some extent in its festivities; and had remembered those he cared for at a distance, and had known that they delighted to remember him. It was a great surprise to Scrooge, while listening to the moaning of the wind, and thinking what a solemn thing it was to move on through the lonely darkness over an unknown abyss, whose depths were secrets as profound as Death: it was a great surprise to Scrooge, while thus engaged, to hear a hearty laugh. It was a much greater surprise to Scrooge to recognise it as his own nephew's, and to find himself in a bright, dry, gleaming room, with the Spirit standing smiling by his side, and looking at that same nephew with approving affability! [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 42.] "Ha, ha!" laughed Scrooge's nephew. "Ha, ha, ha!" If you should happen, by any unlikely chance, to know a man more blest in a laugh than Scrooge's nephew, all I can say is, I should like to know him too. Introduce him to me, and I'll cultivate his acquaintance. It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good-humour. When Scrooge's nephew laughed in this way: holding his sides, rolling his head, and twisting his face into the most extravagant contortions: Scrooge's niece, by marriage, laughed as heartily as he. And their assembled friends being not a bit behindhand, roared out, lustily. "Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha!" "He said that Christmas was a humbug, as I live!" cried Scrooge's nephew. "He believed it too!" "More shame for him, Fred!" said Scrooge's niece, indignantly. Bless those women; they never do anything by halves. They are always in earnest. She was very pretty: exceedingly pretty. With a dimpled, surprised-looking, capital face; a ripe little mouth, that seemed made to be kissed--as no doubt it was; all kinds of good little dots about her chin, that melted into one another when she laughed; and the sunniest pair of eyes you ever saw in any little creature's head. Altogether she was what you would have called provoking, you know; but satisfactory, too. Oh, perfectly satisfactory! "He's a comical old fellow," said Scrooge's nephew, "that's the truth; and not so pleasant as he might be. However, his offences carry their own punishment, and I have nothing to say against him." "I am sure he is very rich, Fred," hinted Scrooge's niece. "At least you always tell _me_ so." "What of that, my dear!" said Scrooge's nephew. "His wealth is of no use to him. He don't do any good with it. He don't make himself comfortable with it. He hasn't the satisfaction of thinking--ha, ha, ha!--that he is ever going to benefit us with it." "I have no patience with him," observed Scrooge's niece. Scrooge's niece's sisters, and all the other ladies, expressed the same opinion. "Oh, I have!" said Scrooge's nephew. "I am sorry for him; I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself, always. Here, he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with us. What's the consequence? He don't lose much of a dinner." "Indeed, I think he loses a very good dinner," interrupted Scrooge's niece. Everybody else said the same, and they must be allowed to have been competent judges, because they had just had dinner; and, with the dessert upon the table, were clustered round the fire, by lamplight. [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 43.] "Well! I am very glad to hear it," said Scrooge's nephew, "because I haven't any great faith in these young housekeepers. What do _you_ say, Topper?" Topper had clearly got his eye upon one of Scrooge's niece's sisters, for he answered that a bachelor was a wretched outcast, who had no right to express an opinion on the subject. Whereat Scrooge's niece's sister--the plump one with the lace tucker: not the one with the roses--blushed. "Do go on, Fred," said Scrooge's niece, clapping her hands. "He never finishes what he begins to say! He is such a ridiculous fellow!" Scrooge's nephew revelled in another laugh, and as it was impossible to keep the infection off; though the plump sister tried hard to do it with aromatic vinegar; his example was unanimously followed. "I was only going to say," said Scrooge's nephew, "that the consequence of his taking a dislike to us, and not making merry with us, is, as I think, that he loses some pleasant moments, which could do him no harm. I am sure he loses pleasanter companions than he can find in his own thoughts, either in his mouldy old office, or his dusty chambers. I mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not, for I pity him. He may rail at Christmas till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it--I defy him--if he finds me going there, in good temper, year after year, and saying Uncle Scrooge, how are you? If it only puts him in the vein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds, _that's_ something; and I think I shook him, yesterday." It was their turn to laugh now, at the notion of his shaking Scrooge. But being thoroughly good-natured, and not much caring what they laughed at, so that they laughed at any rate, he encouraged them in their merriment, and passed the bottle, joyously. After tea, they had some music. For they were a musical family, and knew what they were about, when they sung a Glee or Catch, I can assure you: especially Topper, who could growl away in the bass like a good one, and never swell the large veins in his forehead, or get red in the face over it. Scrooge's niece played well upon the harp; and played among other tunes a simple little air (a mere nothing: you might learn to whistle it in two minutes), which had been familiar to the child who fetched Scrooge from the boarding-school, as he had been reminded by the Ghost of Christmas Past. When this strain of music sounded, all the things that Ghost had shown him, came upon his mind; he softened more and more; and thought that if he could have listened to it often, years ago, he might have cultivated the kindnesses of life for his own happiness with his own hands, without resorting to the sexton's spade that buried Jacob Marley. But they didn't devote the whole evening to music. After a while they played at forfeits; for it is good to be children sometimes, and never [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 44.] better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a child himself. Stop! There was first a game at blindman's buff. Of course there was. And I no more believe Topper was really blind than I believe he had eyes in his boots. My opinion is, that it was a done thing between him and Scrooge's nephew; and that the Ghost of Christmas Present knew it. The way he went after that plump sister in the lace tucker, was an outrage on the credulity of human nature. Knocking down the fire-irons, tumbling over the chairs, bumping up against the piano, smothering himself among the curtains, wherever she went, there went he. He always knew where the plump sister was. He wouldn't catch anybody else. If you had fallen up against him, as some of them did, and stood there; he would have made a feint of endeavouring to seize you, which would have been an affront to your understanding; and would instantly have sidled off in the direction of the plump sister. She often cried out that it wasn't fair; and it really was not. But when at last, he caught her; when, in spite of all her silken rustlings, and her rapid flutterings past him, he got her into a corner whence there was no escape; then his conduct was the most execrable. For his pretending not to know her; his pretending that it was necessary to touch her head-dress, and further to assure himself of her identity by pressing a certain ring upon her finger, and a certain chain about her neck; was vile, monstrous! No doubt she told him her opinion of it, when, another blind-man being in office, they were so very confidential together, behind the curtains. Scrooge's niece was not one of the blind-man's buff party, but was made comfortable with a large chair and a footstool, in a snug corner, where the Ghost and Scrooge were close behind her. But she joined in the forfeits, and loved her love to admiration with all the letters of the alphabet. Likewise at the game of How, When, and Where, she was very great, and to the secret joy of Scrooge's nephew, beat her sisters hollow: though they were sharp girls too, as Topper could have told you. There might have been twenty people there, young and old, but they all played, and so did Scrooge; for, wholly forgetting in the interest he had in what was going on, that his voice made no sound in their ears, he sometimes came out with his guess quite loud, and very often guessed right, too; for the sharpest needle, best Whitechapel, warranted not to cut in the eye, was not sharper than Scrooge: blunt as he took it in his head to be. The Ghost was greatly pleased to find him in this mood, and looked upon him with such favour that he begged like a boy to be allowed to stay until the guests departed. But this the Spirit said could not be done. "Here's a new game," said Scrooge. "One half hour, Spirit, only one!" [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 45.] It was a Game called Yes and No, where Scrooge's nephew had to think of something, and the rest must find out what; he only answering to their questions yes or no as the case was. The brisk fire of questioning to which he was exposed, elicited from him that he was thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal, an animal that growled and grunted sometimes, and talked sometimes, and lived in London, and walked about the streets, and wasn't made a show of, and wasn't led by anybody, and didn't live in a menagerie, and was never killed in a market, and was not a horse, or an ass, or a cow, or a bull, or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. At every fresh question that was put to him, this nephew burst into a fresh roar of laughter; and was so inexpressibly tickled, that he was obliged to get up off the sofa and stamp. At last the plump sister, falling into a similar state, cried out: "I have found it out! I know what it is, Fred! I know what it is!" "What is it?" cried Fred. "It's your Uncle Scro-o-o-o-oge!" Which it certainly was. Admiration was the universal sentiment, though some objected that the reply to "Is it a bear?" ought to have been "Yes;" inasmuch as an answer in the negative was sufficient to have diverted their thoughts from Mr. Scrooge, supposing they had ever had any tendency that way. "He has given us plenty of merriment, I am sure," said Fred, "and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health. Here is a glass of mulled wine ready to our hand at the moment; and I say 'Uncle Scrooge!'" "Well! Uncle Scrooge!" they cried. "A Merry Christmas and a happy New Year to the old man, whatever he is!" said Scrooge's nephew. "He wouldn't take it from me, but may he have it, nevertheless. Uncle Scrooge!" Uncle Scrooge had imperceptibly become so gay and light of heart, that he would have pledged the unconscious company in return, and thanked them in an inaudible speech, if the Ghost had given him time. But the whole scene passed off in the breath of the last word spoken by his nephew; and he and the Spirit were again upon their travels. Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they visited, but always with a happy end. The Spirit stood beside sick beds, and they were cheerful; on foreign lands, and they were close at home; by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater hope; by poverty, and it was rich. In almshouse, [Illustration: Original manuscript of page 46.] hospital, and jail, in misery's every refuge, where vain man in his little brief authority had not made fast the door, and barred the Spirit out, he left his blessing, and taught Scrooge his precepts. It was a long night, if it were only a night; but Scrooge had his doubts of this, because the Christmas Holidays appeared to be condensed into the space of time they passed together. It was strange, too, that while Scrooge remained unaltered in his outward form, the Ghost grew older, clearly older. Scrooge had observed this change, but never spoke of it, until they left a children's Twelfth Night party, when, looking at the Spirit as they stood together in an open place, he noticed that its hair was gray. "Are spirits' lives so short?" asked Scrooge. "My life upon this globe, is very brief," replied the Ghost. "It ends to-night." "To-night!" cried Scrooge. "To-night at midnight. Hark! The time is drawing near." The chimes were ringing the three quarters past eleven at that moment. "Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask," said Scrooge, looking intently at the Spirit's robe, "but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw!" "It might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it," was the Spirit's sorrowful reply. "Look here." From the foldings of its robe, it brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment. "Oh, Man! look here. Look, look, down here!" exclaimed the Ghost. They were a boy and girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread. Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 47.] children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude. "Spirit! are they yours?" Scrooge could say no more. "They are Man's," said the Spirit, looking down upon them. "And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it!" cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. "Slander those who tell it ye! Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse! And bide the end!" "Have they no refuge or resource?" cried Scrooge. "Are there no prisons?" said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. "Are there no workhouses?" The bell struck twelve. Scrooge looked about him for the Ghost, and saw it not. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction of old Jacob Marley, and lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards him. [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 48.] [Illustration] [Illustration: The Last of the Spirits _London · Chapman & Hall, 186 Strand._] [_This illustration is reproduced in full color on the inside back cover._] STAVE IV. THE LAST OF THE SPIRITS. The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently, approached. When it came near him, Scrooge bent down upon his knee; for in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery. It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded. He felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. He knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved. "I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?" said Scrooge. The Spirit answered not, but pointed downward with its hand. "You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us," Scrooge pursued. "Is that so, Spirit?" The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head. That was the only answer he received. Although well used to ghostly company by this time, Scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it. The Spirit paused a moment, as observing his condition, and giving him time to recover. But Scrooge was all the worse for this. It thrilled him with a vague uncertain horror, to know that behind the dusky shroud there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him, while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost, could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap of black. "Ghost of the Future!" he exclaimed, "I fear you more than any Spectre I have seen. But, as I know your promise is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?" It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them. "Lead on!" said Scrooge. "Lead on! The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit!" [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 49.] The Phantom moved away as it had come towards him. Scrooge followed in the shadow of its dress, which bore him up, he thought, and carried him along. They scarcely seemed to enter the city; for the city rather seemed to spring up about them, and encompass them of its own act. But there they were, in the heart of it; on 'Change, amongst the merchants; who hurried up and down, and chinked the money in their pockets, and conversed in groups, and looked at their watches, and trifled thoughtfully with their great gold seals; and so forth, as Scrooge had seen them often. The Spirit stopped beside one little knot of business men. Observing that the hand was pointed to them, Scrooge advanced to listen to their talk. "No," said a great fat man with a monstrous chin, "I don't know much about it, either way. I only know he's dead." "When did he die?" inquired another. "Last night, I believe." "Why, what was the matter with him?" asked a third, taking a vast quantity of snuff out of a very large snuff-box. "I thought he'd never die." "God knows," said the first, with a yawn. "What has he done with his money?" asked a red-faced gentleman with a pendulous excrescence on the end of his nose, that shook like the gills of a turkey-cock. "I haven't heard," said the man with the large chin, yawning again. "Left it to his Company, perhaps. He hasn't left it to _me_. That's all _I_ know." This pleasantry was received with a general laugh. "It's likely to be a very cheap funeral," said the same speaker; "for upon my life I don't know of anybody to go to it. Suppose we make up a party and volunteer?" "I don't mind going if a lunch is provided," observed the gentleman with the excrescence on his nose. "But I must be fed, if I make one." Another laugh. "Well, I am the most disinterested among you, after all," said the first speaker, "for I never wear black gloves, and I never eat lunch. But I'll offer to go, if anybody else will. When I come to think of it, I'm not at all sure that I wasn't his most particular friend; for we used to stop and speak whenever we met. Bye, bye!" Speakers and listeners strolled away, and mixed with other groups. Scrooge knew the men, and looked towards the Spirit for an explanation. The Phantom glided on into a street. Its finger pointed to two persons meeting. Scrooge listened again, thinking that the explanation might lie here. He knew these men, also, perfectly. They were men [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 50.] of business: very wealthy, and of great importance. He had made a point always of standing well in their esteem: in a business point of view, that is; strictly in a business point of view. "How are you?" said one. "How are you?" returned the other. "Well!" said the first. "Old Scratch has got his own at last, hey?" "So I am told," returned the second. "Cold, isn't it?" "Seasonable for Christmas time. You're not a skaiter, I suppose?" "No. No. Something else to think of. Good morning!" Not another word. That was their meeting, their conversation, and their parting. Scrooge was at first inclined to be surprised that the Spirit should attach importance to conversations apparently so trivial; but feeling assured that they must have some hidden purpose, he set himself to consider what it was likely to be. They could scarcely be supposed to have any bearing on the death of Jacob, his old partner, for that was Past, and this Ghost's province was the Future. Nor could he think of any one immediately connected with himself, to whom he could apply them. But nothing doubting that to whomsoever they applied they had some latent moral for his own improvement, he resolved to treasure up every word he heard, and everything he saw; and especially to observe the shadow of himself when it appeared. For he had an expectation that the conduct of his future self would give him the clue he missed, and would render the solution of these riddles easy. He looked about in that very place for his own image; but another man stood in his accustomed corner, and though the clock pointed to his usual time of day for being there, he saw no likeness of himself among the multitudes that poured in through the Porch. It gave him little surprise, however; for he had been revolving in his mind a change of life, and thought and hoped he saw his new-born resolutions carried out in this. Quiet and dark, beside him stood the Phantom, with its outstretched hand. When he roused himself from his thoughtful quest, he fancied from the turn of the hand, and its situation in reference to himself, that the Unseen Eyes were looking at him keenly. It made him shudder, and feel very cold. They left the busy scene, and went into an obscure part of the town, where Scrooge had never penetrated before, although he recognised its situation, and its bad repute. The ways were foul and narrow; the shops and houses wretched; the people half-naked, drunken, slipshod, ugly. Alleys and archways, like so many cesspools, disgorged their offences of smell, and dirt, and life, upon the straggling streets; and the whole quarter [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 51.] reeked with crime, with filth, and misery. Far in this den of infamous resort, there was a low-browed, beetling shop, below a pent-house roof, where iron, old rags, bottles, bones, and greasy offal, were bought. Upon the floor within, were piled up heaps of rusty keys, nails, chains, hinges, files, scales, weights, and refuse iron of all kinds. Secrets that few would like to scrutinise were bred and hidden in mountains of unseemly rags, masses of corrupted fat, and sepulchres of bones. Sitting in among the wares he dealt in, by a charcoal-stove, made of old bricks, was a gray-haired rascal, nearly seventy years of age; who had screened himself from the cold air without, by a frousy curtaining of miscellaneous tatters, hung upon a line; and smoked his pipe in all the luxury of calm retirement. Scrooge and the Phantom came into the presence of this man, just as a woman with a heavy bundle slunk into the shop. But she had scarcely entered, when another woman, similarly laden, came in too; and she was closely followed by a man in faded black, who was no less startled by the sight of them, than they had been upon the recognition of each other. After a short period of blank astonishment, in which the old man with the pipe had joined them, they all three burst into a laugh. "Let the charwoman alone to be the first!" cried she who had entered first. "Let the laundress alone to be the second; and let the undertaker's man alone to be the third. Look here, old Joe, here's a chance! If we haven't all three met here without meaning it!" "You couldn't have met in a better place," said old Joe, removing his pipe from his mouth. "Come into the parlour. You were made free of it long ago, you know; and the other two ain't strangers. Stop till I shut the door of the shop. Ah! How it skreeks! There an't such a rusty bit of metal in the place as its own hinges, I believe; and I'm sure there's no such old bones here, as mine. Ha, ha! We're all suitable to our calling, we're well matched. Come into the parlour. Come into the parlour." The parlour was the space behind the screen of rags. The old man raked the fire together with an old stair-rod, and having trimmed his smoky lamp (for it was night), with the stem of his pipe, put it in his mouth again. While he did this, the woman who had already spoken threw her bundle on the floor and sat down in a flaunting manner on a stool; crossing her elbows on her knees, and looking with a bold defiance at the other two. "What odds then! What odds, Mrs. Dilber?" said the woman. "Every person has a right to take care of themselves. _He_ always did!" "That's true, indeed!" said the laundress. "No man more so." "Why, then, don't stand staring as if you was afraid, woman; who's the wiser? We're not going to pick holes in each other's coats, I suppose?" "No, indeed!" said Mrs. Dilber and the man together. "We should hope not." [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 52.] "Very well, then!" cried the woman. "That's enough. Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose." "No, indeed," said Mrs. Dilber, laughing. "If he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, a wicked old screw," pursued the woman, "why wasn't he natural in his lifetime? If he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with Death, instead of lying gasping out his last there, alone by himself." "It's the truest word that ever was spoke," said Mrs. Dilber. "It's a judgment on him." "I wish it was a little heavier one," replied the woman; "and it should have been, you may depend upon it, if I could have laid my hands on anything else. Open that bundle, old Joe, and let me know the value of it. Speak out plain. I'm not afraid to be the first, nor afraid for them to see it. We knew pretty well that we were helping ourselves, before we met here, I believe. It's no sin. Open the bundle, Joe." But the gallantry of her friends would not allow of this; and the man in faded black, mounting the breach first, produced _his plunder_. It was not extensive. A seal or two, a pencil-case, a pair of sleeve-buttons, and a brooch of no great value, were all. They were severally examined and appraised by old Joe, who chalked the sums he was disposed to give for each upon the wall, and added them up into a total when he found that there was nothing more to come. "That's your account," said Joe, "and I wouldn't give another sixpence, if I was to be boiled for not doing it. Who's next?" Mrs. Dilber was next. Sheets and towels, a little wearing apparel, two old-fashioned silver tea-spoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a few boots. Her account was stated on the wall in the same manner. "I always give too much to ladies. It's a weakness of mine, and that's the way I ruin myself," said old Joe. "That's your account. If you asked me for another penny, and made it an open question, I'd repent of being so liberal, and knock off half-a-crown." "And now undo _my_ bundle, Joe," said the first woman. Joe went down on his knees for the greater convenience of opening it, and having unfastened a great many knots, dragged out a large and heavy roll of some dark stuff. "What do you call this?" said Joe. "Bed-curtains!" "Ah!" returned the woman, laughing and leaning forward on her crossed arms. "Bed-curtains!" "You don't mean to say you took 'em down, rings and all, with him lying there?" said Joe. "Yes I do," replied the woman. "Why not?" "You were born to make your fortune," said Joe, "and you'll certainly do it." "I certainly shan't hold my hand, when I can get anything in it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a man as He was, I promise you, Joe," returned the woman coolly. "Don't drop that oil [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 53.] upon the blankets, now." "His blankets?" asked Joe. "Whose else's do you think?" replied the woman. "He isn't likely to take cold without 'em, I dare say." "I hope he didn't die of anything catching? Eh?" said old Joe, stopping in his work, and looking up. "Don't you be afraid of that," returned the woman. "I an't so fond of his company that I'd loiter about him for such things, if he did. Ah! You may look through that shirt till your eyes ache; but you won't find a hole in it, nor a threadbare place. It's the best he had, and a fine one too. They'd have wasted it, if it hadn't been for me." "What do you call wasting of it?" asked old Joe. "Putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure," replied the woman with a laugh. "Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off again. If calico an't good enough for such a purpose, it isn't good enough for anything. It's quite as becoming to the body. He can't look uglier than he did in that one." Scrooge listened to this dialogue in horror. As they sat grouped about their spoil, in the scanty light afforded by the old man's lamp, he viewed them with a detestation and disgust, which could hardly have been greater, though they had been obscene demons, marketing the corpse itself. "Ha, ha!" laughed the same woman, when old Joe, producing a flannel bag with money in it, told out their several gains upon the ground. "This is the end of it, you see! He frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead! Ha, ha, ha!" "Spirit!" said Scrooge, shuddering from head to foot. "I see, I see. The case of this unhappy man might be my own. My life tends that way, now. Merciful Heaven, what is this!" He recoiled in terror, for the scene had changed, and now he almost touched a bed: a bare, uncurtained bed: on which, beneath a ragged sheet, there lay a something covered up, which, though it was dumb, announced itself in awful language. The room was very dark, too dark to be observed with any accuracy, though Scrooge glanced round it in obedience to a secret impulse, anxious to know what kind of room it was. A pale light, rising in the outer air, fell straight upon the bed; and on it, plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of this man. Scrooge glanced towards the Phantom. Its steady hand was pointed to the head. The cover was so carelessly adjusted that the slightest raising of it, the motion of a finger upon Scrooge's part, would have disclosed the face. He thought of it, felt how easy it would be to do, and longed to do it; but had no more power to withdraw the veil than to dismiss the spectre at his side. [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 54.] Oh cold, cold, rigid, dreadful Death, set up thine altar here, and dress it with such terrors as thou hast at thy command: for this is thy dominion! But of the loved, revered, and honoured head, thou canst not turn one hair to thy dread purposes, or make one feature odious. It is not that the hand is heavy and will fall down when released; it is not that the heart and pulse are still; but that the hand was open, generous, and true; the heart brave, warm, and tender; and the pulse a man's. Strike, Shadow, strike! And see his good deeds springing from the wound, to sow the world with life immortal! No voice pronounced these words in Scrooge's ears, and yet he heard them when he looked upon the bed. He thought, if this man could be raised up now, what would be his foremost thoughts? Avarice, hard dealing, griping cares? They have brought him to a rich end, truly! He lay, in the dark empty house, with not a man, a woman, or a child, to say he was kind to me in this or that, and for the memory of one kind word I will be kind to him. A cat was tearing at the door, and there was a sound of gnawing rats beneath the hearth-stone. What _they_ wanted in the room of death, and why they were so restless and disturbed, Scrooge did not dare to think. "Spirit!" he said, "this is a fearful place. In leaving it, I shall not leave its lesson, trust me. Let us go!" Still the Ghost pointed with an unmoved finger to the head. "I understand you," Scrooge returned, "and I would do it, if I could. But I have not the power, Spirit. I have not the power." Again it seemed to look upon him. "If there is any person in the town, who feels emotion caused by this man's death," said Scrooge quite agonized, "show that person to me, Spirit, I beseech you!" The phantom spread its dark robe before him for a moment, like a wing; and withdrawing it, revealed a room by daylight, where a mother and her children were. She was expecting some one, and with anxious eagerness; for she walked up and down the room; started at every sound; looked out from the window; glanced at the clock; tried, but in vain, to work with her needle; and could hardly bear the voices of the children in their play. At length the long-expected knock was heard. She hurried to the door, and met her husband; a man whose face was care-worn and depressed, though he was young. There was a remarkable expression in it now; a kind of serious delight of which he felt ashamed, and which he struggled to repress. He sat down to the dinner that had been hoarding for him by the fire; and when she asked him faintly what news [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 55.] (which was not until after a long silence), he appeared embarrassed how to answer. "Is it good," she said, "or bad?"--to help him. "Bad," he answered. "We are quite ruined?" "No. There is hope yet, Caroline." "If _he_ relents," she said, amazed, "there is! Nothing is past hope, if such a miracle has happened." "He is past relenting," said her husband. "He is dead." She was a mild and patient creature if her face spoke truth; but she was thankful in her soul to hear it, and she said so, with clasped hands. She prayed forgiveness the next moment, and was sorry; but the first was the emotion of her heart. "What the half-drunken woman whom I told you of last night, said to me, when I tried to see him and obtain a week's delay; and what I thought was a mere excuse to avoid me; turns out to have been quite true. He was not only very ill, but dying, then." "To whom will our debt be transferred?" "I don't know. But before that time we shall be ready with the money; and even though we were not, it would be bad fortune indeed to find so merciless a creditor in his successor. We may sleep to-night with light hearts, Caroline!" Yes. Soften it as they would, their hearts were lighter. The children's faces hushed, and clustered round to hear what they so little understood, were brighter; and it was a happier house for this man's death! The only emotion that the Ghost could show him, caused by the event, was one of pleasure. "Let me see some tenderness connected with a death," said Scrooge; "or that dark chamber, Spirit, which we left just now, will be for ever present to me." The Ghost conducted him through several streets familiar to his feet; and as they went along, Scrooge looked here and there to find himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. They entered poor Bob Cratchit's house; the dwelling he had visited before; and found the mother and the children seated round the fire. Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits were as still as statues in one corner, and sat looking up at Peter, who had a book before him. The mother and her daughters were engaged in sewing. But surely they were very quiet! "'And He took a child, and set him in the midst of them.'" Where had Scrooge heard these words? He had not dreamed them. The boy must have read them out, as he and the Spirit crossed the threshold. Why did he not go on? The mother laid her work upon the table, and put her hand up to her face. "The colour hurts my eyes," she said. The colour? Ah, poor Tiny Tim! "They're better now again," said Cratchit's wife. "It makes them [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 56.] weak by candle-light; and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father when he comes home, for the world. It must be near his time." "Past it rather," Peter answered, shutting up his book. "But I think he's walked a little slower than he used, these few last evenings, mother." They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in a steady cheerful voice, that only faultered once: "I have known him walk with--I have known him walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed." "And so have I," cried Peter. "Often." "And so have I!" exclaimed another. So had all. "But he was very light to carry," she resumed, intent upon her work, "and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble--no trouble. And there is your father at the door!" She hurried out to meet him; and little Bob in his comforter--he had need of it, poor fellow--came in. His tea was ready for him on the hob, and they all tried who should help him to it most. Then the two young Cratchits got upon his knees and laid, each child a little cheek, against his face, as if they said, "Don't mind it father. Don't be grieved!" Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to all the family. He looked at the work upon the table, and praised the industry and speed of Mrs. Cratchit and the girls. They would be done long before Sunday he said. "Sunday! You went to-day then, Robert?" said his wife. "Yes, my dear," returned Bob. "I wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you'll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on a Sunday. My little, little child!" cried Bob. "My little child!" He broke down all at once. He couldn't help it. If he could have helped it, he and his child would have been farther apart perhaps than they were. He left the room, and went up stairs into the room above, which was lighted cheerfully, and hung with Christmas. There was a chair set close beside the child, and there were signs of some one having been there, lately. Poor Bob sat down in it, and when he had thought a little and composed himself, he kissed the little face. He was reconciled to what had happened, and went down again quite happy. They drew about the fire, and talked; the girls and mother working still. Bob told them of the extraordinary kindness of Mr. Scrooge's nephew, whom he had scarcely seen but once, and who, meeting him in the street that day, and [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 57.] seeing that he looked a little--"just a little down you know" said Bob, enquired what had happened to distress him. "On which," said Bob, "for he is the pleasantest-spoken gentleman you ever heard, I told him. 'I am heartily sorry for it, Mr. Cratchit,' he said, 'and heartily sorry for your good wife.' By the bye, how he ever knew _that_, I don't know." "Knew what, my dear?" "Why, that you were a good wife," replied Bob. "Everybody knows that!" said Peter. "Very well observed, my boy!" cried Bob. "I hope they do. 'Heartily sorry,' he said, 'for your good wife. If I can be of service to you in any way,' he said, giving me his card, 'that's where I live. Pray come to me.' Now, it wasn't," cried Bob, "for the sake of anything he might be able to do for us, so much as for his kind way, that this was quite delightful. It really seemed as if he had known our Tiny Tim, and felt with us." "I'm sure he's a good soul!" said Mrs. Cratchit. "You would be surer of it, my dear," returned Bob, "if you saw and spoke to him. I shouldn't be at all surprised, mark what I say, if he got Peter a better situation." "Only hear that, Peter," said Mrs. Cratchit. "And then," cried one of the girls, "Peter will be keeping company with some one, and setting up for himself." "Get along with you!" retorted Peter, grinning. "It's just as likely as not," said Bob, "one of these days; though there's plenty of time for that, my dear. But however and whenever we part from one another, I am sure we shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim--shall we--or this first parting that there was among us?" "Never, father!" cried they all. "And I know," said Bob, "I know, my dears, that when we recollect how patient and how mild he was; although he was a little, little child; we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves, and forget poor Tiny Tim in doing it." "No never, father!" they all cried again. "I am very happy," said little Bob, "I am very happy!" Mrs. Cratchit kissed him, his daughters kissed him, the two young Cratchits kissed him, and Peter and himself shook hands. Spirit of Tiny Tim, thy childish essence was from God! "Spectre," said Scrooge, "something informs me that our parting moment is at hand. I know it, but I know not how. Tell me what man that was whom we saw lying dead?" The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come conveyed him, as before--though at a different time, he thought: indeed, there seemed no order in these latter visions, save that they were in the Future--into the resorts of business men, but showed him not himself. Indeed, the Spirit did not stay for anything, but went straight on, as to [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 58.] the end just now desired, until besought by Scrooge to tarry for a moment. "This court," said Scrooge, "through which we hurry now, is where my place of occupation is, and has been for a length of time. I see the house. Let me behold what I shall be, in days to come." The Spirit stopped; the hand was pointed elsewhere. "The house is yonder," Scrooge exclaimed. "Why do you point away?" The inexorable finger underwent no change. Scrooge hastened to the window of his office, and looked in. It was an office still, but not his. The furniture was not the same, and the figure in the chair was not himself. The Phantom pointed as before. He joined it once again, and wondering why and whither he had gone, accompanied it until they reached an iron gate. He paused to look round before entering. A churchyard. Here, then, the wretched man whose name he had now to learn, lay underneath the ground. It was a worthy place. Walled in by houses; overrun by grass and weeds, the growth of vegetation's death, not life; choked up with too much burying; fat with repleted appetite. A worthy place! The Spirit stood among the graves, and pointed down to One. He advanced towards it trembling. The Phantom was exactly as it had been, but he dreaded that he saw new meaning in its solemn shape. "Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point," said Scrooge, "answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that Will be, or are they shadows of the things that May be, only?" Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood. "Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead," said Scrooge. "But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me!" The Spirit was immovable as ever. Scrooge crept towards it, trembling as he went; and following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name, EBENEZER SCROOGE. "Am _I_ that man who lay upon the bed?" he cried, upon his knees. The finger pointed from the grave to him, and back again. "No, Spirit! Oh no, no!" The finger still was there. "Spirit!" he cried, tight clutching at its robe, "hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I am past all hope?" [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 59.] For the first time the hand appeared to shake. "Good Spirit," he pursued, as down upon the ground he fell before it: "Your nature intercedes for me, and pities me. Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life!" The kind hand trembled. "I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone!" In his agony, he caught the spectral hand. It sought to free itself, but he was strong in his entreaty, and detained it. The Spirit, stronger yet, repulsed him. Holding up his hands in one last prayer to have his fate reversed, he saw an alteration in the Phantom's hood and dress. It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost. [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 60.] STAVE V. THE END OF IT. Yes! and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in! "I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!" Scrooge repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. "The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. Oh Jacob Marley! Heaven, and the Christmas Time be praised for this! I say it on my knees, old Jacob; on my knees!" He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his broken voice would scarcely answer to his call. He had been sobbing violently in his conflict with the Spirit, and his face was wet with tears. "They are not torn down," cried Scrooge, folding one of his bed-curtains in his arms, "they are not torn down, rings and all. They are here: I am here: the shadows of the things that would have been, may be dispelled. They will be. I know they will!" His hands were busy with his garments all this time: turning them inside out, putting them on upside down, tearing them, mislaying them, making them parties to every kind of extravagance. "I don't know what to do!" cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in the same breath; and making a perfect Laocoön of himself with his stockings. "I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel. I am as merry as a school-boy. I am as giddy as a drunken man. A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to all the world. Hallo here! Whoop! Hallo!" He had frisked into the sitting-room, and was now standing there: perfectly winded. "There's the saucepan that the gruel was in!" cried Scrooge, starting off again, and frisking round the fire-place. "There's the door, by which the Ghost of Jacob Marley entered! There's the corner where the Ghost of Christmas Present, sat! There's the window where I saw the wandering Spirits! It's all right, it's all true, it all happened. Ha ha ha!" Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh. The father of a long, long, line of brilliant laughs! "I don't know what day of the month it is!" said Scrooge. "I don't know how long I've been among the Spirits. I don't know anything. I'm quite a baby. Never mind. I don't care. I'd rather be a baby. Hallo! Whoop! Hallo here!" [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 61.] He was checked in his transports by the churches ringing out the lustiest peals he had ever heard. Clash, clang, hammer, ding, dong, bell. Bell, dong, ding, hammer, clang, clash! Oh, glorious, glorious! Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; Golden sunlight; Heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious. Glorious! "What's to-day?" cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him. "EH?" returned the boy, with all his might of wonder. "What's to-day, my fine fellow?" said Scrooge. "To-day!" replied the boy. "Why, CHRISTMAS DAY." "It's Christmas Day!" said Scrooge to himself. "I haven't missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can. Hallo, my fine fellow!" "Hallo!" returned the boy. "Do you know the Poulterer's, in the next street but one, at the corner?" Scrooge inquired. "I should hope I did," replied the lad. "An intelligent boy!" said Scrooge. "A remarkable boy! Do you know whether they've sold the prize Turkey that was hanging up there? Not the little prize Turkey: the big one?" "What, the one as big as me?" returned the boy. "What a delightful boy!" said Scrooge. "It's a pleasure to talk to him. Yes, my buck!" "It's hanging there now," replied the boy. "Is it?" said Scrooge. "Go and buy it." "Walk-ER!" exclaimed the boy. "No, no," said Scrooge, "I am in earnest. Go and buy it, and tell 'em to bring it here, that I may give them the direction where to take it. Come back with the man, and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less than five minutes, and I'll give you half-a-crown!" The boy was off like a shot. He must have had a steady hand at a trigger who could have got a shot off half so fast. "I'll send it to Bob Cratchit's!" whispered Scrooge, rubbing his hands, and splitting with a laugh. "He sha'n't know who sends it. It's twice the size of Tiny Tim. Joe Miller never made such a joke as sending it to Bob's will be!" [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 62.] [Illustration: Verso of manuscript Page 63.] The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one, but write it he did, somehow, and went down stairs to open the street door, ready for the coming of the poulterer's man. As he stood there, waiting his arrival, the knocker caught his eye. "I shall love it, as long as I live!" cried Scrooge, patting it with his hand. "I scarcely ever looked at it before. What an honest expression it has in its face! It's a wonderful knocker!--Here's the Turkey. Hallo! Whoop! How are you! Merry Christmas!" It _was_ a Turkey! He never could have stood upon his legs, that bird. He would have snapped 'em short off in a minute, like sticks of sealing-wax. "Why, it's impossible to carry that to Camden Town," said Scrooge. "You must have a cab." The chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with which he paid for the Turkey, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab, and the chuckle with which he recompensed the boy, were only to be exceeded by the chuckle with which he sat down breathless in his chair again, and chuckled till he cried. Shaving was not an easy task, for his hand continued to shake very much; and shaving requires attention, even when you don't dance while you are at it. But if he had cut the end of his nose off, he would have put a piece of sticking-plaister over it, and been quite satisfied. He dressed himself "all in his best," and at last got out into the streets. The people were by this time pouring forth, as he had seen them with the Ghost of Christmas Present; and walking with his hands behind him, Scrooge regarded every one with a delighted smile. He looked so irresistibly pleasant, in a word, that three or four good-humoured fellows said, "Good morning, sir! A merry Christmas to you!" And Scrooge said often afterwards, that of all the blithe sounds he had ever heard, those were the blithest in his ears. He had not gone far, when coming on towards him he beheld the portly gentleman, who had walked into his counting-house the day before and said, "Scrooge and Marley's, I believe?" It sent a pang across his heart to think how this old gentleman would look upon him when they met; but he knew what path lay straight before him, and he took it. "My dear sir," said Scrooge, quickening his pace, and taking the old gentleman by both his hands. "How do you do? I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you. A merry Christmas to you, sir!" "Mr. Scrooge?" "Yes," said Scrooge. "That is my name, and I fear it may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon. And will you have the goodness"--here Scrooge whispered in his ear. "Lord bless me!" cried the gentleman, as if his breath were gone. "My dear [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 63.] Mr. Scrooge, are you serious?" "If you please," said Scrooge. "Not a farthing less. A great many back-payments are included in it, I assure you. Will you do me that favour?" "My dear sir," said the other, shaking hands with him. "I don't know what to say to such munifi--" "Don't say anything, please," retorted Scrooge. "Come and see me. Will you come and see me?" "I will!" cried the old gentleman. And it was clear he meant to do it. "Thank'ee," said Scrooge. "I am much obliged to you. I thank you fifty times. Bless you!" He went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted children on the head, and questioned beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of houses, and up to the windows; and found that everything could yield him pleasure. He had never dreamed that any walk--that anything--could give him so much happiness. In the afternoon, he turned his steps towards his nephew's house. He passed the door a dozen times, before he had the courage to go up and knock. But he made a dash, and did it: "Is your master at home, my dear?" said Scrooge to the girl. Nice girl! Very. "Yes, sir." "Where is he, my love?" said Scrooge. "He's in the dining-room, sir, along with mistress. I'll show you up stairs, if you please." "Thank'ee. He knows me," said Scrooge, with his hand already on the dining-room lock. "I'll go in here, my dear." He turned it gently, and sidled his face in, round the door. They were looking at the table (which was spread out in great array); for these young housekeepers are always nervous on such points, and like to see that everything is right. "Fred!" said Scrooge. Dear heart alive, how his niece by marriage started! Scrooge had forgotten, for the moment, about her sitting in the corner with the footstool, or he wouldn't have done it, on any account. "Why bless my soul!" cried Fred, "who's that?" "It's I. Your uncle Scrooge. I have come to dinner. Will you let me in, Fred?" Let him in! It is a mercy he didn't shake his arm off. He was at home in five minutes. Nothing could be heartier. His niece looked just the same. So did Topper when _he_ came. So did the plump sister, when _she_ came. So did every one when _they_ came. Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 64.] unanimity, won-der-ful happiness! But he was early at the office next morning. Oh he was early there. If he could only be there first, and catch Bob Cratchit coming late! That was the thing he had set his heart upon. And he did it; yes he did! The clock struck nine. No Bob. A quarter past. No Bob. He was full eighteen minutes and a half, behind his time. Scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come into the Tank. His hat was off, before he opened the door; his comforter too. He was on his stool in a jiffy; driving away with his pen, as if he were trying to overtake nine o'clock. "Hallo!" growled Scrooge, in his accustomed voice as near as he could feign it. "What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?" "I'm very sorry, sir," said Bob. "I _am_ behind my time." "You are?" repeated Scrooge. "Yes. I think you are. Step this way, if you please." "It's only once a year, sir," pleaded Bob, appearing from the Tank. "It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir." "Now, I'll tell you what, my friend," said Scrooge, "I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore," he continued, leaping from his stool, and giving Bob such a dig in the waistcoat that he staggered back into the Tank again: "and therefore I am about to raise your salary!" Bob trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler. He had a momentary idea of knocking Scrooge down with it; holding him; and calling to the people in the court for help and a strait-waistcoat. "A merry Christmas, Bob!" said Scrooge, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. "A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you, for many a year! I'll raise your salary, and endeavour to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop, Bob! Make up the fires, and buy another coal-scuttle before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit!" * * * * * Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 65.] that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him. He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the Total Abstinence Principle, ever afterwards; and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God Bless Us, Every One! THE END. [Illustration: Original manuscript of Page 66.] [Illustration] [Illustration: _The Last of the Spirits._] A CHRISTMAS CAROL THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT Charles Dickens [Illustration: _Scrooge's third Visitor._] Transcriber's Note: this is a facsimile version of the original manuscript, hand-written by Charles Dickens. Every effort has been made to preserve the appearance of the First Edition--page breaks and labels have been kept, to match the original script, and spelling, grammar and typographical errors have been left unchanged. 
43765	----	of the Digital Library@Villanova University (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/)) CONTENTS CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER IX _OLD SLEUTH'S OWN._ No. 41. The Twin Ventriloquists; OR, NIMBLE IKE AND JACK THE JUGGLER. A Tale of Strategy and Jugglery. By OLD SLEUTH. [Illustration: "Great Scott, the hound spoke!"] NEW YORK: J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 57 ROSE STREET. The Twin Ventriloquists; OR NIMBLE IKE AND JACK THE JUGGLER. A Tale of Strategy and Jugglery. By OLD SLEUTH. Copyright, 1895, by Parlor Car Publishing Company. All Rights Reserved. NEW YORK: J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 57 ROSE STREET. Try Murine Eye Remedy [Illustration: Murine for your eyes. An eye tonic.] To Refresh, Cleanse and Strengthen the Eye. 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A. THE TWIN VENTRILOQUISTS; OR, NIMBLE IKE AND JACK THE JUGGLER. A Tale of Strategy and Jugglery. BY OLD SLEUTH. CHAPTER I. NIMBLE IKE ENCOUNTERS AN EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE AND TWO WONDERFUL VENTRILOQUISTS PLAY PARTS AGAINST EACH OTHER WITH ASTONISHING RESULTS. "Great Cæsar!" The exclamation with which we open our narrative fell from the lips of Nimble Ike, one of the most remarkable ventriloquists that ever sent a human voice rambling around through space under the most extraordinary inflectional disguises. Detectives disguise their appearance, but ventriloquists disguise their voices, and make them represent at will all manner of individualities, in the human or animal. Nimble Ike, as we have intimated, was a wonderful ventriloquist; he had played more pranks and worked more wonders with his talent than any other person possessed of the remarkable gift. He had paralyzed professionals and amazed amateurs, and with the aid of his marvelous vocal powers had performed many good deeds on the side of right and justice, forcing rogues to confessions and scaring schemers and roués out of their wits. He was a daring youth, possessing many talents other than the gift of ventriloquism to a remarkable degree. He had never met his match, and when not engaged in aiding some persecuted person or working with detectives he amused himself in various ways by an exercise of his powers. As stated, Ike had never met his match either among professionals or amateurs. He stood number one as a ventriloquist wonder. He had been told of a youth who also possessed the gift in a most remarkable manner. He had never met the youth and was led to doubt the fact that there was another who came anywhere near him. One day Ike, having nothing else to do, determined to visit the Metropolitan Museum in Central Park. He had been there before and enjoyed himself every time, but he had never attempted any of his pranks. On the occasion when we introduce him to our readers, he was standing beside a mummy case containing the linen-bound remains of some poor Egyptian who died thousands of years ago, and he was deeply interested in the description and explanations offered by a sallow-faced gentleman who was a great scientist and Egyptologist. An old maid teacher of an archæological turn of mind had chaperoned her class of young lady pupils and had secured the services of the sallow-faced man with the big spectacles to act as guide and expositor for the occasion. As stated, Ike was greatly interested in what the professor had to say; he felt quite serious and was in no mood to amuse himself, when a most startling, soul-thrilling incident occurred. The professor had all the young ladies gathered close around him like so many serious mourners standing around the casket of a deceased friend. He had been descanting in a very earnest manner and finally said: "Now, ladies, if that mummy could speak he would." Here the professor stopped suddenly, his spectacles fell from his face, his hands went up and his face blanched, while the young ladies fell back trembling with terror, for, from the interior of the mummy case came the astounding announcement: "I can talk. What do you want me to tell you?" The words came clear and distinct, and they came, as appeared, directly from the lips of the mummy; and so realistic was the declaration that one might expect to see the lurid-looking object rise in its thousands of centuries old shroud and look forth from the sunken hollows where its eyes had once beamed forth. As stated, Ike was standing near the mummy case, but the wonderful ventriloquist was as much amazed as any one. He did not believe the mummy spoke--he was too great an expert in vocal deceptions--but he was amazed all the same, and his amazement arose from the discovery that there was one living person besides himself who could produce such amazing results. He glanced around and there was only the one party who had been standing near the mummy, and that was the professor with the ladies gathered around him. Some distance off a very trimly-built youth stood gazing at the stuffed birds in a case. Our hero had not seen his face; he could not be the vocal deceiver, however, and the question arose, Who had performed this marvelous trick? Meantime the professor had gathered his spectacles from the floor and had to a certain extent recovered from his surprise and bewilderment, and he ejaculated: "That was most extraordinary." He beckoned the ladies about him once again, but they came forward very reluctantly and our hero, Nimble Ike, scanned their faces to learn which one of the pretty girls was the ventriloquist who had worked the great trick. All their faces wore an expression of surprise and alarm, and he was forced to conclude that the voice magician was not one of them, and his final conclusion was that the sallow-faced scientist was the culprit--yes, the sallow-faced man with the big nose and goggles had made the inviting statement, knowing that he could seemingly make the mummy talk. His surprise and alarm, our hero concluded, was all a pretense and a part of his little joke, and it was then that Ike turning away uttered the ejaculation "Great Cæsar!" His blood was up; the professor was a wonderful ventriloquist, but Ike determined to have some sport and give the professor ventriloquist, as he appeared to be, the surprise of his life. He determined to make the mummy do some tall talking and force the professor to a betrayal of genuine surprise. "Yes," mentally concluded Ike, "the next time you'll shed your goggles for fair." Ike was in no hurry, however; he intended first to watch the professor and find out if he were really the vocal wonder. The young ladies finally gathered around, for the professor's talk had really been very interesting. He said: "Young ladies, I wish to ask you a question. What scared you?" The ladies did not answer, and the professor again inquired: "Were you scared by my demonstration or did you, ah--ah--well, did you hear a voice?" One of the young ladies answered: "We heard a voice." "You did?" "Yes, sir." "Then it was not a delusion; no, it was not a delusion, but it was one of the most extraordinary incidents that ever occurred since the days of miracles, or, to explain it on scientific grounds, we were all so engrossed on the subject under conversation that by some singular psychologic phenomena, our imaginations were momentarily spellbound by a concentration of all the nerve forces upon a given thought, and thereby our imaginations were abnormally stimulated to such a degree as to make the extraordinary deception possible." The girls stared, but did not comprehend the professor's explanation, although it was about as plain as scientific and medical explanations usually are. Ike was unable to decide. The professor appeared to have fully recovered and again became rapt in the subject of his discourse. The young ladies also appeared to have recovered from their alarm and were deeply interested in all the professor said. Ike, however, had lost all interest in the lecture. He was piqued, he did not understand how it could be that there was really another who possessed a ventriloquistic talent almost equal to his own. As stated, he watched the professor and finally the good man again arrived at a point when he said: "If that relic of the past centuries could speak he----" "I can speak," again came the voice from the mummy case. The professor stared, the ladies stared, but the expression of surprise was not equal to what it had been at the first exhibition. The professor, however, came to a dead stop, he looked slowly around and finally in a husky voice remarked: "I do not understand it." Neither did Ike, for he was convinced that the professor was not the acrobatic vocalist. The latter, however, was a man of nerve, a genuine scientist, and he said: "Young ladies, do not be scared; that linen-wrapped object, that corpse, that has lain swathed in its funeral habiliments for over thirty centuries, says he can speak. We will let him talk." And from the mummy case came the statement: "I think a fellow who has been silent for thirty centuries should have a chance to get a word in." Ike was "on to it." He was too great an expert not to fathom the mystery. He had met his match at last. He was fully assured that the lithe-looking chap who was studying the ornithological department was the ventriloquist, and our hero muttered: "You are having lots of fun, mister, but now I'll give you a scare." The ventriloquist stranger was still gazing in the bird case, when close to his ear came the startling announcement, seemingly from the bird case: "What's the matter with you? Why do you disturb that poor old Egyptian who has been asleep for over three thousand years?" Ike's test brought its result. He saw the strange youth give a start. He turned about, but he did not look at the talking stuffed bird; he turned around to see who it was that had so cleverly matched him. It was a great game all round. The professor was bewildered, the ladies were bewildered, and the young fellow at the bird case, who had bewildered every one else, was himself bewildered. In fact, Ike, the master, was the only one who at that moment held the key to the whole mystery, and knew just what it was all about. Ike enjoyed his momentary triumph, and so for a few moments nothing startling occurred. The professor kept repeating, "This is most extraordinary," and the balance of his party evidently thought so. The young man who had been looking in the bird case, however, as it proved, was a "Jim Dandy," as the boys say. He was not to be kicked out so easily. He also, as our narrative will prove, was an expert and a very brave and resolute lad. He walked around looking into several cases for a few moments and then quietly edged over toward the mummy case around which still lingered the professor and his party, and Ike realized that a most remarkable duel was portending--a duel between two wonderful vocal experts. Our hero had fully identified the young man on whom he had retorted as the individual who had made the mummy speak. "I'll have first shot," thought Ike, and as the young man passed close to a second mummy case and stood a moment looking at the bandaged face as a "throw off," the relic of a thousand years appeared to say to him in a hoarse whisper: "Look out, young man, look out, you may get hit with a club made three thousand years ago." There was a perplexed look upon the young man's face for a moment, and then his bright, clear eyes wandered around and he too fell to a discovery, as he believed. The professor meantime had become exceedingly nervous and he said: "I believe I will adjourn the lecture for to-day." As the professor spoke, there came a voice from the mummy case saying: "Yes, you had better adjourn it forever, for you don't know what you are talking about." The professor advanced close to the mummy case to gaze directly at the lips of the three-thousand-year corpse. He was determined to solve the mystery, but as he bent over the venerable object there came an unearthly yell that froze the blood in his veins. He leaped back, the young ladies ran screaming away and there would have been a great scene were it not that at the time there were no other persons in that particular department of the museum. The professor led the way down to the office to tell his wondrous tale, while the young man who had first started the joke approached and gazed intently on the face of our hero, the great Nimble Ike. The latter returned the gaze and for a few moments it was a duel of stare; neither appeared disposed to open the conversation, while in the mind of each there dawned a suspicion, and finally the young stranger mustered up sufficient courage to ask: "Say, young fellow, who are you?" CHAPTER II. A MUTUAL RECOGNITION FOLLOWS BETWEEN TWO WONDERFUL VENTRILOQUISTS AND AT ONCE THEY COMMENCE TOGETHER THEIR EXTRAORDINARY PRANKS. Ike did not conclude to reveal his identity at once, and met the question with a similar one: "Say, young fellow, who are you?" "I asked first." "Did you?" "I did." "Well?" "It's your place to answer." "Do you want an answer?" "I do." "I'll tell you something: you asked the wrong person. Go and ask that stuffed owl who I am." The young man stared. "You want an answer to your question?" "Oh, come off," said the young stranger. "That settles it," said Ike. There came a smile upon the face of the youth and he caused a voice to come like a halloo from away down the other end of the room, inquiring: "Say, owl, who is this young chap?" Ike was amazed, but the owl uttered its peculiar hoot and answered seemingly: "He's the devil himself." The halloo came again. "I thought so, for he is not square; he don't keep his promises." "Why not?" asked the owl. "He promised you should tell who he was." There came a hoot and an owlish sort of laugh, with the statement: "His name is Isaac Andro." "Nimble Ike?" came the halloo. "Yes;" and the owl added: "Now it's your turn to keep your promise." The halloo came in answer: "I am Jack the Juggler." Ike at once advanced, offering his hand and saying: "Shake, old fellow, I am glad to meet you. I've heard about you." "And I've heard about you. I am delighted to meet you." "And I am delighted to meet you," answered Ike. "We must be friends." "Sure." "We can have a heap of fun." "We can." "We are against the deck." "We are." "Will you visit me at my home?" said Ike. "Go with me now." "I will be delighted." "Do you live in the city?" "I did live here, but I've broken up my home." The two wonderful lads wandered off together--Ike the ventriloquist, and Jack the juggler, also a ventriloquist and hypnotist. The two soon arrived at Ike's house and the latter showed his guest all through his place, exhibiting his contrivances. Ike ordered a meal sent in and the two remarkable geniuses sat down in a very social conversation. Ike told his strange, weird story, all about the old necromancer and the mysterious box. And Jack told all about himself, and finally Ike said: "See here, we are two of a kind." "We are." "Let's become partners." "I am agreed." "Take up your abode with me." "On one condition." "Name your condition." "I am to share the expense of living in this house." "Agreed, as it don't cost much to live." Neither of the lads had told their romance. They had only told the simple story of their lives, and when the meal was over they commenced by mutual consent to practice together, and so several days passed. Ike with his unusual brightness invented a signal code so they could converse with each other and no one else understand their talk. One evening the two lads were playing a game of billiards together in a well-known billiard room, when a very handsome young fellow entered, whom Ike at once introduced to Jack as his friend, Henry Du Flore. Ike and Du Flore held a few moments talk and then Du Flore departed. The moment he was gone the ventriloquist said to his new comrade: "That young man is a detective." "He don't look like one." "He is a splendid officer, brave, shrewd and persistent. I have several detective friends, but I've taken quite a fancy to this young fellow and I am aiding him all I can." "Is he a Frenchman?" asked Jack. "No, he is an American born. His father was an engineer on an ocean steamer. He was drowned when Henry was quite a lad. Henry was left an orphan at an early age, compelled to knock around and pick up a living as best he could. He got appointed on the police force, won promotion and is now a regular detective. I want him to make a great success, and I am aiding him all I can." "I took a fancy to him at the first glance," said Jack. "I am glad of that." "Yes, I am in with you and when we can do him a good turn we will." "I am much obliged to you, and we can aid him right now. He has been assigned to run down some burglars who are infesting a section of country over in Jersey. The gang has become very daring. They are very expert and the losses of the people have been heavy; they have raised a fund which is offered as a reward for the capture of the thieves. The chief in New York is anxious to aid the officials across the river and has detailed my friend Henry on the case. It will be a big thing for the young officer if he can run down those thieves." "We will secure the big thing for him," said Jack. "I've had a little experience in detective work." "So I've heard." "When does he start in?" "I am to hear from him later." The two ventriloquists finished their game and walked over to a table where two experts were playing a great game in presence of quite a crowd of witnesses. Ike and Jack were both very fond of the game, although neither of them could play an expert game, with all their talents; their genius did not run in this direction. It is remarkable that a great many men who are expert in one direction are singularly deficient in others. There was a party of young smart Alecs watching the game. They were very boisterous and demonstrative--really interfered with the players--and they were very unmannerly in several ways, pushing forward and crowding quieter people in a very rude manner. Ike and Jack fixed their eyes on the dudes and then exchanged glances; and that exchange of glances meant a little fun for the tricksters and discomfiture for the boisterous dudes, the sons of rich men who because of their social position were permitted to cut up their capers where better youths would have been kicked out of the place. The dudes every few moments would break through the crowd and go to the bar, and upon their return they would push through to the front, shoving others aside as though the balance of the beholders were mere serfs; and in pushing through upon one of their returns, Ike became their victim. The young ventriloquist did not submit to be pushed so rudely and said: "See here, Mister Man, you should wear better clothes. You are such a pusher you should have gotten ahead in the world." The youth stared and the bystanders laughed. The joke was a good one. Many times it could be applied in a crowd, for there are so many rude people who appear to think there is no one in the world besides themselves. "Don't you like it?" demanded the pusher. "Oh, yes, I like it," answered Ike with a laugh. "It's quite an honor to be knocked around by a thing like you." "I'll punch you in the head if you say much." "Oh, I won't say much. I'll be as quiet as a lamb. I won't even bleat. It's all right; excuse me for being in your way. I am proud--very proud--to be knocked aside, certainly." At that moment there came a voice asking: "Why don't you rap that dude on the head?" The dude looked around to learn who had offered the bold suggestion, and then demanded: "Who spoke then?" "I did," came a voice, but no one appeared to know just who the "I did" was. But there came the suggestion: "Don't look so fierce. You're around to swipe pocketbooks, you are. I advise these gentlemen to be on the lookout." The three dudes all closed in close to each other. Their faces were white with rage and they had just liquor enough in them to be anxious for a brawl, and one of them said: "I'll give a hundred dollars to know who spoke." "What will you give?" came the voice. Ike stood still and apparently as mute as a sexton at a funeral. "You haven't got a hundred cents; you just hung your last drink at the bar." "You're a liar," came the declaration from one of the dudes. "And you're a thief, or let's see your money." The dude went down in his pockets, drew forth a roll and exclaimed, as he waved it aloft: "Here's my money. A hundred to ten you are a liar, and a hundred to one you dare not show your face." "Here I am." The voice sounded as though the speaker stood directly in the midst of the trio of dudes. The "chappies" looked at each other in amazement. "Send for an officer," came a voice. "I've lost my pocketbook." It appeared as though the voice came from the opposite side of the crowd to where the dudes were standing. The dudes were dumfounded; indeed, the game was stopped and the owner of the billiard hall walked over to learn what the row was. Very well, at this point the row commenced. One of the youths, calling the proprietor of the hall by name, said, or seemed to say: "You go away from here, you duffer. We own this place and don't want any of your interference." The declaration took the proprietor's breath away for a moment. He just stood and gazed, when another of the youths appeared to say: "Charley, why don't you smash Decker in the jaw? What business has he to come around here and interfere with our fun?" "Who are you talking to?" demanded the proprietor, his face white with rage. "_You_," seemingly came the answer from the dude. The proprietor could stand no more. He made a rush. He did not care at that instant if the dudes were the scions of the governor of the state. He grasped the chap who it appeared had given him the insolence by the loose part of his trousers and the collar of his coat, and he walked him French fashion toward the door. The youth made a vigorous protest. His friends also joined in, when the bartender rushed from behind the counter and seized another of the "chappies," and a guest who was a vigorous fellow seized the third one; and then commenced a grand march toward the street door, and each one of the dudes was thrown into the street and a kick was administered to each as he was thrust out. Poor dudes! they had not been guilty of the particular sin for which they suffered, but they deserved all they got, just the same, for they had made nuisances of themselves. Jack and Ike left the place. They were delighted with the rebuke they had administered, but the fun was not over. The three dudes were standing at the corner of the street talking over their grievances. They espied Ike and Jack and one of them said: "There are the fellows who drew us into this trouble." "Let's hammer them." Neither Ike nor Jack were formidable-looking chaps, and the dudes sailed for them. Well, a lively scene followed. The two ventriloquists were both lithe, active athletes, and the way they polished off the "chappies" was a sight to behold, and they were having a heap of fun when suddenly both were seized by the collars of their coats and found themselves in the grasp of two stalwart policemen. Neither lad was scared. They did not mind their arrest on such a trivial charge at all, and they were led off. Ike asked by signal: "What shall we do?" "What do you think?" came the answer. "Shall we be locked up and raise old Cain in the station house, or shall we make these officers dance right here?" "Let's make them dance," came the answer. The lads struck a good chance even as the word was passed. They were passing a tenement house and a man had just raised a window to close the shutters or something, when there came as though from the man a mad cry of "fire!" The officers stopped short, and again there came several cries, seemingly from different parts of the house. The officers let go their hold upon their prisoners. A fire in a tenement house was a far more serious matter than the arrest of two youths for fighting in the street. As stated, the lads were released, and they darted away to secure hiding places from which they could witness the fun and excitement, and there was excitement. One of the officers rapped for assistance and the second one ran to the fire-alarm box to give the signal, and officer number one made a rush to the house. He found the door open and he ran up the stairs shouting "fire! fire! fire!" The tenants rushed from their apartments and there followed a scene of wild confusion, and while the yelling and screaming were at their height two engines arrived, also a platoon of police, and the firemen of the engine company entered the house, but still there was no sign of either fire or smoke. A thorough examination followed. No signs of a fire could be discovered. The sergeant in charge of the platoon of police asked the two officers who had given the alarm where they had seen the fire. They protested they had not seen any fire, but that a man had raised the window of one of the front rooms and had shouted "fire!" The firemen meantime were thoroughly convinced that there was no fire, and they were mad at being called out on a fake alarm. They commenced to abuse the police, who protested that the cry had come from the house. The tenants had all returned to their rooms and they also had been loud in their protests and threatened to make a complaint at headquarters. "From what room did the cry come?" asked the sergeant. The two policemen pointed out the room. The sergeant, accompanied by the two officers, went up to the room. There were several very respectable men in the room and they all protested that they had given no alarm. All declared that they were prepared to swear that they had not. The sergeant was bothered, and said to the two patrolmen: "This matter must be explained." "We did hear a cry of fire." "No one else appears to have heard it." "We heard it." "Where is your proof?" One of the officers said: "I wish we could find those two lads. They heard it." "We can't find them." The two men were ordered to report at the station house to answer charges for their lark, as the sergeant termed it. Other men were put on the beat and our two ventriloquists crawled forth from their hiding-places and Ike said: "That was a pretty severe joke." "Yes, it was very amusing." "We must do something to save those men or they may be broke." "How can we do it?" "We can." "How?" "We'll rattle the sergeant on the same scheme," came the answer. CHAPTER III. THE VENTRILOQUISTS DO RATTLE THE SERGEANT AND HIS PLATOON AND AGAIN RAISE OLD CAIN IN A MOST REMARKABLE MANNER. The two vocal experts fell to the trail of the sergeant and his platoon, but kept well out of sight. They were determined to set the two patrolmen right after getting them in such a bad scrape. The whole charge against them was having claimed that they had overheard cries of fire. The sergeant was discussing the matter with the roundsman when suddenly from a private house before which at the moment they were passing came a series of wild, frantic screams, and the next instant the screams were followed by cries of "fire! fire!" "Well," exclaimed the sergeant, "it's a fire this time. Run to the alarm box and summon the engines." The roundsman dashed off to give the alarm and the sergeant ran up the stoop of the house and commenced to bang on the door with his club, and the two ventriloquists were enjoying the joke. The door of the house was opened by a gentleman enveloped in a dressing-gown, who in great excitement demanded: "What in thunder do you want?" With equal excitement the sergeant demanded: "Where is the fire?" "What fire?" "The fire in this house." "There is no fire in this house." "Then why in thunder did you yell 'fire, fire?'" "No one yelled fire. What is the matter with you?" The owner of the house discerned that it was a sergeant of police to whom he was talking. "Have you gone crazy?" he asked. "Gone crazy! No; but what did you mean by yelling fire?" "I did not yell fire. Every one in this house has been in bed a long time." "Who was it screamed?" "No one screamed." "Do you mean to tell me you did not yell fire?" "No one yelled fire." "And no one screamed in this house?" "No one screamed." At that moment the engines reappeared and the owner of the house said: "I'll have this matter inquired into. If this is a joke you will find it an expensive one." The foreman of the engine company approached and demanded: "Where is the fire?" "There is no fire," said the owner of the house. "No fire?" "No fire, and I don't know what the officer means by banging on my door and arousing my family at this hour of the night." "And I can't understand," said the foreman, "what he means by calling out the engines every five minutes on a false alarm." "There is my platoon of men, there is my roundsman. They will all testify they heard a cry of fire, followed by screams, coming from this house." "Then your platoon of men and your roundsman will testify to a falsehood," said the house owner. "Is there a fire in your house?" demanded the foreman of the engine company. "No, sir." "Is there a fire anywhere around here?" "No, sir, not that I know of, unless it's in the upper story of these policemen." "Say, sergeant, let me ask you one question: Have you received orders to test our department by these false alarms?" "No, sir, I'll swear and prove that there came an alarm of fire from this house." "That's what your men said down at the tenement house. I reckon it's a night off for the police department, or else they all want a night off. But let me tell you, if you didn't receive orders to give these fake alarms I'll know the reason why you did give them; that's all." The sergeant was clear beat out. He apologized to the owner of the house, went down among his men and asked: "Did you men hear those screams?" "We did," came the answer. "Did you hear the cries of 'fire, fire?'" "We did," came the answer. "All right; we'll find out about this." "How are you going to find out all about it, sergeant?" popped in the roundsman. "I don't know." The roundsman was a friend of the two men who had been sent to the station house in disgrace, and he again asked: "How about Jones and O'Brien?" "I've been thinking about them." "We heard it; they claim they heard the cries. I don't see how they can be held responsible." "I don't know what to think of it." "Can I advise?" "Yes." "Send the two men back on post and say nothing about the whole affair. That's my advice." "Roundsman, it's all very strange." "It is." "It's one of the mysteries of the century." "It is." "I am not crazy. I'd think so, only we could not all go crazy." "I'll swear I heard the cries." The platoon started for the station house. The men were all greatly mystified, but a greater mystery was yet to confront them. The ventriloquists had been witnesses of the result of their pranks and determined to press the matter along. They followed the platoon at a safe distance, one of them going around the square so that they approached the station from opposite quarters. The men were just in the station; the last man was passing the door when right at his ears sounded a wild, unearthly yell, followed by the cry of "Fire! fire! fire!" The man stood like one paralyzed, then the sergeant rushed into the street. Not a soul was near, and yet even while he stood there again right at his ear sounded the weird cry, "Fire! fire! fire!" The man was dumfounded. He stood and gazed in wild dismay. The sergeant at the desk came rushing forth, demanding: "What's the matter? Where's the fire? What are you all standing here for?" "Do you think there is a fire?" "Didn't you hear the cry?" "Yes; did you?" "I did." "Then go find the fire. We've heard cries of fire all the night, but devil a fire can we find." Jack and Ike had had fun enough in that one direction and they started off toward Ike's home. They had not gone far, however, when they struck another little adventure--a very peculiar one. Indeed, possessing their singular talents they were continually running into adventures, as their gifts gave them great powers in every direction. A little girl had stopped a crabbed, sleek-looking old gentleman and had asked him for alms. The man had said: "Go to the station house," and he spoke in cruel, hard tones. The girl with a sigh turned away, and Ike said: "Let's give that old skinflint a dose." "Agreed," came the response. Ike ran forward and dropped a silver dollar in the girl's hand and then slid along and joined Jack. The two secured advantage ground, for the old gentleman had stopped to gaze in the windows of one of the great hotel restaurants. Suddenly there sounded in his ears: "Cruel, cruel old man!" The old gentleman looked around in every direction and saw no one near him, yet the words had sounded, as stated, close beside his ear. While he was still gazing again there came a voice, saying: "Cold, cold-hearted!" The old gentleman looked around in an amazed manner, and with anger in his heart, but he saw no one. He became a little bewildered, when again there came a voice saying: "Go to the station house! Go to the station house!" The old man turned pale. It was the most mysterious incident of his whole life, and again came the words: "Go to the station house!" The admonition sounded close in his ears, and yet there was not a living soul near him that he could see. He began to tremble, and again, even while he glanced around, the voice repeated: "Please give me money for bread," and there came the response in exact imitation of the old man's tones: "Go to the station." "Great Mercury!" ejaculated the man. "I am pursued by a phantom." "Yes, you are pursued by a phantom, you who refused to give a poor child money for bread." "I'll give the next child I meet a dollar," murmured the old man in trembling tones. "You promise?" "I do." "All right; I'll leave you until my presence is required again. Good-night." The old gentleman moved toward his home, and it is to be hoped he became a more charitable man. The two lads started on their way and were moving on up Fifth Avenue when Ike, who was quick-eyed and observant, saw a man rush out of a hallway. The fellow's actions were suspicious and our hero remarked to his companion: "Hello! Jack, there is something going on here." The two lads determined to trail the man. They saw him go up the street, where he joined a second man. The ventriloquists stole up close, and both being lithe and active they were able to secure a position very near where the two men stood, and they heard one of them ask: "Are you sure it's dead easy?" "Yes." "Are you sure you have the right house?" "Yes." "That woman is very smart." "She is?" "Yes." "How do you know?" "I've been watching her for weeks. There is something strange about her and her movements, but she's got the stuff; of that I am sure. She lives alone in that big house with only one servant--an old man--whom we can silence in about two minutes. She is a stranger in New York, and does not appear to have any friends. If we can get in there and away again we can make a big haul, and all in good movable swag. I'll bet she's got twenty thousand dollars' worth of diamonds alone, and where there are so many sparks there are other fireworks, you bet." Ike and Jack appreciated that, indeed, they had "tumbled on to a big thing." The men did not talk in particularly low tones; no one appeared to be near them. "We need a big haul." "We do." "I am run way down." "I am also." "We struck a big thing when we followed that woman from Boston." "We did." "We are not known in New York and the scent will be on natives." "That's it exactly. We can get away with our haul, return to Boston and read the papers and learn how these smart New York officers are closing in on the robbers." "Yes, yes." Both men laughed in a very complaisant manner, and one of them said: "It will prove the softest trick we ever played. We are in luck to strike a neat, clean affair like this." "We are, you bet. When will you work the racket?" "I've got all the points down. We'll jump in and do the job to-morrow night." "At what hour?" "Well, about two o'clock is a good time." "Where will we meet?" The man named a meeting-place. "I will be on deck." "We will have this all to ourselves." "We will." "And I tell you it's the easiest job we ever struck, and we'll make a big pull." "That will suit me to a dot." "The police here are on the watch, for crooks are running riot in New York just about these days." "So I see by the papers." "They are all too noisy about their jobs. We'll go it slow, easy and sure." "We will." The two men sauntered away and the two ventriloquists followed them. Ike expressed a desire to learn where they "hung out," as he put it. The men went down to a small hotel on a side street and then the shadowers once more started for their home. On the way Ike said: "Jack, it's a great thing to possess our power." "Yes, but it does not require our power to capture those fellows. All we have to do is notify the detectives and those men will be gobbled. Any one could do that." "Yes, but we can have some fun. You must learn that I like to do these things my own way and give those rascals a lesson beyond the mere punishment they will get for their crimes. Do you know, I take a very serious view of housebreaking." "You do?" "Yes, I do." "I am with you there." "It's something terrible to be securely sleeping, as one feels, and to have one or two of these devils steal into one's house to rob, and if need be do murder. Robbers are a mean class, and I could never understand the sentiment of romance that is thrown about them. I look upon it as the most cruel and cold-blooded method adopted by any class of criminals." "I am with you, but you said you proposed to adopt a peculiar method in capturing these fellows." "Yes." "You may lose them." "Not if the court knows itself. They feel dead sure. They think they have everything dead to rights. They will move with less caution than usual. It appears there is a lady living in that house practically alone; from what we overheard she has many valuables. The chances are that if discovered there would follow a cruel murder. I tell you, my experience here in New York has been a strange one. Just watch the daily papers and learn the number and variety of crimes that are committed. Already there has been a call for an increase of the detective force, and it's needed; but in our humble way we'll do a neat job in the line of justice; yes, just once at least." "What is your plan?" "I'll think it out and reveal the whole business to you; but besides arresting these fellows and saving the lady, I want to give them the surprise of their life." "It's easy for us to surprise people. We are doing that all the time." "We'll give these fellows a big surprise--a stunner." "Then you have decided on a plan?" "In outline." The two lads arrived at their home and were soon resting from their singular labors. On the following day Ike revealed his plan and Jack heartily fell into the whole scheme. Jack loved surprises and enjoyed a good joke equally with the inimitable Ike. Ike owned a variety of animals, all of which were well trained. Had he concluded to appear as a professional performer he would have astonished his audiences beyond all belief. Among other possessions was an immense Siberian bloodhound. He had owned the animal from its puppy days and it was one of the most remarkably trained dogs on earth. Some men possess a peculiar talent for the training of animals. It is a special profession. Ike possessed this special talent to a great degree. He and Jack went forth. They had their breakfast at a near-by restaurant and played no pranks. Both the ventriloquists were very particular; they only played their tricks and exercised their powers where there was a purpose to be gained. After their meal they proceeded down to a point where they met Ike's new friend, the young detective whom our hero was anxious to serve. To him he said: "Du Flore, we've got a great catch for you." Ike proceeded and related all that had occurred, and when he had concluded, Du Flore remarked: "This is very strange." "It is?" "Yes." "How?" "I am already on that case." "You are?" "Yes." "Well, that is strange." "It is wonderful," said Du Flore. The latter was a rising man in the profession. He was a powerful young officer, and, as we have intimated, very brave and ambitious. "I've a strange story to tell you, Ike," he said. "We are listeners." "It is a very strange story." "So you said, and repeating that fact is not opening up your story." "Well, you see, in these prosaic days we seldom strike a romance just like the one I am about to relate. You remember a great wedding we had in New York about ten years ago?" "I don't," answered Ike bluntly. "Well, the daughter of a very rich man married a German nobleman, and a few years after their marriage they separated. She ran away from him. It is the old story: he and all his relatives felt themselves so much better than the young American girl. They insulted her in the grossest manner--and made her life miserable. She bore it for a long time, but being a full-blooded Yankee woman, beautiful and spirited, she determined to stand it no longer. Her father had been smart enough to secure all her fortune to herself during her life, and one bright morning she just dusted and left the count and his high-bred relatives to pay their own bills. She had done so for years and only received insults and snubs in return." "It's the fate, I reckon, of most of these rich American girls who are marrying foreigners," suggested Ike. "Yes, I reckon they could all tell sad tales a year after their marriage. This case, however, is a refreshing one, for in the end the Yankee girl recovered from her blind adoration of rank and came down to a good common-sense view of the full value of money." "Go on and tell the tale." "That is the story. She just skipped, and, as I said, left her high-born relatives by marriage to pay their own bills; and now I come to the American end of the strange romance." CHAPTER IV. IKE AND JACK LISTEN TO AN ODD NARRATIVE AND WITH THE DETECTIVE LAY PLANS TO MAKE A GRAND CAPTURE. Du Flore, continuing his narrative, said: "The lady has a son who some day will be a count if he lives, and she stole her own boy when she ran away, and she has put that lad up in New England with her Yankee relatives, determined that if he lives there will be one count who has had a proper bringing up. She has just returned from a visit to her son. He is thriving finely, but one day while in Boston she saw her husband and believes he saw her, and she fears he means her some harm. She left Boston immediately, and on the train and boat became conscious that a man was dogging her steps. She believes the man to be a confederate of the count, but the story you tell me leads me to determine that the man was merely a common thief, attracted by her jewels and the prospect of a robbery. It was probably his intention to rob her on the road, but she, thinking her husband was on her track, was very careful and cautious. It appears, however, from what you tell me that the men have shadowed her down to her home and have made plans to rob and possibly murder her." "I reckon," said Ike, "that this is the true solution. The count may show up later on." "I hope he does," said Jack. "Why, partner?" "Well, we'll make his life miserable--make him feel that it is better to be in Germany without a dollar than in New York with a million. We must protect this American woman, that is dead sure." "Will we? We will, you bet; but now we have those thieves to look after and I have a plan," said Ike. "What is your plan?" Ike related his plan. The detective preferred to adopt another course for the capture of the rascals, but he was well aware of Ike's wonderful ability, and for reasons thought it best to let the remarkable youth have his own way. Later Ike took Du Flore around to show him where the thieves were staying, and as good luck would have it he had a chance to point out one of the rascals. Later Du Flore called upon the countess, and acting under Ike's orders he let her indulge the idea that her house was to be visited by emissaries of her husband, and she said: "Then I will flee away." "Only to be pursued and shadowed again." "I have managed to keep out of his way for nearly two years." "That is all right, but we want to put these men out of the way. They are walking right into your power." "How?" "We can claim that they are burglars and scare the life out of them almost, and we may scare the whole party--count and all--back to Germany." "I don't think they mean to do me any harm. The count is not a bad man. He believes, however, that he has a right to the child. He has a legal right, I believe, and I propose to keep the child away from him, at least for the present." "Then the best plan is to let him go back to Germany." "I do not understand why these men seek to enter my house." "They may think you have the child here, or it may be that they are thieves who have learned some facts from the count, and they may intend to rob you. At any rate, I have positive evidence that your house is to be invaded and I wish to place a guard here, and I will be at hand at the proper time. In these days, when so many strange crimes are occurring, it is always better to be on the right side every time." "I believe you exaggerate the danger, but as I am in your hands for my own protection I will agree to any plan that you may propose." "I will introduce two remarkable youths into your house. They will be accompanied by an immense hound. I ask you to permit them to do just as they think proper in adopting measures for the capture of two men who I am sure will make an attempt to enter your house. Afterward I will have much to reveal to you, but at present I know I am acting in your best interests and in the interests of your son." Du Flore explained to the countess how the two youths would enter her house, and then departed. Along about six o'clock in the evening, a poor-looking old man applied at the door of the house of the countess. He was admitted, and a little later quite a stylish young man also sought an entrance, and a little later still the poor-looking old man and the stylish youth were alone with the countess, who was disposed to ask them a great many questions. The lads were sorely tempted to give the countess a little initiation, but concluded to reserve their didos for the two thieves. At about eleven o'clock the countess retired to a room on the top floor. She proved very complaisant, doing in all things just as requested, although it was evident that she was a very spirited woman and wondrously handsome, as she was still under thirty. The two ventriloquists lay around until twelve o'clock, when they entered the bedroom proper of the countess, her vacated room for the occasion, and they went through a very amusing rehearsal with the hound. The lads were both very jubilant, for they were in their element--about to carry out a scheme which was a delight to them. "The robbers believe they are to have a walk-over," said Jack. "They will," responded Ike, a twinkle in his eyes; "a walk over to the station house, and then a smooth ride up to Sing Sing Prison." "Will your man be on hand?" "If he fails I'll act as his substitute. We are going to capture those robbers, and don't you forget it." Thus the boys continued to talk until about two o'clock. Both were on the alert, and Ike said: "We are not to be disappointed, our game is here." Sure enough, they could see the narrow gleam from a mask lantern. The burglars were at the open door of the room. A moment passed and an arm was thrust forward. The light from the mask lantern shot over the room. Apparently, in the bed lay a sleeper. On the dressing bureau was a box, evidently a jewel case. A mirror permitted the two lads to see the movements and faces of the two rogues, and there came an expression of triumph and gratification to the face of both as their glance rested on the jewel case, and indeed the surroundings all appeared to indicate an "easy thing," as one of the fellows had put it the previous evening. They were very deliberate in their movements, and when satisfied that the road was clear they stepped into the room, their eyes fixed on the bed where the sleeper was supposed to be lying. They had arrived half-way across the floor toward the jewel case on the dressing bureau when suddenly an immense hound confronted them--arose before them as though he had suddenly come up through the floor. The men were both armed and carried their weapons ready for instant use, but they stood and glared. They were paralyzed, as it were, with astonishment. The thing was not quite so easy at that moment, but one can imagine their bewilderment when, as they stood and gazed, the dog appeared to say in a singularly doglike fashion, after a regular dog yawn: "I've got my eye on you fellows. Don't attempt to use those revolvers or I'll chew you to mince-meat." One of the men managed to ejaculate: "Great Scott! the dog spoke!" The men were struck nerveless, and their terror and bewilderment increased when the dog appeared to say, with a strange, doglike laugh: "It's dead easy, old man; it's dead easy." The men's faces became ghastly and one of them in gasps managed to say: "It's the devil!" "No, you are the devils, and I am after you; yes, I am, dead sure. You miserable skunks, to steal into a house to rob!" The men were struck speechless and they lost all power to move voluntarily. They stood and trembled involuntarily, and the dog continued: "Oh, isn't it dead easy? What a bully old swag you will carry to Boston! The New York detectives will bark up the wrong tree, but I won't. No, no, you rascals, I'll bark you, and I am a New York detective lying around here for Boston thieves. I reckon Boston became too hot for you, and you thought you'd try your hands here; but, my dearies, when you get out of a New York jail I'd advise you to go to Alaska. There it's dead easy for a good slide, but you can't slide back to Boston from here with your swaggy--no, no. Just watch my tail waggy, you villains." The men were just dead gone, and then the hound appeared to say: "I told you that you had barked up the wrong tree this time. I'll bark now." The dog did bark, and the latter was genuine. He had secured his signal and his bark was followed by the entrance of Du Flore, accompanied by a second officer, and the two detectives did not stand on any ceremony. They just clapped their irons on the two nerveless men, and then Du Flore said: "Well, gentlemen, this was not so dead easy after all." With men to talk to the thieves to a certain extent recovered their nerve. It was too late to avoid them, but they did ask: "What is that?" They pointed toward the hound. "That is our chief of police," came the answer. The two burglars were carted off, and we will here state that their "dead easy" thing did land them in Sing Sing Prison, for the proofs were dead against them. When the lady was informed of all the particulars she was greatly surprised and exceedingly grateful. A week passed. The two ventriloquists, having no serious business on hand, determined to have a little sport, and one day they visited the Stock Exchange, determined to throw a little confusion in among the brokers. They secured a good position at different points, and having arranged their programme prepared for active work. They saw one man who was conspicuous as a shouter, and as it appeared both formed a dislike for the fellow on appearances. He yelled a hundred of a fluctuating stock for sale. A man close at his arm appeared to make a bid. The fellow turned round sharply to accept. The man who had appeared to make the bid repudiated having done so, and the stock was again offered, seemingly bid in also by the same man, and when the seller again offered delivery the bid was repudiated. The seller had become enraged. He suspected he was being fooled. He became angry, words followed, and a crowd gathered around. The excitement ran high, when suddenly, right in the midst of the crowd, there occurred the loud barking of a dog and there was a general scatter, but no dog was seen. Then there came the grunt of a pig and a dog appeared to attack the pig. The latter squealed and seemed to be running all around the room, and immediately there followed a regular barn-yard chorus. Confusion reigned. All business came to a standstill and the question arose, who was doing the barking, the squealing, the cackling and the quacking? One accused another, rows followed, pandemonium reigned and amid the confusion the two authors of the whole trouble stole forth to the street. They had a heap of fun. An investigation would have followed, for the men believed the trick had been played by some of their members, but so general had been the confusion no proof could be obtained, and later the business of the exchange proceeded. "Well, Ike, that was high," said Jack. "It was." The boys started to walk up the street, when they met a veiled lady who was walking rapidly along. Ike stopped short and said: "Jack, that means something." "The veiled lady?" "Yes." "What makes you think so? There are plenty of veiled ladies knocking around every day." "That's so; but do you see that lady's excitement?" "How can I when she is veiled?" "But you can see it in her movements. Let's follow her and learn what is up. I tell you we will be on to something before we know it and I'd like to do some one a good turn." "I'll let you investigate and I will go and do a little business I have on hand." The youths agreed to meet later. Jack went his way, and Ike, who was a persistent fellow, followed the lady. She turned into one of the large office buildings. The ventriloquist followed and saw her enter a lawyer's office. He remained in the hall, and it was fully an hour before the lady came forth. When she did her veil was raised. Ike recognized that she was very beautiful and refined looking, and he saw also that she had been weeping. As she dropped her veil he fell to her trail. She descended to the street and with slower steps proceeded on her way. Our hero was a good-looking chap. He had increased in strength and stature since first introduced to our readers in a former story, Number 6 of "OLD SLEUTH'S OWN." He determined to follow and seize the first opportunity to speak to the pretty maid, who evidently was in some sort of trouble. While following her he was joined by Jack, and a little later Ike, who, as has been intimated, was observant, saw a man turn to follow the veiled lady. "Hello!" he muttered, "the game is opening up. I wonder if that fellow is acquainted with the girl, or is merely following her on speculation?" The girl walked through Nassau Street as far as the City Hall and boarded a Fourth Avenue car. Jack and Ike boarded the same car, and as the latter glanced in at the lady he saw that she was giving way to considerable emotion under her veil, and he also observed that the man who had started in to follow her had secured a seat directly opposite to her and had his evil eyes fixed upon her; for the lad discerned that the man did possess evil eyes. "Jack," he said, "we are on to something, sure." "It looks so." The lady left the car at the park and started to walk through that great pleasure ground. The man left the car also and followed the girl, and it is needless to say that the two ventriloquists also followed on a double trail. "The lady acts very strangely," remarked Jack. "She does." "And I've a suspicion." Ike's eyes brightened up as he asked: "And what is your suspicion?" "She is going to throw herself into the lake. She is in trouble." "But why does the man follow her?" "I believe he is a rascal who means her no good." "And I mean to see that he does her no harm." "Suppose she does plunge into the lake?" "We will fish her out." From the course that the lady took it did appear as though she really intended to drown herself, as Jack had intimated. She finally, however, sat down on a bench near the water of the lake. The man stood off at a little distance watching her. The ventriloquists also lay off, ready to be at hand in case of emergency. CHAPTER V JACK AND IKE PLAY A TRICK ON A BAD MAN AND VERIFY IKE'S SUSPICION THAT THERE WAS SOMETHING UP--THE BAD MAN TAKES A SWIM INSTEAD OF THE VEILED GIRL. The girl removed her veil a moment and gazed into the waters of the lake and her beautiful face was revealed. The man who had been shadowing her had a chance to observe her beauty. Ike had his eye upon the man and arrived at a conclusion. He concluded from the expression on the fellow's face that he was a villain and meant the beautiful girl no good. He was very handsomely dressed, wore diamonds of the biggest sort and altogether appeared like an individual whom a young girl would have good reason to fear. "Jack," said our hero, "that fellow is a bad one. He means the girl no good." We write girl, for the veiled lady was but a mere girl, as revealed when her veil was removed. She had only removed her face covering for a moment. The man advanced toward her and the lads stepped closer, hiding in the shrubbery to the rear of the rustic seat where the girl had placed herself. As the man approached he said: "Why, Miss Galt, good-morning." "I beg your pardon, sir," said the lady; "you have made a mistake." It was the old trick--merely a pretense to speak to the girl. "Is it possible I have made a mistake?" said the man. "You have certainly made a mistake." If the man had been a gentleman he would have apologized and have moved on, but he said: "It's so strange. You are a perfect picture of the lady I know as Miss Galt." "I am not Miss Galt, sir, and you will please not address me further." "It's a beautiful day," said the man. The girl betrayed her surprise from under her veil, but made no reply, evidently believing the man would move on; but instead he approached nearer to her. The girl rose as though to walk away, when the man said: "Excuse me, but are you sure you are not playing me a little trick? Are you really not Miss Galt?" The girl started to move away, when the man looked around furtively and then boldly approached. The girl was terrified. She attempted to scream, when the man actually grasped her arm. She was paralyzed with fear; she could not scream. Her eyes expressed her terror, her face became deathly pale, and no one can tell what might have occurred if at that critical moment Ike and Jack had not darted forth, and Ike exclaimed: "Hold on there! you scoundrel, what are you doing?" The man was large and apparently powerful. He glared at the two slender youths, and evidently concluded that with but little effort he could toss them both into the lake if so inclined. He said: "You two young rascals, how dare you address me?" He had released his hold upon the arm of the lady and the latter, woman-like, remained, hoping even in her weakness to be of some service to the two handsome youths who had interfered in her behalf. In a few moments, however, she learned that they did not need any assistance. These two young wonders were perfectly capable of taking care of the big insulter of womanhood. In reply to his words to them, the two ventriloquists gave him a laugh. He became enraged. He felt mean anyhow, as he had been caught in a contemptible act. He was prepared to become enraged very readily. "You laugh at me, you young rascals?" "Certainly we do, you mean scoundrel." "You call me a scoundrel?" "That's what we call you." "You two rascals, get away from here or I'll hurt you." "You will?" "Yes." "You can't hurt any one. You're a big fraud." The man moved toward the speaker, when a dog barked savagely at his heels. He leaped in the air and turned quickly, but there was no dog there. He supposed the fierce animal had skipped away, and with an oath he advanced another step toward the laughing and jeering lads, when again the dog barked savagely at his heels, and again he leaped in the air, but there was no dog visible. The man was confused, and Ike said: "You are a villain. You should be lynched or ducked." "Let's duck him," said Jack. "It's a go," answered Ike. The man gazed in amazement at their audacity, and he was about to make a rush, when seemingly there came a gruff voice behind him, preceded by a shrill whistle. "Hold on there! what are you about?" The man thought that indeed a park policeman was at hand. He turned. He was standing near the edge of the water, for the ventriloquists had purposely changed their own position so as to draw him down in that direction. As he turned Ike ran forward head first and made a clear dive straight at the small of the man's back. Over he went, face forward, paralyzed by the blow, and then the two lads jumped on him. Over and over they rolled him toward the water. At this instant the lady interfered, but her protest came too late. The man was rolled into the water about waist deep, and the water restored his strength, and there followed a mighty floundering as he struggled toward the shore. The boys roared with laughter. The man crawled out and made a rush for them, when again the dog barked at his heels, and he made a leap in the air; and as he turned and saw no dog, terror seized him, and a sudden impulse, for away he ran like a deer, all wet and dripping as he was. Then Ike advanced toward the veiled girl and said: "Excuse us, miss, but he got just what he deserved. We saw him seize you and we made up our minds to scare him out. We will bid you good-morning. He will not molest you again." The girl stood and gazed in silence a moment and then said: "I thank you," and involuntarily she added: "Oh, what shall I do?" "Are you in trouble, miss?" asked Ike. The girl had betrayed herself to a certain extent, and she answered: "Yes, I am in great trouble." "Possibly we can aid you." "No, no, you cannot aid me as readily and manfully as you did just now." "But possibly we can." The girl looked the two handsome lads over, and again she murmured, as though unable to control her emotions: "Oh, what shall I do?" "We can help you." "No, you cannot help me." "Yes, we can." "No, no; I wish you could. No one can help me; I am ruined." "Come, we will walk away from here and you shall tell us your trouble. We can aid you. You will find out that we can." They were both bright-faced youths. They had just given an exhibition of their nerve and courage. "Come, do not be afraid. We can aid you, no matter what your trouble." "It's so strange," murmured the girl. "What is so strange?" "That you should offer to aid me." "Well, we can aid you. That's our mission in life." The girl did not understand the remark, but she was charmed with the two bright-faced, honest-looking lads. She said: "I am half inclined to tell you my trouble. I am a stranger in New York; I have no one to confide in. Yes, I will tell you my trouble, but you cannot aid me." "I reckon we can aid you, no matter what the trouble may be." The girl walked away with the two ventriloquists, but occasionally she glanced back at the lake and both the youths were convinced that she had really intended suicide. When some distance away from the lake and in a retired part of the park, the girl said: "Mine is a very strange story. I do not know as you will believe it." "We will believe anything you tell us," said Ike gallantly. "A week ago I came on from San Francisco. My father died a year ago; my mother has been dead for a long time. My father knew he was to die, as he had an incurable disease, and he gave me all his savings, converted everything he had into cash and placed it in my hands, and when it came near the last he told me after his death to come on here to New York. He said he once had a brother whom he had not seen or heard from for thirty years. 'My brother may still be living; if so he will be your friend and protector, and you will not be dependent upon him, as you will have five thousand dollars.' "After my father's death I remained in San Francisco a year to complete my education, and then I started for New York. The money I had changed into non-registered bonds, and I put them in my trunk. I arrived in New York a week ago and went to a place to board that had been recommended to me by a friend in San Francisco. Last night I opened my trunk to look at the bonds and discovered to my horror that they were gone. I at once informed the landlady, who told me she could do nothing, that she knew nothing about my bonds. She evidently did not believe my story. She looks upon me as a swindler. I saw in this morning's paper the name of a lawyer. I called upon him to consult him, but first I went to the captain of police in my district. He evidently did not believe my story, and then, as I said, I went to the lawyer. I told my tale to him. He said he could do nothing for me--I must depend upon the police. He also, I think, did not believe my story. They look upon me as an adventuress. I have no proofs. I have no way to prove that I ever had the bonds. They have been stolen, and in claiming them I am losing my reputation. I am looked upon as a swindler myself. I tell you the truth. I did have the bonds and they have been stolen from me. I am ruined. No one will believe me. You do not believe my story." "Yes, I do believe your story," said Ike, "and we will recover your bonds." "You will recover them?" exclaimed the girl. "Yes, we will recover them." "No, no; never," she said in a despairing tone. "We will see about that. When did you last see your bonds?" "The night after my arrival in New York." "Where?" "In my trunk." "After you had arrived at your present boarding-house?" "Yes." "Is there any one in the house whom you suspect?" "I know not whom to suspect, but they were stolen after my arrival in that house. The landlady refuses to believe my story; the captain of police refuses to believe my story, and the lawyer to whom I went and offered one thousand dollars as a fee refuses to believe my story." "And my friend and I do believe your story, and we are the only ones who can aid you in recovering them. One would have to know you to believe your tale. It is indeed a strange one." "And you do not know me." "Well, we have other reasons for believing your story. I tell you we will recover your bonds. You can rely upon my word." "How can you do it?" "We have our own method for going about it." "The landlady has hinted that she would like to have me leave the house. I have no money to go anywhere else, for all my money I had placed in my trunk and that is gone also." "How much money did you have?" "I had over two hundred dollars." "And it has been stolen?" "Yes; whoever took the bonds took my money also, and my jewelry--for all my valuables were in my trunk." Jack looked at Ike in a dubious sort of way, for the story was becoming quite odd. Ike, however, believed the tale. He said: "It's hard luck to lose all that way, but you shall have it returned to you." "I don't know what I shall do." "Did you tell any one else in the house about your loss save the landlady?" "No, I have not said one word to any one else, and the landlady told me not to do so." Ike was thoughtful a moment and then said: "I will find your bonds. In the meantime I believe it well for you temporarily to find another boarding-place." "I do not know where to go." "I can recommend you to a very nice, motherly lady who will see to your comfort." There came a look of sudden suspicion to the girl's eyes and she said: "I have no money. I do not know what to do." Ike, as our readers know, possessed wonderfully quick and observant eyes, and he could discern in a most remarkable manner. "You need not bother about the money part of it. I know this lady well; she is a very reputable person, the widow of a man who was a great detective. She will be willing to wait for her pay until you recover your money and bonds." "But I may never recover them." "Yes, you will recover them; on that point you can make your mind easy. When I and my friend here set out to accomplish a thing we never fail, and you shall satisfy yourself that the lady will really become your friend before you take up your home with her." Ike had organized a great scheme. He was satisfied in his own mind that the money had been stolen either by the landlady or one of her boarders. He had a way of bringing people to a betrayal that was all his own. He held some further talk with the girl, and then asked: "What is your name?" The girl hesitated. "You need not fear to tell me your name. I will go with you if you choose to the captain of police and he shall vouch for my honor and loyalty." "It is not necessary," said the girl, who was really bright and self-reliant. "My name is Sara Sidney." "Miss Sidney," said our hero, "we will go to the home of the lady where I propose that you shall board while I am conducting the hunt for your missing bonds. You can satisfy yourself of her respectability before you remove to her home." The girl hesitated. "You need not hesitate. I will not only find your bonds, but I will find your uncle for you if he still be living, or his sons or daughters in case any of your cousins may be living." "Why should you take all this trouble on my behalf?" "I will confide to you a secret: I am a sort of detective. It is my duty to look out for you." "I will go with you," said the girl. Ike arranged to meet Jack later on and proceeded with Sara to the house of the lady where he proposed she should remain. The moment Sara was introduced to the lady the latter won the girl's confidence, and our hero left his charge with his friend, and the latter arranged to go with Sara and have her trunk removed. Meantime Ike met his comrade Jack, and the latter said: "Well, Ike, I yield the palm to you. Yes, sir, you are the most observant and quickest person I ever met. I thought I was great, but you are the greatest fellow on earth, in my opinion." "Well, it is strange how we chanced to fall to this girl, so beautiful and so helpless." "Yes, she is beautiful, and I will say that there are thousands of undeveloped romances in New York at this very moment." "Yes, that is true; if a man desires to get into an adventure of a strange character he can easily do it here in this great metropolis." "Say, Ike, she is a beautiful girl." "She is indeed. Have you fallen in love with her?" "I don't know." "I wish you'd find out," said Ike, with a very meaning smile on his face. "Hello! is that the case, Ike?" "Is what the case?" "Are you dead gone so soon?" "I don't know how I am, but she is a lovely girl and her case is a peculiar one." "And you have promised to recover her bonds?" "I have." "You have undertaken a big job." "You think so?" "I do." "I'll get them." "You will?" "Yes." "Have you a plan?" "I have." "Will you tell me your plan?" Ike revealed his plan to Jack, and the latter said: "Well, I'll be shot if you haven't a head for a detective, and it's right here where our gifts come in." "Yes, sir." "And you want me to aid you?" "Sure." "When will you start in?" "At once." The same afternoon that the incidents occurred which we have related, Ike, gotten up in good shape and furnished with a letter of introduction, called at the house where Sara Sidney had been robbed, and he succeeded in engaging board. He pretended to be an art student, and the first night he appeared at the dinner table he glanced around to take in the general appearance of his fellow boarders. He was just the lad to measure human faces. He had questioned Sara very particularly about her fellow boarders in the house, and he was well posted when he sat down to the table, after the usual introduction in a general way. The people he found to be the usual representative class that one finds in a city boarding-house. There was the doctor who occupied the rear parlor, a lawyer, two lady typewriters, one a creature who knew it all from A to Z. There were in all about twenty people in the house. Ike went over them all. He studied in his quiet, cute way every face, and did not see one person whom he was led to suspect, and the sequel will prove how unerring was his facial study of those people. When the meal was about half through there came bouncing into the room a young man. He was a bold-faced, bumptious sort of a chap, and as he took his seat he ran his eyes over the people assembled and then asked: "Where is Miss Sidney?" The landlady said: "She has left us." The young man was thoughtful a moment, and then asked: "When did she go?" "This afternoon." "What reason did she give for going?" There was an interested look in the young fellow's eyes as he asked the question. "She gave no reason." "Where has she gone?" "I do not know." "I must find out," said the youth. "I was greatly taken with Miss Sidney; she was a very charming young lady. We shall miss her." At that instant there came the announcement: "Miss Sidney left the house because she was robbed." Every one started. No one appeared to know who had spoken, but the young man gave a start, turned pale and asked in a voice that trembled perceptibly: "Who says she was robbed?" At that moment the landlady returned to the room. She saw that something had gone wrong. "What is the matter?" she asked. No one answered, and there followed a moment's awkward silence, broken at length by the bumptious young man, who said: "Some one stated that Miss Sidney left here because she had been robbed." The landlady's face flushed scarlet as she said: "Who made the statement?" No one answered. "It's false," said the landlady, "and I should like to know who said she had been robbed." "I said so." The voice appeared to come from the old maid typewriter, and the landlady at once exclaimed: "Miss Gaynor, did you state that Miss Sidney left here because she was robbed?" "I did not," declared Miss Gaynor, indignantly. "I said so," came a voice from the far end of the table. The landlady looked in the direction indicated. An old man sat there and the voice was that of an old man. "Did you say so, Mr. Smith?" "I did not, madam," declared the elderly gentleman in an angry tone. Again there followed a silence, when the landlady remarked: "It's very strange; if any one makes such a charge, I wish they would come out and do so openly." "Mr. Goodlove made the statement," came a voice. Mr. Goodlove was the bumptious young man. He at once rose to his feet and in an indignant tone declared: "It's a lie, I did not make the statement. Who says I did?" "I do," came the answer, and it appeared to come from the young lady typewriter number two, who was a pretty, delicate-looking young girl, quiet, modest, and least likely to speak out boldly. The man Goodlove looked at her and demanded: "Do you dare say I made the statement?" "I said nothing," she answered timidly, adding, "I did not speak at all." "What is all this ado about, anyhow?" came a voice. "Mr. Goodlove knows better than any one else that Miss Sidney was robbed; why does he pretend ignorance as to the cause of her leaving?" The young man turned ghastly. "Who spoke then?" he asked. "Oh, it's no use asking who spoke; you know all about the robbery." "Whoever says that is a liar." The landlady was becoming greatly excited. She said: "Miss Sidney did claim that she was robbed, but I have proof that she is an adventuress and a blackmailer. She told me she had been robbed and she really wanted to work upon my sympathies. She did not possess anything to be robbed of, and I told her she had better go away." "You did right," said Mr. Goodlove. "I did not wish to tell you, madam, but I suspected all along that the minx was an adventuress." A voice came, saying: "You've changed your mind; you said she was a lovely girl and that you were very much taken with her. Well, I reckon you did take." "Who spoke?" demanded Goodlove. "Oh, you know who spoke, and you know more about this whole affair than any one else. The police are after you." The man wilted as he asked: "Did Miss Sidney hint that I was the robber?" As Goodlove spoke his eyes wandered around to learn who it was who had addressed him. "No, she didn't accuse any one; you have accused yourself. You were seen, however, to deposit a whole lot of gold." "She didn't have any gold," came the excited declaration. Ike had _struck his man_ at last. It was a strange scene in that room at that moment, and the great mystery was who did the talking. No one appeared to know and there was great confusion, and it was because of the confusion that no one appeared to recognize, as stated, who was doing the talking. There came a voice demanding, when Goodlove said she had no gold: "How do you know? Were you rummaging in her trunk?" The man became confused; indeed, he looked as though about going into collapse. The most mysterious part of it all was the fact that no one knew who was doing the talking. The people looked into each other's faces and could not discern, and yet the voice sounded distinct and clear. Some one was talking. Who was it? During all this time Ike was as mute as an owl after dawn. He looked around with an inquiring and surprised look upon his face, seemingly as greatly mystified as any one, and the voice pitilessly continued: "Better be careful, Mister Man. The detectives have their eyes on you." Goodlove turned to the landlady and almost yelled: "Madam, send for an officer. This is going too far." "I will not have an officer in my house; no need." "But, madam, who is it insulting me?" "I do not know." The landlady was as much dazed and mystified as any one. The voice, however, ceased--became hushed; but a strange feeling pervaded those who had been witnesses and listeners during the strange scene. One after the other they rose and left the table and the room. Goodlove and Ike remained. The fellow looked over at Ike sharply and said: "Say, my friend, did you notice who used the insulting language?" The voice was again heard. It appeared to come from the hall and the words were: "That young man does not know anything about it. Don't question him, you thief." Goodlove rushed out to the hall. There was not a soul there. He ran up the stairs, but saw no one. Each one of the boarders had either retired to his room or had gone out. Ike left the table and passed Goodlove in the hall. He did not speak to the man, but went to the hatrack, secured his hat and stepped out to the street. Goodlove meantime entered the parlor and commenced pacing the floor. The landlady joined him. "Madam," he said, "this is a most extraordinary occurrence." "It is, sir." "You were present. You know who made those insulting remarks." "I do not." "I will know, madam." "I hope you will be able to learn, for the occurrence will do me great injury unless the mystery is explained." "There is no mystery about it. You have an impudent rascal in your house. Who is your new boarder?" "He came to me highly recommended." "It's all very strange, madam." "Can it be possible," asked the landlady, "that the new boarder is a detective?" Goodlove's face became ghastly. He walked more rapidly, and finally, seizing his hat from the hatrack, stepped out to the street. He had gone but a few steps, however, when a hand was laid on his shoulder--a heavy hand. The man would have shrieked if he had not been actually paralyzed with terror. "Hello, Goodlove," said the man who had seized him. "Where are you going?" The man trembled, but could not answer. "Well, we've got you, mister. But let me ask you, is this your first offense? If it is it's all the better for you, that's all. We may let up on you, but we've got you dead to rights." The man managed to gasp: "What do you mean?" "Oh, come off! We've got you all right. We didn't close in on you until we had all the proof. Where are the bonds you stole from Miss Sidney's trunk, and the money?" The detective talked in such a matter-of-fact tone, with such absolute assurance, that the culprit was all "broke up." He just wilted. "Who says I stole the bonds?" "Oh, come off! don't attempt that. Old man, see here; do you want to be locked up? Turn over the stolen property, and if this is your first offense I'll let you go; but if you attempt to deny or play 'possum I'll lock you up and you will go to Sing Sing Prison; that's all." "How strange!" muttered the prisoner. "Strange that you were found out?" "Yes." "Why, you fool, we knew all the time that you stole the bonds. Thieves always get found out, but it depends upon how smart they are in getting away. Crime never pays; criminals always come to a bad end. This is your first offense. You have learned a lesson that will last you all your life. It always pays to be honest; it's always a losing game to be dishonest. Now what is your decision? Will you go to jail or surrender the stolen property?" "If I surrender it will you let me off?" "As this is your first offense I will let you off, and as I do not wish to spoil your future chances I will say nothing about your guilt. But let me tell you, if you ever steal again you will surely be caught and will pay the full penalty." "I will surrender the property." CHAPTER VI. IKE RECOVERS THE BONDS THROUGH HIS FRIEND, DETECTIVE DU FLORE, AND HE AND HIS FELLOW VENTRILOQUIST FALL INTO NEW ADVENTURES. The property was surrendered--the bonds, all the jewelry and all the money to a cent--and placed in the hands of Ike, who, when he met his "side partner" at their home, said: "Well, Jack, I didn't need you. I caught my fish easy." "Yes, 'dead easy,' as the two robbers said." "They missed, I won." "You did." "So much for this adventure. To-morrow I will return the stolen property to the owner, and then----" "What then?" "We will lie around for a new adventure. We're having a heap of fun." "We are, and doing a heap of good even if I say it myself." On the day following the incidents we have related Ike and Jack in company called upon the young lady for whom they had done so great a service. She received them in the little parlor, but she appeared very anxious and careworn, and she said after the usual greetings: "I am very unhappy." "You are?" "I am." "Why?" "I cannot remain here with this good lady when I am unable to pay for my board." "What will you do?" asked Ike, a pleasant brightness in his eyes. "I do not know what I will do. I am already in her debt." "You are?" "Yes; she paid my board bill at the last place when she went with me to get my trunk." "And you think you will not be able to pay her?" "I do not know what I will do." "You can pay her when you recover your stolen property." "I will never recover that." "Did I not promise that I would recover it for you?" "Yes, in the goodness of your heart you did; but the lady here, with whom I am staying, says the chances are very much against my ever recovering my property." "And has she intimated that you had better find another home?" "On the contrary, she has told me I can remain here as long as I please--until I find my uncle or secure a position that will enable me to earn my living." "You can set your mind at rest; when I promise a thing I usually keep my promise. I will not keep you in suspense. Here is your property restored to you." The girl almost fainted, so great was her excitement. She could not speak for a full minute, but when she did find voice she exclaimed: "And you really have recovered all my property?" "You can recognize your own property; here it is." "This is wonderful." "It's jolly good, that's all. I said I would recover it and I've kept my word; and now you are independent." "Oh, I am so grateful! How did you do it?" "Well, we did it." "Who was the thief?" "One of the boarders in that house." "Who was the guilty party?" "Whom would you suspect?" "No one; they all seemed good people." "And you had no suspicion?" "I did not suspect any one particular person." "A young man named Goodlove was the thief." The girl stared. "He was the thief?" "Yes." "I never would have suspected him, he was so kind to me. He was the only one to whom I told anything about myself." "Yes, and he took advantage of your confidence in him to rob you." "I did not tell him I had any money." "He evidently suspected you did have, but all's well that ends well; and now you will remember I made you another promise." "You said you would find my uncle." "I said I would find him if he were living." "And can you succeed as you have in recovering this property?" "I can and will, if he is alive. And now can I advise you?" "Yes." "Make your home here for the present, until such time as we report as concerns the whereabouts of your uncle." "Now that I can pay my board I will gladly remain here. I propose to take music lessons and become a teacher. I shall be self-supporting. I am pretty well advanced in music already." "That is good. Can we call and see you occasionally?" "I shall always be delighted to have you call upon me; you have proved yourselves my real friends. But will you tell me how you managed to recover my bonds?" "Not to-day; some day we will tell you all about it." "And Goodlove--is he in jail?" "No, it was his first offense and we let him off. He will leave New York, however, and start afresh. I think he has learned a lesson and will become honest." On the day following Ike and Jack were at breakfast in a restaurant when they overheard the proprietor of the place and a customer discussing a great robbery that had taken place under the most startling circumstances. Ike, after the meal, secured a paper and read the account. The robbery was indeed a very startling one. An old miser had lived in a tumble-down house for twenty-odd years. No one knew that he possessed one cent; indeed, his neighbors were not aware that he was the owner of the old tumble-down house in which he resided. He was seldom seen on the streets, then only at night. He never begged alms, lived in the most frugal manner, as was supposed, as no one could tell where he did procure his food. He occupied the little old house alone, and, as stated, had gone on for years, never attracting any attention until one morning through the police the startling announcement was made that the old man was really a possible millionaire. Thieves had broken into his old house, chloroformed him and ransacked his apartments, and according to the old man's statement had carried off gold, bills, silver bonds, and securities to an amount which under all the circumstances appeared incredible. Indeed, as it appeared, the police had been in possession of the facts of the robbery for several days, but they had doubted the old man's story, doubted that he had ever possessed any property at all, but later revelations established the truthfulness of the old man's statement beyond all question. As it also appeared, the old man had gone to South America when a very young man. He had returned to New York twenty years previous to the time of the robbery, and had then purchased the old house where, for reasons of his own, he had lived seemingly the life of a miser. The papers spoke of him in contemptuous tones as an old miser, and said by intimation that it served him right to be robbed. It was a just retribution visited upon a man who for the pure love of possession had denied himself the comforts of life just to accumulate his hoards, which were useless to him and the thousands of needy people whom he might have aided. The robbery had been a very mysterious one. No one had been seen by any one lurking in the vicinity of the house, but some time between midnight and morning three men, as the old miser declared, had entered his house, had chloroformed him and then had deliberately gone all through his apartments and had taken everything of value they could lay their hands on. After the robbery, as it appeared, the old man had refused to take any one into his house as a guard. He did not relish the visits of the police, but declared that everything portable of any value had been taken. He had been very methodical and had the numbers of most of his bonds, and the usual notifications were sent to dealers; but it was well known that quite a number of the securities were unregistered and negotiable. Indeed, as it proved later, the old man was mistaken; the bulk of them were negotiable. Besides the securities, jewels of great value and hoards of gold and silver were taken. Ike and Jack read over the account and later met their friend, Detective Du Flore, who knew all about the case, and he said: "I was coming to see you. I wonder if we can get in on this job with any hope of success?" "I don't know about the hope of success," said Ike, "but we can get in on the job." "I will tell you something privately: there is an immense reward offered. It will be the job of our lives if we can run down those plunderers." "We can try." "Ike, you are a wonder, and hoping to have your aid I have had myself specially assigned to the case. My reputation for life will be made, and we will all receive a big sum of money. I owe my present reputation to you. The capture of those two burglars has set me away up, and if I can solve this mystery and run down the robbers I am a great man." "We will see what we can do." "It's a great case and some of the oldest men on the force are on it. I would like to prove a winner." "We will do the best we can." "You have a great head, Ike." "Thank you; I'll do the best I can." "What is your plan for a starter?" "I must have a chance to think the matter over. It will take me two or three days to make up my mind, but let me tell you, Du Flore, I have an idea that we can solve this mystery and get on the thieves." "We are just made for life if we can. When will you see me again?" "In a few days or in a few hours possibly," said Ike. The detective and the ventriloquist separated, and as Ike and Jack walked away the former said: "Jack, we've got a big job on hand. Let's walk down and take a look at the old miser's house, for to-night we may wish to play burglar." "What do you mean?" "I am going to take great chances. I am going to get into that house." "Sneak in?" "Yes." "You will get into a scrape, I fear." "Eh, Jack, do you fear? I did not think you knew what fear meant." Jack laughed and said: "Don't take me so quick, Ike. All I intended to convey was that we should be cautious. That house will be under surveillance. It might prove awkward if you were caught sneaking into the old man's place." "Would you sneak in if you had a plan?" "To own up square, I would." "All right; we won't be caught, and if we do, with your brave aid we'll get out of the scrape. I've an idea--a very funny one. I won't tell it to you now, or even you might call me a crank. But I tell you, I am going to take big chances and get into the old man's house on the sly, in spite of the police, detectives and every one else. I've a scheme." The two lads arrived in the vicinity of the house and scanned the surroundings very carefully, and as they walked away Ike said: "We have a chance for a joke on hand, Jack." "Yes, I am on to it." "What are you on to?" "We have been spotted and a detective is on our track." "Yes, a snide. We'll give him a lesson." "When?" "Oh, we'll shake him now, but to-night we'll show up again and have our fun, and with our fun we'll do some business." The ventriloquists were right. They had been spotted and a "snide" detective was on their track, and the youths did succeed in giving him the "shake," and they just kept under cover until night, when, having fully arranged for their adventures, they issued forth and proceeded again down to the old miser's house, and just as they suspected the "snide" detective got on to their track again, and the second time he started in to follow them he was satisfied he had struck something. As Ike and Jack walked away the former said: "Now the fun commences. We will give that fellow a great steer." Ike and Jack were both well posted all over the city of New York, and they proceeded to a public-house which had been for years under the surveillance of the police. It was a regular thieves' resort and many a bad fellow had been trailed from that very house. Once in the house they sat down at a table and called for their beer, and, as both suspected, in a few moments the "snide" entered. He pretended to be looking at everything else but the two youths, when in reality he was watching every movement. Ike had been revolving in his mind how to give the fellow a layout. He knew the man well. He was a real "snide"--a detective beat--in fact, not a genuine detective, but the agent of a detective agency. He thought himself, however, very smart. Ike, as stated, knew the house well, and knew that a number of very prominent politicians were in the habit of gathering in a back room on the second floor, where they indulged a little game of cards _for fun only_, and discussed their political plans. They were men away up politically, not thieves in the general sense of the word; at least, they were not liable to arrest, and they were very bold and resolute and had a very high idea of themselves. Even while Ike sat there he saw two of these men enter the place and pass through a rear side door to the hall. Ike knew these men well. He was aware, as stated, that they met in this room to discuss their political plans. They were in session, and after a little while the "snide" who had been watching the two ventriloquists crossed over to the table where they were sitting and pretended to have met one of them before. "See here, mister," said Ike, "you are barking up the wrong tree." The man gazed in astonishment. "We are not under glances now, but there's bigger game in this house." The "snide" recognized at once that the two young fellows were "on to him," as the saying goes. "Who are you fellows anyhow?" he demanded. "Oh, we're just out, we are. You have no use for us, nor we for you." "You say there's bigger game in this house?" "Yes, there is." "Give me the points." "Oh, you can't work it alone." "I can't?" "No." "You give me the points and we will see if I can." "Go and get your pard. It will take two of you, and I'll let you on to a big call. I want to get square; that's how I stand." "You put me on to a big lay and I'll make it worth your while." "You will?" "I will. You know me, don't you?" "I only know you are a cop, that's all." "Did I ever have any dealings with you?" "Never; but I want to get square. There are a couple of men in this house who swore us away once." Our readers will bear in mind that both the ventriloquists were under a disguise that permitted them to play the role they were working at that moment. "What is the lay?" "Oh, it's the old miser business. I knew the moment that thing came out who did that job." "It may be you did," said the detective wisely. "Do you think we were in it?" "You may have been." "Then take us, and we'll have the laugh on you and the real game will skip. I say I can set you on to a dead sure game to prove your arrest." "You can?" "I can." "How?" "When I agree I can do it easy enough, but you had better get a pard. These villains are wild fellows; they might do you up." "I'll take chances." "You will?" "I will." "All right; I'll give you the points." CHAPTER VII. IKE RESORTS TO A VERY CUNNING TRICK AND USES HIS GREAT GIFT IN A VERY REMARKABLE MANNER--HIS JOKE IS FOLLOWED BY STARTLING RESULTS. The man's face beamed. He believed he was on to a big thing. We have not attempted to go into the full details and describe just how Ike got down to his deception. We have just outlined the conversation, but for the purpose he had in view our hero talked straight to the point and his proposition was not an unreasonable one; it was just the dodge to hook a fellow of the stripe of the "snide." Our hero knew just how to work his trick and adapted his plan to his man. Ike had his fish well hooked, and then he became very confidential. He told his man to go to the rear room and play off so as not to attract attention. The man obeyed and a little later Ike joined him, and then, after looking around furtively, still maintaining his play, he said: "In the rear room upstairs are the fellows who robbed the old miser. They are discussing a division of the swag. Now, if you want proof I'll go up the stairs with you and you can overhear their talk and get all the points--get your men located." The detective's eyes bulged. He, of course, recognized the possibility that Ike was giving him a "steer," and then again it was possible he was giving him the real facts. "You needn't take my word," said Ike. "All you have to do is listen at the door. They are not looking for eavesdroppers. Make sure of your points, then away with your information, get your aids and capture the whole gang. I'll teach those fellows to give it to me in the neck," concluded our wily hero. The "snide" and Ike stepped into the hall and noiselessly moved up the stairs, and as they approached the door of the room where the politicians were the "snide" heard the murmur of voices. No ventriloquistic trick was ever played better in imitating the murmur of several voices behind a closed door, and as the "snide" drew close to the door a voice was heard to exclaim: "Hold on! that is not a square deal." "What do you want--the earth?" came the retort. "No, but I want my share of the negotiable bonds," came the answer. "You fellows are taking all the easy things and giving me the registered ones. They're no good, you know, and I want you fellows to remember I fell to that old miser and it was I who put up the job. We made a good haul without any blood-letting. I want a square deal, I do. Everything is hunky; we've given the police a dead steer away and we're all right. Don't you fellows try to rob me, do you hear?" The "snide" heard and his face became radiant. He stepped away from the door and said to Ike: "You go away. It's dangerous to be around here." Little did the speaker know how dangerous it really was. He was destined to experience the full force of the danger in a most remarkable manner a few moments later, for Ike managed to perform a second marvelous ventriloquistic trick--one of the most wonderful of all. He managed to make, seemingly, a woman scream in a shrill tone: "Look out, in that room! There's a sneak peeping at the door." The words had hardly left the woman's lips, as it appeared, when the door opened. The "snide" was actually caught with his ear to the keyhole, so suddenly had the door opened. Well, a scene followed. The politicians were really discussing a very important political matter. They looked upon the "snide" as a sneak who was merely seeking for information to steal it, and they were mad. Indeed, there was danger around there just at that moment. As intimated, the politicians were mad; they believed this "ward heeler," as they mistook the "snide" to be, had gotten on to their whole little affair. They did not stand on ceremony--they just broke loose. They were all really toughs, and the way they went for Mister Snide was lovely to behold, especially had any one been present who really recognized what a mean sneak the "snide" was. "Let me get at him," cried one politician. No one interfered. He was permitted to get at him and the first blow knocked the "snide" to the landing of the stairs. The second blow was a terrific kick which sent him headlong down the steps. He, fortunately for himself, did not break his neck in his descent, and gained his feet and made a rush into the bar on his way to the door to the street, but he did not get there before one of the politicians was at his heels. He received a kick that lifted him clear off the floor, then another man took a rap at him, and at each kick up he leaped involuntarily; so, with kicks and raps, he was knocked clear out to the street, and there stood the two ventriloquists to see him come forth. Ike expected him, and the young fellow's expectations were not disappointed; a worse laying out no sneak ever received. The man fell helpless on the sidewalk, and when a policeman ran to his aid he told his tale and yelled: "Arrest those men. They are the robbers of the old miser." The policeman believed the man drunk or crazy, and rapped for assistance, and when his mate joined him they toted him off to the station. All the way the man protested, and when he arrived at the station he told his tale to the sergeant. The latter was bound to give the story his attention. He led the man back to the resort and up to the room. The politicians had reassembled. The sergeant knocked for admission and was let in. Well, a scene followed. The sergeant knew every man present in the room, knew that none of them were crooks, and he was confirmed in the impression that the man was drunk or crazy. The "snide" was led back to the station house and put in a cell. He yelled and protested, and no wonder. He foamed at the mouth in his excitement. The most partial observer would have counted him crazy. Ike and Jack, however, had accomplished their purpose. Our hero said: "The road is clear now; that fellow was hanging around the old miser's house all the time. Now I reckon I can make an entrance and interview the old man." The two ventriloquists proceeded down to the old house and arrived just in time to meet another embarrassment. A policeman entered the house just as they arrived in sight. "Hello, Ike," said Jack; "what's that?" "A disagreeable discovery." "That fellow is probably going to remain in the house over night." "It looks so, and yet the papers said the old man had a guard and had declined to go to other quarters." "We must get rid of that fellow." "It is possible he will not remain there." The hour was about eleven o'clock and Jack, after looking at his timepiece, said: "Possibly he has just entered to see that everything is all right with the old man." The lads waited around for about an hour, when to our hero's delight he saw the policeman come from the house. The two young men had made a thorough search around the neighborhood and were convinced that there was no one on the watch. After the policeman had been gone some little time Ike bade Jack remain on the watch. The daring young man then leaped the gate of the old alleyway and passed around to the rear of the house. He saw the glimmer of a light shooting forth from the windows of the room on the second floor. He remained a moment studying the rear of the house, then descended the areaway and in a few moments managed to gain an entrance, although the door was bolted on the inside; but the woodwork had rotted and he easily gained an entrance, as stated. All was cold and damp. As he stepped inside the hallway he drew his mask lantern and glanced around. It was a dreary sight that met his view. "I reckon," he muttered, "the old man never comes down here and it is a wonder he is alive, living over all this filth and decay." On tiptoe Ike ascended to the parlor floor. He entered the front parlor, and as he flashed his light around he experienced a shock of surprise. There were articles of great value lying around; marble statues had rolled from their pedestals and had fallen to the floor, and on the walls were very valuable paintings, their frames moldy and the pictures apparently ruined. There was one picture that had been covered, and at a glance our hero discerned that it had been cared for--the only article in the room which had evidently ever been dusted or cleaned. "A picture of the old fellow's wife," thought Ike, and after a moment he added: "I will have a glance at it." The young man was doing a nervy piece of business, and yet he was as cool and deliberate as though in his own house. He moved about with great care and in a noiseless manner, and he advanced to the picture, removed the cloth, flashed his light upon it and recoiled as though gazing at an apparition. It was the one great surprise of his life. There he stood, as he supposed gazing upon a portrait of Sara Sidney, the beautiful girl whom he had served in such a signal manner. He stood gazing in rapt attention, and so engrossed was he that he did not observe a counter-light in the room, nor become aware of the presence of another until he was startled almost to a condition of terror when a voice demanded: "Who are you, and what do you want here?" Ike turned and beheld a strange-looking old man standing within a few feet of him. In his hand the old man held a light, and his deep, sunken eyes were illuminated with a strange gleam as their glance rested on the ventriloquist. "Are you Mr. Ward?" "I am Mr. Ward," came the answer. "Who are you?" "Your friend." The old man chuckled and said: "You are here to rob me, I suppose; but, Mr. Burglar, there is nothing left for you. The scoundrels who came here before took everything--yes, everything." "I did not come here to rob--I came here to aid you." "To aid me?" "Yes." "I don't need aid; if I do there is aid at hand." "You don't understand me." "Well, let me understand you." "I came here as your friend." The old man chuckled again, and said: "I need no friends. I've lived many years independent of all friendship. But what do you think of that picture?" There came an eager light in the old man's eyes as he asked the question. "That picture is a mystery to me." "A mystery?" "Yes." "Why?" "I hardly dare tell you." "Do you know anything about that picture?" "Shall I speak right out?" "Certainly." "I know the original of that picture." "Young man, you lie, and you need not come here with any such wild story. Hark you, I have but to give an alarm--touch a button--and I will have a whole platoon of police here." "You do not need the police." "How do I know?" "I will convince you." "You will convince me?" "I will." "Do so." "I repeat, I know the original of that picture." "Are you a maniac or a rogue?" "I am neither." "Let me look in your face." Ike stood with his face turned toward the strange old man. The latter thrust his light forward and carefully studied the ventriloquist's features. "You do not look like a rogue or a maniac." "I am neither." "Then why did you force yourself into my house?" "I came here as your friend." "I need no friends." "Yes, you need me." "I do?" "Yes." "How is it I need you?" "I am going to do you a great service." "You are?" "I am." "How?" "I will recover your bonds and all the property stolen from you." The old man again laughed in a strange, weird manner, and said: "That is what they all told me. I have not yet seen my bonds and jewels." "We will talk about that later on. What I desire to know is, who is the lady whose portrait I see here?" "What business is it of yours who the lady is?" "I tell you I know the original." "Then why do you ask me who she is?" The question was a cute one. "There is a mystery here." "Is there?" "There is." The old man appeared to be a clear-headed, nervy individual, although he might be a miser. "What is the mystery?" "I said I knew the original of that picture." "You did." "I will say I know one for whom that picture might be taken as a portrait." "You do?" "I do." "Who is the person?" The old man was again all eagerness and attention. "I will not say yet, but I would like to know who the real original of the picture is." "I would first like to know who you are and how you dared force an entrance into my house." "You shall know all about me later on." "Oh, yes, that is what you said, but it is not satisfactory. You say you know one for whom that picture might be accepted as the portrait?" "I do." "The picture is mine." "I will not dispute that, but I tell you there is a mystery. I can see now that the party I know is not the original of the portrait, but the likeness is very remarkable--yes, wonderful. The party I know could be a twin sister." "Say, young man, what is it you are trying to accomplish?" "On my honor, sir, I am telling the truth. Is your real name Ward?" The old man showed signs of great excitement as he demanded: "What business is it of yours who I am?" "Is your real name Sidney?" The old man uttered a cry, and advancing toward Ike seized his arm and demanded: "What do you mean? Who are you?" "We had better settle right down to full confidences, Mr. Sidney. I tell you I am your friend." "Will you explain your words?" "I will." "Do so." "I asked you if your name was Sidney." "You did." "I know a young lady named Sidney who could be taken for the original of that picture. I concluded she must be a family connection; indeed, I am in the habit of putting little bits of evidence together and I arrived at a conclusion, following a suspicion aroused by the strange resemblance; that's all. I am telling you the truth." "You look like an honest youth. Come upstairs with me. We will talk this matter over. My name is Ward; yes, my name is Ward, but I once knew a man named Sidney. He was the friend of my boyhood. I have not seen or heard from him for many, many years." "Did he go to California?" "Yes, he went to California. Yes, yes, I remember he did; but come upstairs. I wish to talk to you." The old man led the way to the room on the second floor, and, remembering what he had seen in the lower part of the house, Ike was surprised to behold the air of comfort and neatness presented in this apartment. "Sit down," said the old man. Ike obeyed and the old miser continued in an eager tone: "Now tell me about this girl who you say is the daughter of my old friend Sidney." CHAPTER VIII. IKE MAKES A MOST REMARKABLE DISCOVERY AND ALSO PICKS UP CLUES WHICH ENABLE HIM TO START OUT INTELLIGENTLY ON A SHADOW FOR THE BOND THIEVES. Ike had his own suspicions, but he did not project them. He was going very slow, as he hoped to draw the old man on and force him to a very startling confession. He told the story of Sara Sidney--told it in a straightforward, simple manner. The old man listened attentively and betrayed considerable emotion, and he muttered: "How unfortunate I have been robbed! How much I might have done for this daughter of my old friend! But alas! I am a poor man now--yes, a poor man." "All your wealth can be recovered." "Oh, they all say that." "Who says so?" "The detectives who have been here; but they will never recover one dollar. I will never get my property back." "That is what your niece said," projected Ike suddenly. The old man almost screamed as he said: "My niece! What do you mean?" "I will speak plainly. I cannot be deceived--this man Sidney was more to you than a friend. I recovered the stolen property of Sara Sidney; I will recover your property." "Who are you, young man?" "You may call me the devil or Tom Walker if you choose, it makes no difference. I will recover your property, and now I tell you I know your name is Sidney and the girl I know is your niece, and that accounts for the wonderful resemblance to the portrait of your daughter." The old man glared. Ike, as our readers will observe, was pressing right ahead in his impressions. He had arrived at a conclusion and he was assuming a tone calculated to force the old man to an admission. He said: "You need not fear. Your niece is independent; she will not become a burden to you. She is a brave, true, energetic young girl. She has some means--enough to maintain her until she is in a position to support herself by her labor. I tell you, when you see her you will be proud of her." The old man was very thoughtful for some moments but finally he said: "Can I trust you, young man?" "Yes, you can trust me." "My real name is Sidney. I did have a brother who went to California. This is all very strange. I have not heard from my brother for nearly thirty years. If what you say is true this girl may be my niece. When can I see her?" "You cannot see her until I have caught the thieves and restored the property or come to you and admit that I have failed." The old man appeared dazed and Ike said: "Tell me your story. Yon can trust me." "I believe I can," said the old man; "I will. I have admitted that my name is Sidney, and that I am a brother of the Sidney who went to California. I went to South America and while there met a young American girl, the daughter of the United States consul. She became my wife and one child was born to us; but alas! my wife died, carried off by fever, ere the child was a year old, and from that moment I devoted my life to my daughter. I am of humble birth, and I set to work to accumulate a great fortune for my child. I brought out masters from Europe to educate her. She was beautiful, amiable, bright and accomplished, and I was happy. But alas! death came stealing along one night and wrapped its cold arms around my child, and I laid her beside her mother. From that moment I lost all ambition, all interest in life. I had heard many years previously that my brother was dead. I had never heard of his marriage and did not suppose he had left a child. Strange fate! I live, but my child is gone; he has gone and his child lives. I converted all my wealth into bonds, money, jewels and securities, and I came home to America. They call me a miser, alas! In my own way, secretly, I have been aiding the poor and needy for twenty-odd years. The portrait you see is a portrait of my child. In the South, you know, girls mature very fast. She was but thirteen when she died. Well, I have had no interest in life. I fear nothing, I have cared for nothing. I have only been waiting for death to come and claim me. His visit has been long delayed and now my wealth is gone. I did not care, but now I do care, for if you are not deceiving me I would have had something for the child of my brother; and you say she resembles the portrait. Well, when my brother and I were boys we greatly resembled each other. And now listen to me: I accept your gage. I will not ask to see my niece until you have made good your promise; either you shall recover my fortune or you shall come to me and say you have failed." "It will be strange if I ever come to you and say that I have failed. You can trust me. I seek no reward, but I believe I can recover your fortune, and now I have a double motive for doing so." There came a quick, searching glance to the old man's eyes, but he said nothing until after an interval, when he declared: "Recover the fortune and you shall not complain of your reward." "Have you talked much to the detectives?" "I have not, because until now I was indifferent." "If I can secure the slightest clue I will promise success. Have you any recollection of the appearance of either of the men?" "Yes; I had a struggle with them before they chloroformed me." The old man proceeded and gave quite an accurate description of one of the men. "This is great!" said Ike, and he asked: "Where did the struggle take place?" "Down in my parlor. I heard them down there as I heard you, despite your care, and there I met and fought them until overpowered." Ike went down to the parlor. He spent one minute gazing at the portrait and then set to work. He had associated so much with detectives he had their methods down to a fine point; and besides, as our readers know, he was naturally a perfect wonder in shrewdness and cunning. He drew his mask lantern and the old man asked: "Are you a detective?" "A sort of amateur," came the answer. Ike got down on the floor, face forward, and flashed the light of his mask lantern over every inch of the carpet, asking questions of the old man as to just where the first grapple commenced, and soon he cried, "Eureka!" The old man had become eagerly interested. "What have you found?" "All I need, added to your description." Ike had come across several strands of hair. He rose from the floor and held the threads under the full glare of his lantern, and the old man exclaimed: "I remember; yes, I did grasp one of them by the hair and must have pulled a few locks." "Hardly a few locks, but enough," said Ike. The young ventriloquist obtained what he most desired. He had the description, as stated, and he knew the color of the hair of at least one of the robbers. Let him find one of them and he well knew he would not only run down the men but the "swag." He felt quite jubilant, and after a long talk with Mr. Sidney, in which he gave the old gentleman very minute instructions, he passed out the front door, and as he did so a man seized him. "Hello, young fellow! what are you doing in there?" came the question. "I am not in there; I am out here," answered Ike coolly, and at the same instant Jack ran up and said: "Look out for that fellow, Ike. He's a bad one." "I want you," said the man. Ike suddenly drew his mask lantern, which he had not extinguished, and flashed the light straight in the fellow's face. The man uttered an oath, drew a revolver and made as if to strike Ike a blow, but instead he received a rap on the head which felled him as though he had been hit with an iron bar. As the man fell Ike leaped over his form and he and Jack sped away. Our hero had reasons for speeding away, for he believed he was on to a great thing. Once out of sight Jack asked: "What happened; Ike?" "Wonders upon wonders, Jack; it's a night of wonders. I can't stop to tell you now; but who is that fellow? You said he was a bad one." "I'll tell you. While I was waiting for you I saw him and another man come stealthily down the street. I stole behind them and overheard their conversation. They were not looking for you, but some one else. I think when you came forth they mistook you for the man they were looking for." "They are not officers?" "No." "We must trail that fellow. He is probably associated with the robbers." The two ventriloquists worked a transform and separated, but both were making for the one objective point and both got on to the trail of the man whom Jack had so opportunely knocked over just as he aimed a blow at Ike. As intimated, they got on the trail of the man and followed him until he met a second man on the Bowery. The latter had come from a saloon--a brilliantly illuminated gin palace. He stood right under the glare of the electric lights and Ike had a clear, full view of him. "There's our man," said Ike. "What do you mean, Iky?" Quickly Ike stated that he had received a clue and that he identified the man standing in the doorway of the gin palace beyond all question as one of the burglars. "This is great!" said Jack. "Let's close in on him, and I'll try a little hypnotism on him." "You may have plenty of chance yet for the exercise of your mysterious power, Jack." We will here state that Jack had given Ike an exhibition of his wondrous gift as a hypnotist. Ike was the greater ventriloquist, but he did not possess the hypnotic power; while Jack possessed it, as the readers of his former adventures as recorded in Number 19 of our series are aware, to a remarkable degree. Ike was not naturally excitable. He was singularly cold-blooded, but upon discovering his man so soon his blood did course rather rapidly through his veins. There is one other fact we wish to state: burglars, as a rule, do not leave the great cities. They find them safer hiding-places than anywhere else, despite the great number of detectives hovering around. There are all sorts of burglars--the bunglers and the accomplished chaps who proceed on almost scientific principles. These men are strategic. They study out all their plans weeks in advance. They calculate all their chances, both to accomplish their burglaries and also to prepare for their retreat and hiding. Ike calculated that the men who had robbed Mr. Sidney were accomplished and veteran crooks who would be likely to remain in the city, especially after making such a big haul; and when he secured the specific clue he calculated upon finding his man, but certainly did not hope to drop on him so soon. "What shall we do?" asked Jack, after a few moments. "We will follow this fellow. He will go home by and by, and----" The lads did follow the man, but he did not go home, and they were destined to have quite a long shadow ere they ran their game down. They located him in his haunts, but did not trail to any permanent abiding-place; and finally, well on toward morning, they returned to their home well wearied out but hopeful. Ike was sure the man would remain in the city and that he could locate him almost any time when he needed. It was late on the following afternoon when our hero visited Sara Sidney. He listened to a long and hopeful talk of the girl's plans. He did not say anything direct, but did project: "Suppose you should find your uncle, and he should disapprove of your plans?" "I do not expect ever to find my uncle." "Well, now, I once made you a promise." "I know you did, but remember, it is thirty years since my father saw his brother." "Well, some men live to a pretty old age. I am sure I will find your uncle." "What makes you so certain?" "Oh, it came to me in a vision. Yes, I will make you a positive promise: I will find your uncle. I know that he is alive, or was a few weeks ago." The girl became quite interested, and she looked very animated and beautiful as she urged Ike to tell her how he had learned that her uncle was living a few weeks previously. Ike, however, did not tell his tale, but he hoped to tell her in the near future, and with it also add the wonderful narrative of the recovery of a great fortune. Three weeks passed, and during that time either Ike or Jack or Detective Du Flore was on the trail of the light-haired man whom our hero had identified as one of the robbers. One day Jack asked: "Ike, are you sure you have the right man?" "Yes, I am sure, and we'll get down to him." "Possibly the fellow knows we are on his track." "No, but he is well aware that detectives are liable to be on his track and he is playing away from his lair; but he'll go home sure." On the day following the conversation recorded Ike was on the trail. All three did not "dog" the man at one time--they did so alternately. It was Ike's "tour," as boatmen say, and the ventriloquist struck his "lay" at last. Hope is the propelling force of energy, and it was constant hope that made our hero so persistent on the track of his man. Often during the three weeks he had visited Sara Sidney. He enjoyed her importunity as she urged him to explain what he meant when he told her that he knew her uncle was still living. It was delightful to him. The girl was a constant charm to him when in her presence, and a memory of her sweet personality haunted him when he was away from her. Yes, he had a strong motive for sticking to the trail, and, as intimated, he at length fell to a great lead. He had followed his man to Staten Island, or rather followed him on board one of the Staten Island boats, and then a great game commenced. He saw the thief wander all over the boat scanning the face of every man and woman on board, and the ventriloquist made a second discovery. He had seen the man exchange signals with a fine-looking lady on board, and as the burglar wandered around Ike saw the lady watch him in a most intent manner, and he muttered as a great suggestion came to him: "At last! At last!" CHAPTER IX. IKE'S PERTINACITY IS REWARDED IN A MOST REMARKABLE MANNER--HE PROVES ALL THEORIES AND REDEEMS ALL PROMISES. The exchange of signals between the burglar and the woman was an incident of great significance to our hero. The burglar was a very gentlemanly looking and acting man--a fellow far above the usual personality of robbers. Ike was after him, however, and in his own mind had arrived at a conclusion. A little time passed. The man made the circuit of the boat, appeared to be satisfied and returned to the cabin where the woman sat. He walked boldly up to her and they engaged in a very earnest conversation, while our hero muttered: "At last! At last!" When the boat reached the landing the woman went ashore alone, and Ike was in a dilemma. He did not wish to lose sight of either of them. He believed he was not only on to the burglars, but also going direct toward the hiding-place of the stolen property. He decided to follow the woman, but knew how necessary it was to be very careful. We will here state that nearly all burglars have women confederates, and we will also state that the most romantic dénouements have time and again followed the running down of an expert burglar. Burglars are not all vulgar, rough men. Some of them are rascals possessing æsthetic tastes. The police records will show that many burglars have been married to very reputable women whom they have kept in total ignorance of their criminal life. It is upon the records that burglars have been known to be very fond of their families. Of course, these cases are exceptions, as the usual housebreaker is a vulgar rascal. Ike, however, knew of many singular romances connected with criminals and believed that he had fallen to one, a romance of a peculiarly exceptional character. As stated, he desired to follow the woman, but did not dare show his hand. He left the boat, however, and a few moments later saw the burglar pass around to the returning boat. It was evident he had met the woman and was about to return to New York. Ike boarded the Staten Island rapid transit train. He had seen the woman go on the train and she rode to the third station, where she alighted. Our hero was on the alert. He alighted from the train also. His disguise was a good one. Again, in a rural district he could lay away back. He followed the lady until to his surprise he saw her enter a very handsome villa house, and then he remembered he had overheard just one word between the lady and the burglar. As he saw her enter that villa residence he fell to the significance of the man's words. He intended to visit the house that night, and our hero was put to his wits' end to decide upon his course in the emergency. Two propositions were presented to him: Was the stolen property in the villa, and did the man intend to come that night and take it away, or did he intend to remove it from some other place and hide it in the villa? The ventriloquist meditated a long time and finally decided he had the burglar located. He had the villa located. He had reason to believe the man was to visit the villa that night. The chances favored a double catch--the burglars and the "swag." Ike determined to return to New York, notify Jack and Du Flore and with them return to Staten Island and stand ready for a grand dénouement. Before returning, however, he "piped" the house a bit and saw a man greet the woman as she stepped upon the grand piazza. He then returned to the station, muttering as he went: "It will be great luck if we capture both burglars and all the swag. Great ginger! what a man the young Detective Du Flore will be!" Our hero arrived in the city, got in communication with his detective friend and told his story. Du Flore was all excitement. He said: "Ike, you have got on to the whole business, sure, and you've done it all yourself. Yes, that property is in that villa. We will have a great sensation for the public, who are never tired of great sensations, but we will give them a dandy this time, sure." Ike, Jack and the detective got themselves up in first-class disguises, and taking different boats proceeded singly to the Island, where they all arrived just about dark. They met and our hero indicated the road to the villa, and some time later they were all laying low and on the watch near the house where they expected to make the capture of the season. It had been arranged between Ike and Jack to exchange signals, but it was some hours before they had the opportunity and then Ike signaled that their man had arrived. Our hero recognized his gait. The rogue went straight to the villa, which was illuminated on the first and second floors, and the woman evidently heard the step, for she came to the door to meet her friend. The ventriloquists and detective came together and held a few moments' conversation, and it was decided that Ike should steal into the house, as he was the one most experienced in that sort of work. Ike started right in. He had reconnoitered the house earlier in the day and knew just where to effect an entrance. He succeeded, and once in the house he went very slow. He saw no servants and decided they had all retired; or, as it proved later, had been granted a holiday, for only one servant was in the house. As it also proved, this servant was really a confederate and had retired. Ike observed that all the lights on the lower floor had been extinguished, and he ascended to the second floor and fell to his old game of peep and listen. The man and woman were seated at a table. The latter was a sharp, shrewd-faced woman. Ike heard the man say: "Mosely will not be here to-night." "Then what do you propose to do?" "Look over the swag." "Do you not think it risky?" "No, the detectives have given it up as a bad job." "How do you intend to make a division?" "The jewels are all yours. The money and bonds we will take." The woman's face betrayed her delight. "All right," she said; "such a division is agreeable to me. I will bring the bonds and let you count them over." "Are all the windows tightly closed?" "We can close them." "Do so." The woman did close all the windows, and then going to an adjoining room returned in a few moments, bearing in her arms, we will say, a bundle of bonds. Ike well recognized the documents. He had seen so many bonds--indeed, had captured so many at different times from thieves. The woman laid the certificates on the table and the man said: "Where are the jewels and the money?" "I thought they were to be my share." "Certainly, but I wish to look them over. I wish to see the full amount of our great capture." The woman's face displayed a little disconcertion, but she went to the adjoining room and soon returned, bringing with her a jewel case and a bag which clinked, showing its contents to be gold. The man opened the bag and tossed gold and bills on the table, and his eyes glittered as his glance fell upon the wealth. Ike had seen enough for the time being. He slid down the stairs, gave a signal and was joined by his friends. To them he told the wondrous news. He said: "We've got it all. It's right to our hands." As stated, he told the tale and then led his companions into the house. A programme had hastily been arranged. They all gathered at the door of the room. Just one moment they stood and then there sounded a wild, weird shriek, and it appeared to be in the very room where the robber and his female pal were counting the gold and examining the jewels. The shriek had been sent forth with a purpose. Both the man and the woman were paralyzed with terror, so sudden had come the yell, in all its shrill and piercing distinctness. As they stood and gazed Du Flore, armed with a pair of cocked revolvers, entered the room. The man attempted to draw a weapon, but Du Flore called out: "Hold on there! you're covered." Ike and Jack entered the room. Both were armed, and Ike went directly to the woman and in a strange, weird voice said: "You do not wish to die." "Throw up your hands," commanded Du Flore. The man did not obey. The click of a hammer sounded in his ears and he muttered: "It's all up with us, Maggie. Who is to blame?" Du Flore was a powerful fellow. He suddenly leaped forward and quicker than a wink struck the man a blow that felled him to the floor. The robber was unprepared, and fell as though shot; and Jack, ever ready as usual, clapped the darbies on him while Ike with singular dexterity performed the same service for the woman, and the job was over. It had been a bold, well-played game from first to last. The bonds and gold and jewels were scooped into a bag, the man and woman were led down the stairs, and a little later the whole party were on board one of the Staten Island ferryboats. Jack remarked: "The servants in that house will wonder where their mistress is when they walk downstairs in the morning." The two prisoners were taken to headquarters, and within two hours the "pard" of the robber was captured on information which the chief of police secured from the woman. The mystery of the robbery had been solved, and on the following morning our hero proceeded to the home of Mr. Sidney. He found the old gentleman in his usual placid humor, but he did display just a little excitement when Ike said: "I'm ready now to introduce you to your niece." The old man stared. "Is it possible?" he ejaculated. "Yes, sir, it is possible. It's true your fortune has been recovered--every bond, every dollar, every jewel." The old man stood a moment lost in deep thought, and finally he said: "This is indeed wonderful--yes, very wonderful!" "It is true, and now I go to prepare your lovely niece to receive you." Ike did proceed to the home of Sara Sidney. He found the young lady in quite a happy mood, and her lovely face became radiant as she entered the little parlor where Ike waited to meet her. "I am so glad you have come." "Indeed!" "Yes." "Do you anticipate the news I have to tell you?" "I do not." "I have great news for you, but first let me tell you a strange tale." Ike proceeded and told the tale of the robbery--told it as though he were merely relating an interesting story with which Miss Sidney had no connection--and proceeded and told how he and his friend Jack, with Detective Du Flore, had recovered all the stolen bonds, money and jewels. The girl listened and was deeply interested, evidently believing that Jack was merely telling a tale of his success, and she said when he had concluded: "You are one of the greatest detectives on earth." "I will not lay claim to that distinction until I have found your uncle. You know I told you I had a clue." "Yes, and it would be so strange if after all these years I should meet my father's brother, my uncle." "Would you like to meet him?" "How can you ask such a question? Do you know what it means to be alone in the world?" "Yes, I know exactly what it means to be alone in the world. I am alone in the world. I do not know that I have a living relative on earth." "Ike, you never told me your story." "Shall I tell you my story?" "Yes; I should be delighted to hear it." "I will tell it to you. All I can remember of my earliest days is that I was traveling around the world from city to city with a strange man who bade me call him uncle. He was a great magician. He taught me his trade. I had a natural aptitude for the business. I evidently possessed a gift in that direction, and he cultivated my natural gift so that I became a wonder to him and a wonder to myself. Well, one day, without any previous warning, the old man announced to me here in New York that he was going away--to leave me. I was amazed and heart-broken. He had been in America a year when he made the announcement. He would not tell me why he deserted me; he would not tell me where he was going and would not assure me that I should ever see him or hear from him again. And what was stranger still, although I knew that he was rich--for together we had been very successful--he was leaving me practically penniless. All he gave me was five dollars, and when I reproached him he said: "'You can earn the money you need with your wonderful gift.' He gave me a great deal of good advice as concerned my conduct while making the struggle of life." "Did you not ask him about your parentage?" "I did, but he refused to give me any information." "Did he deny knowing about you?" "He indicated that he did know the story of my earliest life, but he refused to give me any information. He did say, however, that some day if I lived I would learn all about myself." "How cruel he was!" "It would appear so, but after all it is proved that he knew what he was talking about. He said I could earn all the money I needed with my great gift, and his words have proved true. I have not wanted for anything since the night he so strangely disappeared. Before going he gave me a box and told me I must not open that box until I was twenty-one, or until such time as I might fall into some dreadful calamity; then, when all other means failed, I was to open the box." "And you have that box?" "I have." "You never opened it?" "I have never opened it." "Oh, how I would like to see what is in that box!" said Sara in an eager tone. "No doubt you are a true daughter of Eve, but I will not open that box until I am one-and-twenty. I have never had any excuse for opening it, as far as having been overtaken by any dire calamity. My life has been pleasant and successful. I have been enabled to perform many good deeds for people who needed aid and assistance." "You did a wonderful deed for me." "I propose to do more for you. I propose to find your uncle." "But that box, Ike?" "Well, what about the box?" "Are you sure it is safe?" "Yes, I am sure it is safe." "Oh, how I should like to be present when you open that box!" "Maybe you can be," said Ike. "Oh, I should go wild in anticipation." "Some day--not now--but some day I may propose a condition whereby you may earn the privilege of being present when I open that box." "No doubt it contains some wonderful secret." "It is possibly a secret concerning me. It may inform me that I am the unknown son of a beggar, or it may tell me that I am a prince, a lord or a duke." "A prince, Ike! Yes, it will inform you that you are a prince." "The prince of ventriloquists," said Ike with a laugh--a very merry laugh. "Oh, Ike, you are really a lord or a duke," cried Sara in tones of great enthusiasm. Ike observed her enthusiasm, and, for reasons which our readers shall learn when we tell the story of the opening of the mysterious box, our hero was quite pleased, and the girl again said: "Ike, remember your promise. You are to give me an opportunity to be present when you open that mysterious box. Oh, how I would like to learn its secret! Not for myself, but for you. It will be a great and pleasing discovery when you open that box." "Maybe I have a great and pleasing disclosure to make to you now." The girl's face assumed a sudden pallor. "What do you mean, Ike?" "I made you another promise. I told you I would find your uncle." "I see, I see! You have found him?" "Yes, I have found him." "I know now why you told me the story of the old miser and the loss and recovery of his treasures." "You discern why I told?" "Yes." "Why did I tell you?" "I hardly dare answer." "Do not fear. Tell me what you suspect." "That old miser is my uncle?" "Yes, Sara, that old miser is indeed your uncle, and I have a great surprise for you." Sara was thoughtful a moment and then asked: "Are you sure he is my uncle?" "I am." "You have absolute proof?" "I have." "And I am the niece of a soulless miser!" murmured Sara in a disconsolate tone. "No, he is not an old miser--he is a warm-hearted, generous man. I will tell you more about him later on." "But are you sure you have the proof?" "Yes, I am sure." "Tell me what the proof is." "I am going to show you the proof. I have a great surprise for you. Come, put on your hat and cloak. You are to go with me and behold something that will make you stare." "I shall not stare at my uncle; and again, Ike, I assure you I must have positive proof." "You shall have positive proof. This is a most strange and remarkable romance. It is fate. I am a strong believer in fate. I have encountered so many strange incidents during my short life. See my meeting with you; remember the tragic incidents that followed. You intended to drown yourself in the park lake." The girl's face became ghastly. "No, no, Ike." "Yes, I know." "I will admit the temptation to drown myself after the discovery of my loss was very great; but no, no, I would have recoiled at the last moment." "I am so glad to hear you say so. I do not think much of people who on the appearance of every little trouble rush to kill themselves. It shows lack of mind strength. But come; I am to take you to meet your uncle." The girl hesitated. She did not appear as glad as Ike had thought she would be. The fact was, he did not know the lovely girl yet. He was to learn more about her later on, and there was to follow an intense romance as a result of his meeting with this lovely little lady from the far West. "Come, your uncle awaits you." "Does he know about me?" "Yes." "Does he accept the proof?" "He will when he sees you." "What do you mean?" "That is my little secret for the present. I tell you I still have in reserve a great surprise for you--the proof for you, the proof for him. It is a most remarkable coincidence, and here again fate comes in. Yes, yes, there is a wonderful surprise for you." While Ike was talking he could not keep his eyes off the face of the lovely girl. Its changing expressions made her look wondrously beautiful. He was charmed--charmed as he had never been charmed before in all his life. We will not say yet that he had met his fate, but we will say that he was in a very dangerous position. Our hero finally persuaded Sara to go and prepare herself for the street, and together they started to go to the home of the old miser. When they arrived in front of the house the girl stood still; a shudder passed over her delicate frame and she said: "Must I enter that old miserable-looking house to meet my uncle?" "Yes, but I am surprised. I do not understand your reluctance." "Never mind. I must go and I will." Ike led the way into the house. He had completed all his arrangements for the meeting. He knew just what he was about. Once in the house he led the fair girl into the parlor. There had been no cleaning done. Everything was moldy, old and decaying as upon the night when Ike first forced an entrance. The girl looked around in a disdainful manner, and again Ike did not understand her mood. She did not appear even pleased when he had thought she would be so delighted. He dusted off a chair, bade her sit down and then he lit the gas; for there was gas in the old house. After lighting the gas he went to the covered picture and said: "Sara, look at this and tell me how old you were when you sat for this picture." As he spoke he removed the cover and the beautiful face of the old man's dead daughter was revealed as pictured upon the canvas. It was a beautiful painting, and the resemblance to the living girl who gazed upon the face was marvelous. She did not speak--she could not speak. She just gazed with all her eyes. "This is something I did not promise to find," said Ike; "but it is the proof that Mr. Sidney is your uncle. This is a portrait of his----" Ike stopped short, and the girl gasped: "Go on. Of whom?" "Mr. Sidney's daughter--your cousin--the daughter whose place in his affections you are to supply; for she is dead, and that is why he lives the life which led people to believe that he was a miser. He is not a miser, but a kind, generous, liberal man, and in finding your uncle for you I have found one whom you can and will love." Sara appeared to be completely overcome with astonishment. "I do not understand it," she said. Ike had told the story of the robbery. He proceeded and told the previous history of Mr. Sidney, and when he had concluded he said: "It's all very strange and wonderful. Indeed, mysterious are the ways of Providence, but the most remarkable feature of this whole series of incidents, Miss Sidney, is the fact that the portending dénouement was all brought about through two very mean and contemptible robberies. But all's well that ends well, as I've often had occasion to say in the past, and I wish you to meet your uncle." Ike had no reason, however, to go and call the old miser, for there occurred a most unexpected metamorphosis. Our hero had just concluded the last remark above quoted when he chanced to turn, and there stood a fine-looking old gentleman, clean shaved, his hair cut and his attire perfect. Ike started in amazement, for despite the startling metamorphosis he recognized Mr. Sidney. Sara also beheld the old man, and she stood and gazed aghast. For a few moments both stood and gazed at each other as though they were looking upon a visitant from the grave. It was Mr. Sidney who broke the silence. He said: "Indeed you have brought to me my child from the grave. I need no further proof. This is my niece." Sara's voice was broken as she said: "No, no, there is no call for proof. It is wonderful--it is wonderful! It would appear that my father had come to me from his grave." "My dear child, your father and I were twin brothers. Forty years ago we quarreled. The quarrel was due to me. I have mourned your father long before he went away to California, and now that he is dead this is more than I deserve that he should have left as his legacy to me a child to solace the remaining years of my life." A little later Jack and Du Flore entered the room. Many explanations followed and also a very enjoyable time. Jack and Ike had performed several great feats, but later they were led into another series of adventures together which we shall relate in Number 50 of "OLD SLEUTH'S OWN," wherein our readers will learn the thrilling romance of the life of Nimble Ike, the most wonderful ventriloquist yet known in all the world, and also will be revealed the secret of the mysterious box. THE END. NOTE.--Remember there are some charming stories in the back numbers of "OLD SLEUTH'S OWN." Back numbers are always in print. When books are ordered in advance they will be sent as soon as issued. Eureka Detective Series [Illustration] All of the books in the =Eureka Series= are clever detective stories, and each one of those mentioned below has received the heartiest recommendation. Ask for the =Eureka Series= detective books. 1. Inspector Henderson, the Central Office Detective. By H. I. Hancock 2. His Evil Eye. By Harrie I. Hancock 3. Detective Johnson of New Orleans. By H. I. Hancock 4. Harry Blount, the Detective. By T. J. Flanagan 5. Harry Sharp, the New York Detective. By H. Rockwood 6. Private Detective No. 39. By John W. Postgate 7. Not Guilty. By the author of "The Original Mr. Jacobs" 8. A Confederate Spy. By Capt. Thos. N. Conrad 9. A Study in Scarlet. By A. Conan Doyle 10. The Unwilling Bride. By Fergus W. Hume 11. The Man Who Vanished. By Fergus W. Hume 12. The Lone Inn. By Fergus W. Hume 13. The World's Finger. By T. Hanshew 14. Tour of the World in Eighty Days. By Jules Verne 15. The Frozen Pirate. By W. Clark Russell 16. Mystery of a Hansom Cab. By Fergus W. Hume 17. A Close Call. By J. L. Berry 18. No. 99; A Detective Story. By Arthur Griffith 19. The Sign of the Four. By A. Conan Doyle 20. The Mystery of the Montauk Mills. By E. L. Coolidge 21. The Mountain Limited. By E. L. Coolidge 22. Gilt-Edge Tom, Conductor. By E. L. Coolidge 23. The Mossbank Murder. By Harry Mills 24. The Woman Stealer. By Harry Mills 25. King Dan, The Factory Detective. By G. W. Goode See other advertisement for other list of titles in the =Eureka Series=. You can obtain the =Eureka Series= books where you bought this one, or we will mail them to you, postpaid, for =30= cents each. Address all orders to J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING CO. 57 Rose Street, New York Transcriber's Notes: Italics represented with _underscores_. Bold represented with =equals signs=. Added table of contents. Page 4, added missing comma after "60c." Page 38, changed "had became enraged" to "had become enraged" and "become angry" to "became angry." Page 48, changed "mean time" to "meantime" for consistency. Page 52, added missing open quotes to first two paragraphs on page. Page 59, changed "starred" to "stared." Page 61, changed "statemen" to "statement." Page 65, changed "politicially" to "politically." Page 74, changed "althugh" to "although." Page 82, changed "aked" to "asked." Page 85, changed "Burlgars" to "Burglars." Page 96, changed "appeear" to "appear." 
6923	----	THE MISER. (L'AVARE.) by MOLIÈRE Translated into English Prose With a Short Introduction and Explanatory Notes. by CHARLES HERON WALL This play was acted for the first time on September 9, 1668. In it, Molière has borrowed from Plautus, and has imitated several other authors, but he far surpasses them in the treatment of his subject. The picture of the miser, in whom love of money takes the place of all natural affections, who not only withdraws from family intercourse, but considers his children as natural enemies, is finely drawn, and renders Molière's Miser altogether more dramatic and moral than those of his predecessors. Molière acted the part of Harpagon. PERSONS REPRESENTED. HARPAGON, _father to_ CLÉANTE, _in love with_ MARIANNE. CLÉANTE, HARPAGON'S _son, lover to_ MARIANNE. VALÈRE, _son to_ ANSELME, _and lover to_ ÉLISE. ANSELME, _father to_ VALÈRE _and_ MARIANNE. MASTER SIMON, _broker_. MASTER JACQUES, _cook and coachman to_ HARPAGON. LA FLÈCHE, _valet to_ CLÉANTE. BRINDAVOINE _and_ LA MERLUCHE, _lackeys to_ HARPAGON. A MAGISTRATE _and his_ CLERK. ÉLISE, _daughter to_ HARPAGON. MARIANNE, _daughter to_ ANSELME. FROSINE, _an intriguing woman_. MISTRESS CLAUDE, _servant to_ HARPAGON. * * * * * _The scene is at_ PARIS, _in_ HARPAGON'S _house_. THE MISER. ACT I. SCENE I.--VALÈRE, ÉLISE. VAL. What, dear Élise! you grow sad after having given me such dear tokens of your love; and I see you sigh in the midst of my joy! Can you regret having made me happy? and do you repent of the engagement which my love has forced from you? ELI. No, Valère, I do not regret what I do for you; I feel carried on by too delightful a power, and I do not even wish that things should be otherwise than they are. Yet, to tell you the truth, I am very anxious about the consequences; and I greatly fear that I love you more than I should. VAL. What can you possibly fear from the affection you have shown me? ELI. Everything; the anger of my father, the reproaches of my family, the censure of the world, and, above all, Valère, a change in your heart! I fear that cruel coldness with which your sex so often repays the too warm proofs of an innocent love. VAL. Alas! do not wrong me thus; do not judge of me by others. Think me capable of everything, Élise, except of falling short of what I owe to you. I love you too much for that; and my love will be as lasting as my life! ELI. Ah! Valère, all men say the same thing; all men are alike in their words; their actions only show the difference that exists between them. VAL. Then why not wait for actions, if by them alone you can judge of the truthfulness of my heart? Do not suffer your anxious fears to mislead you, and to wrong me. Do not let an unjust suspicion destroy the happiness which is to me dearer than life; but give me time to show you by a thousand proofs the sincerity of my affection. ELI. Alas! how easily do we allow ourselves to be persuaded by those we love. I believe you, Valère; I feel sure that your heart is utterly incapable of deceiving me, that your love is sincere, and that you will ever remain faithful to me. I will no longer doubt that happiness is near. If I grieve, it will only be over the difficulties of our position, and the possible censures of the world. VAL. But why even this fear? ELI. Oh, Valère! if everybody knew you as I do, I should not have much to fear. I find in you enough to justify all I do for you; my heart knows all your merit, and feels, moreover, bound to you by deep gratitude. How can I forget that horrible moment when we met for the first time? Your generous courage in risking your own life to save mine from the fury of the waves; your tender care afterwards; your constant attentions and your ardent love, which neither time nor difficulties can lessen! For me you neglect your parents and your country; you give up your own position in life to be a servant of my father! How can I resist the influence that all this has over me? Is it not enough to justify in my eyes my engagement to you? Yet, who knows if it will be enough to justify it in the eyes of others? and how can I feel sure that my motives will be understood? VAL. You try in vain to find merit in what I have done; it is by my love alone that I trust to deserve you. As for the scruples you feel, your father himself justifies you but too much before the world; and his avarice and the distant way in which he lives with his children might authorise stranger things still. Forgive me, my dear Élise, for speaking thus of your father before you; but you know that, unfortunately, on this subject no good can be said of him. However, if I can find my parents, as I fully hope I shall, they will soon be favourable to us. I am expecting news of them with great impatience; but if none comes I will go in search of them myself. ELI. Oh no! Valère, do not leave me, I entreat you. Try rather to ingratiate yourself in my father's favour. VAL. You know how much I wish it, and you can see how I set about it. You know the skilful manoeuvres I have had to use in order to introduce myself into his service; under what a mask of sympathy and conformity of tastes I disguise my own feelings to please him; and what a part I play to acquire his affection. I succeed wonderfully well, and I feel that to obtain favour with men, there are no better means than to pretend to be of their way of thinking, to fall in with their maxims, to praise their defects, and to applaud all their doings. One need not fear to overdo it, for however gross the flattery, the most cunning are easily duped; there is nothing so impertinent or ridiculous which they will not believe, provided it be well seasoned with praise. Honesty suffers, I acknowledge; but when we have need of men, we may be allowed without blame to adapt ourselves to their mode of thought; and if we have no other hope of success but through such stratagem, it is not after all the fault of those who flatter, but the fault of those who wish to be flattered. ELI. Why do you not try also to gain my brother's goodwill, in case the servant should betray our secret? VAL. I am afraid I cannot humour them both. The temper of the father is so different from that of the son that it would be difficult to be the confidant of both at the same time. Rather try your brother yourself; make use of the love that exists between you to enlist him in our cause. I leave you, for I see him coming. Speak to him, sound him, and see how far we can trust him. ELI. I greatly fear I shall never have the courage to speak to him of my secret. SCENE II.--CLÉANTE, ÉLISE, CLE. I am very glad to find you alone, sister. I longed to speak to you and to tell you a secret. ELI. I am quite ready to hear you, brother. What is it you have to tell me? CLE. Many things, sister, summed up in one word--love. ELI. You love? CLE. Yes, I love. But, before I say more, let me tell you that I know I depend on my father, and that the name of son subjects me to his will; that it would be wrong to engage ourselves without the consent of the authors of our being; that heaven has made them the masters of our affections, and that it is our duty not to dispose of ourselves but in accordance to their wish; that their judgment is not biassed by their being in love themselves; that they are, therefore, much more likely not to be deceived by appearances, and to judge better what is good for us; that we ought to trust their experience rather than the passion which blinds us; and that the rashness of youth often carries us to the very brink of dangerous abysses. I know all this, my sister, and I tell it you to spare you the trouble of saying it to me, for my love will not let me listen to anything, and I pray you to spare me your remonstrances. ELI. Have you engaged yourself, brother, to her you love? CLE. No, but I have determined to do so; and I beseech you once more not to bring forward any reason to dissuade me from it. ELI. Am I such a very strange person, brother? CLE. No, dear sister; but you do not love. You know not the sweet power that love has upon our hearts; and I dread your wisdom. ELI. Alas! my brother, let us not speak of my wisdom. There are very few people in this world who do not lack wisdom, were it only once in their lifetime; and if I opened my heart to you, perhaps you would think me less wise than you are yourself. CLE. Ah! would to heaven that your heart, like mine ... ELI. Let us speak of you first, and tell me whom it is you love. CLE. A young girl who has lately come to live in our neighbourhood, and who seems made to inspire love in all those who behold her. Nature, my dear sister, has made nothing more lovely; and I felt another man the moment I saw her. Her name is Marianne, and she lives with a good, kind mother, who is almost always ill, and for whom the dear girl shows the greatest affection. She waits upon her, pities and comforts her with a tenderness that would touch you to the very soul. Whatever she undertakes is done in the most charming way; and in all her actions shine a wonderful grace, a most winning gentleness, an adorable modesty, a ... ah! my sister, how I wish you had but seen her. ELI. I see many things in what you tell me, dear brother; and it is sufficient for me to know that you love her for me to understand what she is. CLE. I have discovered, without their knowing it, that they are not in very good circumstances, and that, although they live with the greatest care, they have barely enough to cover their expenses. Can you imagine, my sister, what happiness it must be to improve the condition of those we love; skilfully to bring about some relief to the modest wants of a virtuous family? And think what grief it is for me to find myself deprived of this great joy through the avarice of a father, and for it to be impossible for me to give any proof of my love to her who is all in all to me. ELI. Yes, I understand, dear brother, what sorrow this must be to you. CLE. It is greater, my sister, than you can believe. For is there anything more cruel than this mean economy to which we are subjected? this strange penury in which we are made to pine? What good will it do us to have a fortune if it only comes to us when we are not able to enjoy it; if now to provide for my daily maintenance I get into debt on every side; if both you and I are reduced daily to beg the help of tradespeople in order to have decent clothes to wear? In short, I wanted to speak to you that you might help me to sound my father concerning my present feelings; and if I find him opposed to them, I am determined to go and live elsewhere with this most charming girl, and to make the best of what Providence offers us. I am trying everywhere to raise money for this purpose; and if your circumstances, dear sister, are like mine, and our father opposes us, let us both leave him, and free ourselves from the tyranny in which his hateful avarice has for so long held us. ELI. It is but too true that every day he gives us more and more reason to regret the death of our mother, and that ... CLE. I hear his voice. Let us go a little farther and finish our talk. We will afterwards join our forces to make a common attack on his hard and unkind heart. SCENE III.--HARPAGON, LA FLÈCHE. HAR. Get out of here, this moment; and let me have no more of your prating. Now then, be gone out of my house, you sworn pickpocket, you veritable gallows' bird. LA FL. (_aside_). I never saw anything more wicked than this cursed old man; and I truly believe, if I may be allowed to say so, that he is possessed with a devil. HAR. What are you muttering there between your teeth? LA FL. Why do you send me away? HAR. You dare to ask me my reasons, you scoundrel? Out with you, this moment, before I give you a good thrashing. LA FL. What have I done to you? HAR. Done this, that I wish you to be off. LA FL. My master, your son, gave me orders to wait for him. HAR. Go and wait for him in the street, then; out with you; don't stay in my house, straight and stiff as a sentry, to observe what is going on, and to make your profit of everything. I won't always have before me a spy on all my affairs; a treacherous scamp, whose cursed eyes watch all my actions, covet all I possess, and ferret about in every corner to see if there is anything to steal. LA FL. How the deuce could one steal anything from you? Are you a man likely to be robbed when you put every possible thing under lock and key, and mount guard day and night? HAR. I will lock up whatever I think fit, and mount guard when and where I please. Did you ever see such spies as are set upon me to take note of everything I do? (_Aside_) I tremble for fear he should suspect something of my money. (_Aloud_) Now, aren't you a fellow to give rise to stories about my having money hid in my house? LA FL. You have some money hid in your house? HAR. No, scoundrel! I do not say that. (_Aside_) I am furious! (_Aloud_) I only ask if out of mischief you do not spread abroad the report that I have some? LA FL. Oh! What does it matter whether you have money, or whether you have not, since it is all the same to us? HAR. (_raising his hand to give_ LA FLÈCHE _a blow_). Oh! oh! You want to argue, do you? I will give you, and quickly too, some few of these arguments about your ears. Get out of the house, I tell you once more. LA FL. Very well; very well. I am going. HAR. No, wait; are you carrying anything away with you? LA FL. What can I possibly carry away? HAR. Come here, and let me see. Show me your hands. LA FL. There they are. HAR. The others. LA FL. The others? HAR. Yes. LA FL. There they are. HAR. (_pointing to_ LA FLÈCHE'S _breeches_). Have you anything hid in here? LA FL. Look for yourself. HAR. (_feeling the knees of the breeches_). These wide knee-breeches are convenient receptacles of stolen goods; and I wish a pair of them had been hanged. LA FL. (_aside_). Ah! how richly such a man deserves what he fears, and what joy it would be to me to steal some of his ... HAR. Eh? LA FL. What? HAR. What is it you talk of stealing? LA FL. I say that you feel about everywhere to see if I have been stealing anything. HAR. And I mean to do so too. (_He feels in_ LA FLÈCHE'S _pockets_). LA FL. Plague take all misers and all miserly ways! HAR. Eh? What do you say? LA FL. What do I say? HAR. Yes. What is it you say about misers and miserly ways. LA FL. I say plague take all misers and all miserly ways. HAR. Of whom do you speak? LA FL. Of misers. HAR. And who are they, these misers? LA FL. Villains and stingy wretches! HAR. But what do you mean by that? LA FL. Why do you trouble yourself so much about what I say? HAR. I trouble myself because I think it right to do so. LA FL. Do you think I am speaking about you? HAR. I think what I think; but I insist upon your telling me to whom you speak when you say that. LA FL. To whom I speak? I am speaking to the inside of my hat. HAR. And I will, perhaps, speak to the outside of your head. LA FL. Would you prevent me from cursing misers? HAR. No; but I will prevent you from prating and from being insolent. Hold your tongue, will you? LA FL. I name nobody. HAR. Another word, and I'll thrash you. LA FL. He whom the cap fits, let him wear it. HAR. Will you be silent? LA FL. Yes; much against my will. HAR. Ah! ah! LA FL. (_showing_ HARPAGON _one of his doublet pockets_). Just look, here is one more pocket. Are you satisfied? HAR. Come, give it up to me without all that fuss. LA FL. Give you what? HAR. What you have stolen from me. LA FL. I have stolen nothing at all from you. HAR. Are you telling the truth? LA FL. Yes. HAR. Good-bye, then, and now you may go to the devil. LA FL. (_aside_). That's a nice way of dismissing anyone. HAR. I leave it to your conscience, remember! SCENE IV.--HARPAGON (_alone_.) This rascally valet is a constant vexation to me; and I hate the very sight of the good-for-nothing cripple. Really, it is no small anxiety to keep by one a large sum of money; and happy is the man who has all his cash well invested, and who needs not keep by him more than he wants for his daily expenses. I am not a little puzzled to find in the whole of this house a safe hiding-place. Don't speak to me of your strong boxes, I will never trust to them. Why, they are just the very things thieves set upon! SCENE V.--HARPAGON, ÉLISE _and_ CLÉANTE _are seen talking together at the back of the stage._ HAR. (_thinking himself alone_.) Meanwhile, I hardly know whether I did right to bury in my garden the ten thousand crowns which were paid to me yesterday. Ten thousand crowns in gold is a sum sufficiently ... (_Aside, on perceiving_ ÉLISE _and_ CLÉANTE _whispering together_) Good heavens! I have betrayed myself; my warmth has carried me away. I believe I spoke aloud while reasoning with myself. (_To_ CLÉANTE _and_ ÉLISE) What do you want? CLE. Nothing, father. HAR. Have you been here long? ELI. We have only just come. HAR. Did you hear...? CLE. What, father? HAR. There...! CLE. What? HAR. What I was just now saying. CLE. No. HAR. You did. I know you did. ELI. I beg your pardon, father, but we did not. HAR. I see well enough that you overheard a few words. The fact is, I was only talking to myself about the trouble one has nowadays to raise any money; and I was saying that he is a fortunate man who has ten thousand crowns in his house. CLE. We were afraid of coming near you, for fear of intruding. HAR. I am very glad to tell you this, so that you may not misinterpret things, and imagine that I said that it was I who have ten thousand crowns. CLE. We do not wish to interfere in your affairs. HAR. Would that I had them, these ten thousand crowns! CLE. I should not think that ... HAR. What a capital affair it would be for me. CLE. There are things ... HAR. I greatly need them. CLE. I fancy that ... HAR. It would suit me exceedingly well. ELI. You are ... HAR. And I should not have to complain, as I do now, that the times are bad. CLE. Dear me, father, you have no reason to complain; and everyone knows that you are well enough off. HAR. How? I am well enough off! Those who say it are liars. Nothing can be more false; and they are scoundrels who spread such reports. ELI. Don't be angry. HAR. It is strange that my own children betray me and become my enemies. CLE. Is it being your enemy to say that you have wealth? HAR. Yes, it is. Such talk and your extravagant expenses will be the cause that some day thieves will come and cut my throat, in the belief that I am made of gold. CLE. What extravagant expenses do I indulge in? HAR. What! Is there anything more scandalous than this sumptuous attire with which you jaunt it about the town? I was remonstrating with your sister yesterday, but you are still worse. It cries vengeance to heaven; and were we to calculate all you are wearing, from head to foot, we should find enough for a good annuity. I have told you a hundred times, my son, that your manners displease me exceedingly; you affect the marquis terribly, and for you to be always dressed as you are, you must certainly rob me. CLE. Rob you? And how? HAR. How should I know? Where else could you find money enough to clothe yourself as you do? CLE. I, father? I play; and as I am very lucky, I spend in clothes all the money I win. HAR. It is very wrong. If you are lucky at play, you should profit by it, and place the money you win at decent interest, so that you may find it again some day. I should like to know, for instance, without mentioning the rest, what need there is for all these ribbons with which you are decked from head to foot, and if half a dozen tags are not sufficient to fasten your breeches. What necessity is there for anyone to spend money upon wigs, when we have hair of our own growth, which costs nothing. I will lay a wager that, in wigs and ribbons alone, there are certainly twenty pistoles spent, and twenty pistoles brings in at least eighteen livres six sous eight deniers per annum, at only eight per cent interest. CLE. You are quite right. HAR. Enough on this subject; let us talk of something else. (_Aside, noticing_ CLÉANTE _and_ ÉLISE, _who make signs to one another_) I believe they are making signs to one another to pick my pocket. (_Aloud_) What do you mean by those signs? ELI. We are hesitating as to who shall speak first, for we both have something to tell you. HAR. And I also have something to tell you both. CLE. We wanted to speak to you about marriage, father. HAR. The very thing I wish to speak to you about. ELI. Ah! my father! HAR. What is the meaning of that exclamation? Is it the word, daughter, or the thing itself that frightens you? CLE. Marriage may frighten us both according to the way you take it; and our feelings may perhaps not coincide with your choice. HAR. A little patience, if you please. You need not be alarmed. I know what is good for you both, and you will have no reason to complain of anything I intend to do. To begin at the beginning. (_To_ CLÉANTE) Do you know, tell me, a young person, called Marianne, who lives not far from here? CLE. Yes, father. HAR. And you? ELI. I have heard her spoken of. HAR. Well, my son, and how do you like the girl? CLE. She is very charming. HAR. Her face? CLE. Modest and intelligent. HAR. Her air and manner? CLE. Perfect, undoubtedly. HAR. Do you not think that such a girl well deserves to be thought of? CLE. Yes, father. HAR. She would form a very desirable match? CLE. Very desirable. HAR. That there is every likelihood of her making a thrifty and careful wife. CLE. Certainly. HAR. And that a husband might live very happily with her? CLE. I have not the least doubt about it. HAR. There is one little difficulty; I am afraid she has not the fortune we might reasonably expect. CLE. Oh, my father, riches are of little importance when one is sure of marrying a virtuous woman. HAR. I beg your pardon. Only there is this to be said: that if we do not find as much money as we could wish, we may make it up in something else. CLE. That follows as a matter of course. HAR. Well, I must say that I am very much pleased to find that you entirely agree with me, for her modest manner and her gentleness have won my heart; and I have made up my mind to marry her, provided I find she has some dowry. CLE. Eh! HAR. What now? CLE. You are resolved, you say...? HAR. To marry Marianne. CLE. Who? you? you? HAR. Yes, I, I, I. What does all this mean? CLE. I feel a sudden dizziness, and I must withdraw for a little while. HAR. It will be nothing. Go quickly into the kitchen and drink a large glass of cold water, it will soon set you all right again. SCENE VI.--HARPAGON, ÉLISE. HAR. There goes one of your effeminate fops, with no more stamina than a chicken. That is what I have resolved for myself, my daughter. As to your brother, I have thought for him of a certain widow, of whom I heard this morning; and you I shall give to Mr. Anselme. ELI. To Mr. Anselme? HAR. Yes, a staid and prudent man, who is not above fifty, and of whose riches everybody speaks. ELI. (_curtseying_). I have no wish to marry, father, if you please. HAR. (_imitating_ ÉLISE). And I, my little girl, my darling, I wish you to marry, if you please. ELI. (_curtseying again_). I beg your pardon, my father. HAR. (_again imitating_ ÉLISE). I beg your pardon, my daughter. ELI. I am the very humble servant of Mr. Anselme, but (_curtseying again_), with your leave, I shall not marry him. HAR. I am your very humble servant, but (_again imitating_ ÉLISE) you will marry him this very evening. ELI. This evening? HAR. This evening. ELI. (_curtseying again_). It cannot be done, father. HAR. (_imitating_ ÉLISE). It will be done, daughter. ELI. No. HAR. Yes. ELI. No, I tell you. HAR. Yes, I tell you. ELI. You will never force me to do such a thing HAR. I will force you to it. ELI. I had rather kill myself than marry such a man. HAR. You will not kill yourself, and you will marry him. But did you ever see such impudence? Did ever any one hear a daughter speak in such a fashion to her father? ELI. But did ever anyone see a father marry his daughter after such a fashion? HAR. It is a match against which nothing can be said, and I am perfectly sure that everybody will approve of my choice. ELI. And I know that it will be approved of by no reasonable person. HAR. (_seeing_ VALÈRE). There is Valère coming. Shall we make him judge in this affair? ELI. Willingly. HAR. You will abide by what he says? ELI. Yes, whatever he thinks right, I will do. HAR. Agreed. SCENE VII.--VALÈRE, HARPAGON, ÉLISE. HAR. Valère, we have chosen you to decide who is in the right, my daughter or I. VAL. It is certainly you, Sir. HAR. But have you any idea of what we are talking about? VAL. No; but you could not be in the wrong; you are reason itself. HAR. I want to give her to-night, for a husband, a man as rich as he is good; and the hussy tells me to my face that she scorns to take him. What do you say to that? VAL. What I say to it? HAR. Yes? VAL. Eh! eh! HAR. What? VAL. I say that I am, upon the whole, of your opinion, and that you cannot but be right; yet, perhaps, she is not altogether wrong; and ... HAR. How so? Mr. Anselme is an excellent match; he is a nobleman, and a gentleman too; of simple habits, and extremely well off. He has no children left from his first marriage. Could she meet with anything more suitable? VAL. It is true. But she might say that you are going rather fast, and that she ought to have at least a little time to consider whether her inclination could reconcile itself to ... HAR. It is an opportunity I must not allow to slip through my fingers. I find an advantage here which I should not find elsewhere, and he agrees to take her without dowry. VAL. Without dowry? HAR. Yes. VAL. Ah! I have nothing more to say. A more convincing reason could not be found; and she must yield to that. HAR. It is a considerable saving to me. VAL. Undoubtedly; this admits of no contradiction. It is true that your daughter might represent to you that marriage is a more serious affair than people are apt to believe; that the happiness or misery of a whole life depends on it, and that an engagement which is to last till death ought not to be entered into without great consideration. HAR. Without dowry! VAL. That must of course decide everything. There are certainly people who might tell you that on such occasions the wishes of a daughter are no doubt to be considered, and that this great disparity of age, of disposition, and of feelings might be the cause of many an unpleasant thing in a married life. HAR. Without dowry! VAL. Ah! it must be granted that there is no reply to that; who in the world could think otherwise? I do not mean to say but that there are many fathers who would set a much higher value on the happiness of their daughter than on the money they may have to give for their marriage; who would not like to sacrifice them to their own interests, and who would, above all things, try to see in a marriage that sweet conformity of tastes which is a sure pledge of honour, tranquillity and joy; and that ... HAR. Without dowry! VAL. That is true; nothing more can be said. Without dowry. How can anyone resist such arguments? HAR. (_aside, looking towards the garden_). Ah! I fancy I hear a dog barking. Is anyone after my money. (_To_ VALÈRE) Stop here, I'll come back directly. SCENE VIII.--ÉLISE, VALÈRE. ELI. Surely, Valère, you are not in earnest when you speak to him in that manner? VAL. I do it that I may not vex him, and the better to secure my ends. To resist him boldly would simply spoil everything. There are certain people who are only to be managed by indirect means, temperaments averse from all resistance, restive natures whom truth causes to rear, who always kick when we would lead them on the right road of reason, and who can only be led by a way opposed to that by which you wish them to go. Pretend to comply with his wishes; you are much more likely to succeed in the end, and ... ELI. But this marriage, Valère? VAL. We will find some pretext for breaking it off. ELI. But what pretext can we find if it is to be concluded to-night? VAL. You must ask to have it delayed, and must feign some illness or other. ELI. But he will soon discover the truth if they call in the doctor. VAL. Not a bit of it. Do you imagine that a doctor understands what he is about? Nonsense! Don't be afraid. Believe me, you may complain of any disease you please, the doctor will be at no loss to explain to you from what it proceeds. SCENE IX--HARPAGON, ÉLISE, VALÈRE. HAR. (_alone, at the farther end of the stage_). It is nothing, thank heaven! VAL. (_not seeing_ HARPAGON). In short, flight is the last resource we have left us to avoid all this; and if your love, dear Élise, is as strong as ... (_Seeing_ HARPAGON) Yes, a daughter is bound to obey her father. She has no right to inquire what a husband offered to her is like, and when the most important question, "without dowry," presents itself, she should accept anybody that is given her. HAR. Good; that was beautifully said! VAL. I beg your pardon, Sir, if I carry it a little too far, and take upon myself to speak to her as I do. HAR. Why, I am delighted, and I wish you to have her entirely under your control. (_To_ ÉLISE) Yes, you may run away as much as you like. I give him all the authority over you that heaven has given me, and I will have you do all that he tells you. VAL. After that, resist all my expostulations, if you can. SCENE X.--HARPAGON, VALÈRE. VAL. I will follow her, Sir, if you will allow me, and will continue the lecture I was giving her. HAR. Yes, do so; you will oblige me greatly. VAL. She ought to be kept in with a tight hand. HAR. Quite true, you must.... VAL. Do not be afraid; I believe I shall end by convincing her. HAR. Do so, do so. I am going to take a short stroll in the town, and I will come back again presently. VAL. (_going towards the door through which_ ÉLISE _left, and speaking as if it were to her_). Yes, money is more precious than anything else in the world, and you should thank heaven that you have so worthy a man for a father. He knows what life is. When a man offers to marry a girl without a dowry, we ought to look no farther. Everything is comprised in that, and "without dowry" compensates for want of beauty, youth, birth, honour, wisdom, and probity. HAR. Ah! the honest fellow! he speaks like an oracle. Happy is he who can secure such a servant! ACT II. SCENE I.--CLÉANTE, LA FLÈCHE. CLE. How now, you rascal! where have you been hiding? Did I not give you orders to...? LA FL. Yes, Sir, and I came here resolved to wait for you without stirring, but your father, that most ungracious of men, drove me into the street in spite of myself, and I well nigh got a good drubbing into the bargain. CLE. How is our affair progressing? Things are worse than ever for us, and since I left you, I have discovered that my own father is my rival. LA FL. Your father in love? CLE. It seems so; and I found it very difficult to hide from him what I felt at such a discovery. LA FL. He meddling with love! What the deuce is he thinking of? Does he mean to set everybody at defiance? And is love made for people of his build? CLE. It is to punish me for my sins that this passion has entered his head. LA FL. But why do you hide your love from him? CLE. That he may not suspect anything, and to make it more easy for me to fall back, if need be, upon some device to prevent this marriage. What answer did you receive? LA FL. Indeed, Sir, those who borrow are much to be pitied, and we must put up with strange things when, like you, we are forced to pass through the hands of the usurers. CLE. Then the affair won't come off? LA FL. Excuse me; Mr. Simon, the broker who was recommended to us, is a very active and zealous fellow, and says he has left no stone unturned to help you. He assures me that your looks alone have won his heart. CLE. Shall I have the fifteen thousand francs which I want? LA FL. Yes, but under certain trifling conditions, which you must accept if you wish the bargain to be concluded. CLE. Did you speak to the man who is to lend the money? LA FL. Oh! dear no. Things are not done in that way. He is still more anxious than you to remain unknown. These things are greater mysteries than you think. His name is not by any means to be divulged, and he is to be introduced to you to-day at a house provided by him, so that he may hear from yourself all about your position and your family; and I have not the least doubt that the mere name of your father will be sufficient to accomplish what you wish. CLE. Particularly as my mother is dead, and they cannot deprive me of what I inherit from her. LA FL. Well, here are some of the conditions which he has himself dictated to our go-between for you to take cognisance of, before anything is begun. "Supposing that the lender is satisfied with all his securities, and that the borrower is of age and of a family whose property is ample, solid, secure, and free from all incumbrances, there shall be drawn up a good and correct bond before as honest a notary as it is possible to find, and who for this purpose shall be chosen by the lender, because he is the more concerned of the two that the bond should be rightly executed." CLE. There is nothing to say against that. LA FL. "The lender, not to burden his conscience with the least scruple, does not wish to lend his money at more than five and a half per cent." CLE. Five and a half per cent? By Jove, that's honest! We have nothing to complain of. LA FL. That's true. "But as the said lender has not in hand the sum required, and as, in order to oblige the borrower, he is himself obliged to borrow from another at the rate of twenty per cent., it is but right that the said first borrower shall pay this interest, without detriment to the rest; since it is only to oblige him that the said lender is himself forced to borrow." CLE. The deuce! What a Jew! what a Turk we have here! That is more than twenty-five per cent. LA FL. That's true; and it is the remark I made. It is for you to consider the matter before you act. CLE. How can I consider? I want the money, and I must therefore accept everything. LA FL. That is exactly what I answered. CLE. Is there anything else? LA FL. Only a small item. "Of the fifteen thousand francs which are demanded, the lender will only be able to count down twelve thousand in hard cash; instead of the remaining three thousand, the borrower will have to take the chattels, clothing, and jewels, contained in the following catalogue, and which the said lender has put in all good faith at the lowest possible figure." CLE. What is the meaning of all that? LA FL. I'll go through the catalogue:-- "Firstly:--A fourpost bedstead, with hangings of Hungary lace very elegantly trimmed with olive-coloured cloth, and six chairs and a counterpane to match; the whole in very good condition, and lined with soft red and blue shot-silk. Item:--the tester of good pale pink Aumale serge, with the small and the large fringes of silk." CLE. What does he want me to do with all this? LA FL. Wait. "Item:--Tapestry hangings representing the loves of Gombaud and Macée.[1] Item:--A large walnut table with twelve columns or turned legs, which draws out at both ends, and is provided beneath with six stools." CLE. Hang it all! What am I to do with all this? LA FL. Have patience. "Item:--Three large matchlocks inlaid with mother-of-pearl, with rests to correspond. Item:--A brick furnace with two retorts and three receivers, very useful to those who have any taste for distilling." CLE. You will drive me crazy. LA FL. Gently! "Item:--A Bologna lute with all its strings, or nearly all. Item:--A pigeon-hole table and a draught-board, and a game of mother goose, restored from the Greeks, most useful to pass the time when one has nothing to do. Item:--A lizard's skin, three feet and a half in length, stuffed with hay, a pleasing curiosity to hang on the ceiling of a room. The whole of the above-mentioned articles are really worth more than four thousand five hundred francs, and are reduced to the value of a thousand crowns through the considerateness of the lender." CLE. Let the plague choke him with his considerateness, the wretch, the cut-throat that he is! Did ever anyone hear of such usury? Is he not satisfied with the outrageous interest he asks that he must force me to take, instead of the three thousand francs, all the old rubbish which he picks up. I shan't get two hundred crowns for all that, and yet I must bring myself to yield to all his wishes; for he is in a position to force me to accept everything, and he has me, the villain, with a knife at my throat. LA FL. I see you, Sir, if you'll forgive my saying so, on the high-road followed by Panurge[2] to ruin himself--taking money in advance, buying dear, selling cheap, and cutting your corn while it is still grass. CLE. What would you have me do? It is to this that young men are reduced by the accursed avarice of their fathers; and people are astonished after that, that sons long for their death. LA FL. No one can deny that yours would excite against his meanness the most quiet of men. I have not, thank God, any inclination gallows-ward, and among my colleagues whom I see dabbling in various doubtful affairs, I know well enough how to keep myself out of hot water, and how to keep clear of all those things which savour ever so little of the ladder; but to tell you the truth, he almost gives me, by his ways of going on, the desire of robbing him, and I should think that in doing so I was doing a meritorious action. CLE. Give me that memorandum that I may have another look at it. SCENE II.--HARPAGON, MR. SIMON (CLÉANTE _and_ LA FLÈCHE _at the back of the stage_). SIM. Yes, Sir; it is a young man who is greatly in want of money; his affairs force him to find some at any cost, and he will submit to all your conditions. HAR. But are you sure, Mr. Simon, that there is no risk to run in this case? and do you know the name, the property, and the family of him for whom you speak? SIM. No; I cannot tell you anything for certain, as it was by mere chance that I was made acquainted with him; but he will tell you everything himself, and his servant has assured me that you will be quite satisfied when you know who he is. All I can tell you is that his family is said to be very wealthy, that he has already lost his mother, and that he will pledge you his word, if you insist upon it, that his father will die before eight months are passed. HAR. That is something. Charity, Mr. Simon, demands of us to gratify people whenever we have it in our power. SIM. Evidently. LA FL. (_aside to_ CLÉANTE, _on recognising_ MR. SIMON). What does this mean? Mr. Simon talking with your father! CLE. (_aside to_ LA FLÈCHE). Has he been told who I am, and would you be capable of betraying me? SIM. (_to_ CLÉANTE _and_ LA FLÈCHE). Ah! you are in good time! But who told you to come here? (_To_ HARPAGON) It was certainly not I who told them your name and address; but I am of opinion that there is no great harm done; they are people who can be trusted, and you can come to some understanding together. HAR. What! SIM. (_showing_ CLÉANTE). This is the gentleman who wants to borrow the fifteen thousand francs of which I have spoken to you. HAR. What! miscreant! is it you who abandon yourself to such excesses? CLE. What! father! is it you who stoop to such shameful deeds? (MR. SIMON _runs away, and_ LA FLÈCHE _hides himself_.) SCENE III.--HARPAGON, CLÉANTE. HAR. It is you who are ruining yourself by loans so greatly to be condemned! CLE. So it is you who seek to enrich yourself by such criminal usury! HAR. And you dare, after that, to show yourself before me? CLE. And you dare, after that, to show yourself to the world? HAR. Are you not ashamed, tell me, to descend to these wild excesses, to rush headlong into frightful expenses, and disgracefully to dissipate the wealth which your parents have amassed with so much toil. CLE. Are you not ashamed of dishonouring your station by such dealings, of sacrificing honour and reputation to the insatiable desire of heaping crown upon crown, and of outdoing the most infamous devices that have ever been invented by the most notorious usurers? HAR. Get out of my sight, you reprobate; get out of my sight! CLE. Who is the more criminal in your opinion: he who buys the money of which he stands in need, or he who obtains, by unfair means, money for which he has no use? HAR. Begone, I say, and do not provoke me to anger. (_Alone_) After all, I am not very much vexed at this adventure; it will be a lesson to me to keep a better watch over all his doings. SCENE IV.--FROSINE, HARPAGON. FRO. Sir. HAR. Wait a moment, I will come back and speak to you. (_Aside_) I had better go and see a little after my money. SCENE V.--LA FLÈCHE, FROSINE. LA FL. (_without seeing_ FROSINE). The adventure is most comical. Hidden somewhere he must have a large store of goods of all kinds, for the list did not contain one single article which either of us recognised. FRO. Hallo! is it you, my poor La Flèche? How is it we meet here? LA FL. Ah! ah! it is you, Frosine; and what have you come to do here? FRO. What have I come to do? Why! what I do everywhere else, busy myself about other people's affairs, make myself useful to the community in general, and profit as much as I possibly can by the small talent I possess. Must we not live by our wits in this world? and what other resources have people like me but intrigue and cunning? LA FL. Have you, then, any business with the master of this house? FRO. Yes. I am transacting for him a certain small matter for which he is pretty sure to give me a reward. LA FL. He give you a reward! Ah! ah! Upon my word, you will be 'cute if you ever get one, and I warn you that ready money is very scarce hereabouts. FRO. That may be, but there are certain services which wonderfully touch our feelings. LA FL. Your humble servant; but as yet you don't know Harpagon. Harpagon is the human being of all human beings the least humane, the mortal of all mortals the hardest and closest. There is no service great enough to induce him to open his purse. If, indeed, you want praise, esteem, kindness, and friendship, you are welcome to any amount; but money, that's a different affair. There is nothing more dry, more barren, than his favour and his good grace, and "_give_" is a word for which he has such a strong dislike that he never says _I give_, but _I lend, you a good morning_. FRO. That's all very well; but I know the art of fleecing men. I have a secret of touching their affections by flattering their hearts, and of finding out their weak points. LA FL. All useless here. I defy you to soften, as far as money is concerned, the man we are speaking of. He is a Turk on that point, of a Turkishness to drive anyone to despair, and we might starve in his presence and never a peg would he stir. In short, he loves money better than reputation, honour, and virtue, and the mere sight of anyone making demands upon his purse sends him into convulsions; it is like striking him in a vital place, it is piercing him to the heart, it is like tearing out his very bowels! And if ... But here he comes again; I leave you. SCENE VI.--HARPAGON, FROSINE. HAR. (_aside_). All is as it should be. (_To_ FROSINE) Well, what is it, Frosine? FRO. Bless me, how well you look! You are the very picture of health. HAR. Who? I? FRO. Never have I seen you looking more rosy, more hearty. HAR. Are you in earnest? FRO. Why! you have never been so young in your life; and I know many a man of twenty-five who looks much older than you do. HAR. And yet, Frosine, I have passed threescore. FRO. Threescore! Well, and what then? You don't mean to make a trouble of that, do you? It's the very flower of manhood, the threshold of the prime of life. HAR. True; but twenty years less would do me no harm, I think. FRO. Nonsense! You've no need of that, and you are of a build to last out a hundred. HAR. Do you really think so? FRO. Decidedly. You have all the appearance of it. Hold yourself up a little. Ah! what a sign of long life is that line there straight between your two eyes! HAR. You know all about that, do you? FRO. I should think I do. Show me your hand. [3] [Footnote: Frosine professes a knowledge of palmistry.] Dear me, what a line of life there is there! HAR. Where? FRO. Don't you see how far this line goes? HAR. Well, and what does it mean? FRO. What does it mean? There ... I said a hundred years; but no, it is one hundred and twenty I ought to have said. HAR. Is it possible? FRO. I tell you they will have to kill you, and you will bury your children and your children's children. HAR. So much the better! And what news of our affair? FRO. Is there any need to ask? Did ever anyone see me begin anything and not succeed in it? I have, especially for matchmaking, the most wonderful talent. There are no two persons in the world I could not couple together; and I believe that, if I took it into my head, I could make the Grand Turk marry the Republic of Venice.[4] But we had, to be sure, no such difficult thing to achieve in this matter. As I know the ladies very well, I told them every particular about you; and I acquainted the mother with your intentions towards Marianne since you saw her pass in the street and enjoy the fresh air out of her window. HAR. What did she answer...? FRO. She received your proposal with great joy; and when I told her that you wished very much that her daughter should come to-night to assist at the marriage contract which is to be signed for your own daughter, she assented at once, and entrusted her to me for the purpose. HAR. You see, Frosine, I am obliged to give some supper to Mr. Anselme, and I should like her to have a share in the feast. FRO. You are quite right. She is to come after dinner to pay a visit to your daughter; then she means to go from here to the fair, and return to your house just in time for supper. HAR. That will do very well; they shall go together in my carriage, which I will lend them. FRO. That will suit her perfectly. HAR. But I say, Frosine, have you spoken to the mother about the dowry she can give her daughter? Did you make her understand that under such circumstances she ought to do her utmost and to make a great sacrifice? For, after all, one does not marry a girl without her bringing something with her. FRO. How something! She is a girl who will bring you a clear twelve thousand francs a year? HAR. Twelve thousand francs a year? FRO. Yes! To begin with, she has been nursed and brought up with the strictest notions of frugality. She is a girl accustomed to live upon salad, milk, cheese, and apples, and who consequently will require neither a well served up table, nor any rich broth, nor your everlasting peeled barley; none, in short, of all those delicacies that another woman would want. This is no small matter, and may well amount to three thousand francs yearly. Besides this, she only cares for simplicity and neatness; she will have none of those splendid dresses and rich jewels, none of that sumptuous furniture in which girls like her indulge so extravagantly; and this item is worth more than four thousand francs per annum. Lastly, she has the deepest aversion to gambling; and this is not very common nowadays among women. Why, I know of one in our neighbourhood who lost at least twenty thousand francs this year. But let us reckon only a fourth of that sum. Five thousand francs a year at play and four thousand in clothes and jewels make nine thousand; and three thousand francs which we count for food, does it not make your twelve thousand francs? HAR. Yes, that's not bad; but, after all, that calculation has nothing real in it. FRO. Excuse me; is it nothing real to bring you in marriage a great sobriety, to inherit a great love for simplicity in dress, and the acquired property of a great hatred for gambling? HAR. It is a farce to pretend to make up a dowry with all the expenses she will not run into. I could not give a receipt for what I do not receive; and I must decidedly get something. FRO. Bless me! you will get enough; and they have spoken to me of a certain country where they have some property, of which you will be master. HAR. We shall have to see to that. But, Frosine, there is one more thing that makes me uneasy. The girl is young, you know; and young people generally like those who are young like themselves, and only care for the society of the young. I am afraid that a man of my age may not exactly suit her taste, and that this may occasion in my family certain complications that would in nowise be pleasant to me. FRO. Oh, how badly you judge her! This is one more peculiarity of which I had to speak to you. She has the greatest detestation to all young men, and only likes old people. HAR. Does she? FRO. I should like you to hear her talk on that subject; she cannot bear at all the sight of a young man, and nothing delights her more than to see a fine old man with a venerable beard. The oldest are to her the most charming, and I warn you beforehand not to go and make yourself any younger than you really are. She wishes for one sixty years old at least; and it is not more than six months ago that on the very eve of being married she suddenly broke off the match on learning that her lover was only fifty-six years of age, and did not put on spectacles to sign the contract. HAR. Only for that? FRO. Yes; she says there is no pleasure with a man of fifty-six; and she has a decided affection for those who wear spectacles. HAR. Well, this is quite new to me. FRO. No one can imagine how far she carries this. She has in her room a few pictures and engravings, and what do you imagine they are? An Adonis, a Cephalus, a Paris, an Apollo? Not a bit of it! Fine portraits of Saturn, of King Priam, of old Nestor, and of good father Anchises on his son's shoulders. HAR. That's admirable. I should never have guessed such a thing; and I am very pleased to hear that she has such taste as this. Indeed had I been a woman, I should never have loved young fellows. FRO. I should think not. Fine trumpery indeed, these young men, for any one to fall in love with. Fine jackanapes and puppies for a woman to hanker after. I should like to know what relish anyone can find in them? HAR. Truly; I don't understand it myself, and I cannot make out how it is that some women dote so on them. FRO. They must be downright idiots. Can any one be in his senses who thinks youth amiable? Can those curly-pated coxcombs be men, and can one really get attached to such animals? HAR. Exactly what I say every day! With their effeminate voices, their three little bits of a beard turned up like cat's whiskers, their tow wigs, their flowing breeches and open breasts! FRO. Yes; they are famous guys compared with yourself. In you we see something like a man. There is enough to satisfy the eye. It is thus that one should be made and dressed to inspire love. HAR. Then you think I am pretty well? FRO. Pretty well! I should think so; you are charming, and your face would make a beautiful picture. Turn round a little, if you please. You could not find anything better anywhere. Let me see you walk. You have a well-shaped body, free and easy, as it should be, and one which gives no sign of infirmity. HAR. I have nothing the matter to speak of, I am thankful to say. It is only my cough, which returns from time to time.[5] FRO. That is nothing, and coughing becomes you exceedingly well. HAR. Tell me, Frosine, has Marianne seen me yet? Has she not noticed me when I passed by? FRO. No; but we have had many conversations about you. I gave her an exact description of your person, and I did not fail to make the most of your merit, and to show her what an advantage it would be to have a husband like you. HAR. You did right, and I thank you very much for it. FRO. I have, Sir, a small request to make to you. I am in danger of losing a lawsuit for want of a little money (HARPAGON _looks grave_), and you can easily help me with it, if you have pity upon me. You cannot imagine how happy she will be to see you. (HARPAGON _looks joyful_.) Oh! how sure you are to please her, and how sure that antique ruff of yours is to produce a wonderful effect on her mind. But, above all, she will be delighted with your breeches fastened to your doublet with tags; that will make her mad after you, and a lover who wears tags will be most welcome to her. HAR. You send me into raptures, Frosine, by saying that. FRO. I tell you the truth, Sir; this lawsuit is of the utmost importance for me. (HARPAGON _looks serious again_.) If I lose it, I am for ever ruined; but a very small sum will save me. I should like you to have seen the happiness she felt when I spoke of you to her. (HARPAGON _looks pleased again_.) Joy sparkled in her eyes while I told her of all your good qualities; and I succeeded, in short, in making her look forward with the greatest impatience to the conclusion of the match. HAR. You have given me great pleasure, Frosine, and I assure you I ... FRO. I beg of you, Sir, to grant me the little assistance I ask of you. (HARPAGON _again looks grave_.) It will put me on my feet again, and I shall feel grateful to you for ever. HAR. Good-bye; I must go and finish my correspondence. FRO. I assure you, Sir, that you could not help me in a more pressing necessity. HAR. I will see that my carriage is ready to take you to the fair. FRO. I would not importune you so if I were not compelled by necessity. HAR. And I will see that we have supper early, so that nobody may be ill. FRO. Do not refuse me the service; I beg of you. You can hardly believe, Sir, the pleasure that ... HAR. I must go; somebody is calling me. We shall see each other again by and by. FRO. (_alone_). May the fever seize you, you stingy cur, and send you to the devil and his angels! The miser has held out against all my attacks; but I must not drop the negotiation; for I have the other side, and there, at all events, I am sure of a good reward. ACT III. SCENE I.--HARPAGON, CLÉANTE, ÉLISE, VALÈRE, DAME CLAUDE (_holding a broom_), MASTER JACQUES, LA MERLUCHE, BRINDAVOINE. HAR. Here, come here, all of you; I must give you orders for by and by, and arrange what each one will have to do. Come nearer, Dame Claude; let us begin with you. (_Looking at her broom._) Good; you are ready armed, I see. To you I commit the care of cleaning up everywhere; but, above all, be very careful not to rub the furniture too hard, for fear of wearing it out. Besides this, I put the bottles under your care during supper, and if any one of them is missing, or if anything gets broken, you will be responsible for it, and pay it out of your wages. JAC. (_aside_). A shrewd punishment that. HAR. (_to_ DAME CLAUDE.) Now you may go. SCENE II.--HARPAGON, CLÉANTE, ÉLISE, VALÈRE, MASTER JACQUES, BRINDAVOINE, LA MERLUCHE. HAR. To you, Brindavoine, and to you, La Merluche, belongs the duty of washing the glasses, and of giving to drink, but only when people are thirsty, and not according to the custom of certain impertinent lackeys, who urge them to drink, and put the idea into their heads when they are not thinking about it. Wait until you have been asked several times, and remember always to have plenty of water. JAC. (_aside_). Yes; wine without water gets into one's head. LA MER. Shall we take off our smocks, Sir? HAR. Yes, when you see the guests coming; but be very careful not to spoil your clothes. BRIND. You know, Sir, that one of the fronts of my doublet is covered with a large stain of oil from the lamp. LA MER. And I, Sir, that my breeches are all torn behind, and that, saving your presence ... HAR. (_to_ LA MERLUCHE). Peace! Turn carefully towards the wall, and always face the company. (_To_ BRINDAVOINE, _showing him how he is to hold his hat before his doublet, to hide the stain of oil_) And you, always hold your hat in this fashion when you wait on the guests. SCENE III.--HARPAGON, CLÉANTE, ÉLISE, VALÈRE, MASTER JACQUES. HAR. As for you, my daughter, you will look after all that is cleared off the table, and see that nothing is wasted: this care is very becoming to young girls. Meanwhile get ready to welcome my lady-love, who is coming this afternoon to pay you a visit, and will take you off to the fair with her. Do you understand what I say? ELI. Yes, father. SCENE IV.--HARPAGON, CLÉANTE, VALÈRE, MASTER JACQUES. HAR. And you, my young dandy of a son to whom I have the kindness of forgiving what happened this morning, mind you don't receive her coldly, or show her a sour face. CLE. Receive her coldly! And why should I? HAR. Why? why? We know pretty well the ways of children whose fathers marry again, and the looks they give to those we call stepmothers. But if you wish me to forget your last offence, I advise you, above all things, to receive her kindly, and, in short, to give her the heartiest welcome you can. CLE. To speak the truth, father, I cannot promise you that I am very happy to see her become my stepmother; but as to receiving her properly, and as to giving her a kind welcome, I promise to obey you in that to the very letter. HAR. Be careful you do, at least. CLE. You will see that you have no cause to complain. HAR. You will do wisely. SCENE V.--HARPAGON, VALÈRE, MASTER JACQUES. HAR. Valère, you will have to give me your help in this business. Now, Master Jacques, I kept you for the last. JAC. Is it to your coachman, Sir, or to your cook you want to speak, for I am both the one and the other? HAR. To both. JAC. But to which of the two first? HAR. To the cook. JAC. Then wait a minute, if you please. (JACQUES _takes off his stable-coat and appears dressed as a cook._) HAR. What the deuce is the meaning of this ceremony? JAC. Now I am at your service. HAR. I have engaged myself, Master Jacques, to give a supper to-night. JAC. (_aside_). Wonderful! HAR. Tell me, can you give us a good supper? JAC. Yes, if you give me plenty of money. HAR. The deuce! Always money! I think they have nothing else to say except money, money, money! Always that same word in their mouth, money! They always speak of money! It's their pillow companion, money! VAL. Never did I hear such an impertinent answer! Would you call it wonderful to provide good cheer with plenty of money? Is it not the easiest thing in the world? The most stupid could do as much. But a clever man should talk of a good supper with little money. JAC. A good supper with little money? VAL. Yes. JAC. (_to_ VALÈRE). Indeed, Mr. Steward, you will oblige me greatly by telling me your secret, and also, if you like, by filling my place as cook; for you keep on meddling here, and want to be everything. HAR. Hold your tongue. What shall we want? JAC. Ask that of Mr. Steward, who will give you good cheer with little money. HAR. Do you hear? I am speaking to you, and expect you to answer me. JAC. How many will there be at your table? HAR. Eight or ten; but you must only reckon for eight. When there is enough for eight, there is enough for ten. VAL. That is evident. JAC. Very well, then; you must have four tureens of soup and five side dishes; soups, entrées ... HAR. What! do you mean to feed a whole town? JAC. Roast ... HAR. (_clapping his hand on_ MASTER JACQUES' _mouth_). Ah! Wretch! you are eating up all my substance. JAC. Entremêts ... HAR. (_again putting his hand on_ JACQUES' _mouth_). More still? VAL. (_to_ JACQUES). Do you mean to kill everybody? And has your master invited people in order to destroy them with over-feeding? Go and read a little the precepts of health, and ask the doctors if there is anything so hurtful to man as excess in eating. HAR. He is perfectly right. VAL. Know, Master Jacques, you and people like you, that a table overloaded with eatables is a real cut-throat; that, to be the true friends of those we invite, frugality should reign throughout the repast we give, and that according to the saying of one of the ancients, "We must eat to live, and not live to eat." HAR. Ah! How well the man speaks! Come near, let me embrace you for this last saying. It is the finest sentence that I have ever heard in my life: "We must live to eat, and not eat to live." No; that isn't it. How do you say it? VAL. That we must eat to live, and not live to eat. HAR. (_to_ MASTER JACQUES). Yes. Do you hear that? (_To_ VALÈRE) Who is the great man who said that? VAL. I do not exactly recollect his name just now. HAR. Remember to write down those words for me. I will have them engraved in letters of gold over the mantel-piece of my dining-room. VAL. I will not fail. As for your supper, you had better let me manage it. I will see that it is all as it should be. HAR. Do so. JAC. So much the better; all the less work for me. HAR. (_to_ VALÈRE). We must have some of those things of which it is not possible to eat much, and that satisfy directly. Some good fat beans, and a pâté well stuffed with chestnuts. VAL. Trust to me. HAR. Now, Master Jacques, you must clean my carriage. JAC. Wait a moment; this is to the coachman. (JACQUES _puts on his coat._) You say ... HAR. That you must clean my carriage, and have my horses ready to drive to the fair. JAC. Your horses! Upon my word, Sir, they are not at all in a condition to stir. I won't tell you that they are laid up, for the poor things have got nothing to lie upon, and it would not be telling the truth. But you make them keep such rigid fasts that they are nothing but phantoms, ideas, and mere shadows of horses. HAR. They are much to be pitied. They have nothing to do. JAC. And because they have nothing to do, must they have nothing to eat? It would be much better for them, poor things, to work much and eat to correspond. It breaks my heart to see them so reduced; for, in short, I love my horses; and when I see them suffer, it seems as if it were myself. Every day I take the bread out of my own mouth to feed them; and it is being too hard-hearted, Sir, to have no compassion upon one's neighbour. HAR. It won't be very hard work to go to the fair. JAC. No, Sir. I haven't the heart to drive them; it would go too much against my conscience to use the whip to them in the state they are in. How could you expect them to drag a carriage? They have not even strength enough to drag themselves along. VAL. Sir, I will ask our neighbour, Picard, to drive them; particularly as we shall want his help to get the supper ready. JAC. Be it so. I had much rather they should die under another's hand than under mine. VAL. Master Jacques is mightily considerate. JAC. Mr. Steward is mightily indispensable. HAR. Peace. JAC. Sir, I can't bear these flatteries, and I can see that, whatever this man does, his continual watching after the bread, wine, wood, salt, and candles, is done but to curry favour and to make his court to you. I am indignant to see it all; and I am sorry to hear every day what is said of you; for, after all, I have a certain tenderness for you; and, except my horses, you are the person I like most in the world. HAR. And I would know from you, Master Jacques, what it is that is said of me. JAC. Yes, certainly, Sir, if I were sure you would not get angry with me. HAR. No, no; never fear. JAC. Excuse me, but I am sure you will be angry. HAR. No, on the contrary, you will oblige me. I should be glad to know what people say of me. JAC. Since you wish it, Sir, I will tell you frankly that you are the laughing-stock of everybody; that they taunt us everywhere by a thousand jokes on your account, and that nothing delights people more than to make sport of you, and to tell stories without end about your stinginess. One says that you have special almanacks printed, where you double the ember days and vigils, so that you may profit by the fasts to which you bind all your house; another, that you always have a ready-made quarrel for your servants at Christmas time or when they leave you, so that you may give them nothing. One tells a story how not long since you prosecuted a neighbour's cat because it had eaten up the remainder of a leg of mutton; another says that one night you were caught stealing your horses' oats, and that your coachman,--that is the man who was before me,--gave you, in the dark, a good sound drubbing, of which you said nothing. In short, what is the use of going on? We can go nowhere but we are sure to hear you pulled to pieces. You are the butt and jest and byword of everybody; and never does anyone mention you but under the names of miser, stingy, mean, niggardly fellow and usurer. HAR. (_beating_ JACQUES). You are a fool, a rascal, a scoundrel, and an impertinent wretch. JAC. There, there! Did not I know how it would be? You would not believe me. I told you I should make you angry if I spoke the truth? HAR. Learn how to speak. SCENE VI.--VALÈRE, MASTER JACQUES. VAL. (_laughing_). Well, Master Jacques, your frankness is badly rewarded, I fear. JAC. S'death! Mr. Upstart, you who assume the man of consequence, it is no business of yours as far as I can see. Laugh at your own cudgelling when you get it, and don't come here and laugh at mine. VAL. Ah! Master Jacques, don't get into a passion, I beg of you. JAC. (_aside_). He is drawing in his horns. I will put on a bold face, and if he is fool enough to be afraid of me, I will pay him back somewhat. (_To_ VALÈRE) Do you know, Mr. Grinner, that I am not exactly in a laughing humour, and that if you provoke me too much, I shall make you laugh after another fashion. (JACQUES _pushes_ VALÈRE _to the farther end of the stage, threatening him_.) VAL. Gently, gently. JAC. How gently? And if it does not please me to go gently? VAL. Come, come! What are you about? JAC. You are an impudent rascal. VAL. Master Jacques.... JAC. None of your Master Jacques here! If I take up a stick, I shall soon make you feel it. VAL. What do you mean by a stick? (_Drives back_ JACQUES _in his turn_.) JAC. No; I don't say anything about that. VAL. Do you know, Mr. Conceit, that I am a man to give you a drubbing in good earnest? JAC. I have no doubt of it. VAL. That, after all, you are nothing but a scrub of a cook? JAC. I know it very well. VAL. And that you don't know me yet? JAC. I beg your pardon. VAL. You will beat me, you say? JAC. I only spoke in jest. VAL. I don't like your jesting, and (_beating_ JACQUES) remember that you are but a sorry hand at it. JAC. (_alone_). Plague take all sincerity; it is a bad trade. I give it up for the future, and will cease to tell the truth. It is all very well for my master to beat me; but as for that Mr. Steward, what right has he to do it? I will be revenged on him if I can. SCENE VII.--MARIANNE, FROSINE, MASTER JACQUES. FRO. Do you know if your master is at home? JAC. Yes, he is indeed; I know it but too well. FRO. Tell him, please, that we are here. SCENE VIII.--MARIANNE, FROSINE. MAR. Ah! Frosine, how strange I feel, and how I dread this interview! FRO. Why should you? What can you possibly dread? MAR. Alas! can you ask me? Can you not understand the alarms of a person about to see the instrument of torture to which she is to be tied. FRO. I see very well that to die agreeably, Harpagon is not the torture you would embrace; and I can judge by your looks that the fair young man you spoke of to me is still in your thoughts. MAR. Yes, Frosine; it is a thing I do not wish to deny. The respectful visits he has paid at our house have left, I confess, a great impression on my heart. FRO. But do you know who he is? MAR. No, I do not. All I know is that he is made to be loved; that if things were left to my choice, I would much rather marry him than any other, and that he adds not a little to the horrible dread that I have of the husband they want to force upon me. FRO. Oh yes! All those dandies are very pleasant, and can talk agreeably enough, but most of them are as poor as church mice; and it is much better for you to marry an old husband, who gives you plenty of money. I fully acknowledge that the senses somewhat clash with the end I propose, and that there are certain little inconveniences to be endured with such a husband; but all that won't last; and his death, believe me, will soon put you in a position to take a more pleasant husband, who will make amends for all. MAR. Oh, Frosine! What a strange state of things that, in order to be happy, we must look forward to the death of another. Yet death will not fall in with all the projects we make. FRO. You are joking. You marry him with the express understanding that he will soon leave you a widow; it must be one of the articles of the marriage contract. It would be very wrong in him not to die before three months are over. Here he is himself. MAR. Ah! dear Frosine, what a face! SCENE IX.--HARPAGON, MARIANNE, FROSINE. HAR. (_to_ MARIANNE). Do not be offended, fair one, if I come to you with my glasses on. I know that your beauty is great enough to be seen with the naked eye; but, still, it is with glasses that we look at the stars, and I maintain and uphold that you are a star, the most beautiful and in the land of stars. Frosine, she does not answer, star, it seems to me, shows no joy at the sight of me. FRO. It is because she is still quite awe-struck, and young girls are always shy at first, and afraid of showing what they feel. HAR. (_to_ FROSINE). You are right. (_To_ MARIANNE) My pretty darling, there is my daughter coming to welcome you. SCENE X.--HARPAGON, ÉLISE, MARIANNE, FROSINE. MAR. I am very late in acquitting myself of the visit I owed you. ELI. You have done what I ought to have done. It was for me to have come and seen you first. HAR. You see what a great girl she is; but ill weeds grow apace. MAR. (_aside to_ FROSINE). Oh, what an unpleasant man! HAR. (_to_ FROSINE). What does my fair one say? FRO. That she thinks you perfect. HAR. You do me too much honour, my adorable darling. MAR. (_aside_). What a dreadful creature! HAR. I really feel too grateful to you for these sentiments. MAR. (_aside_). I can bear it no longer. SCENE XI.--HARPAGON, MARIANNE, ÉLISE, CLÉANTE, VALÈRE, FROSINE, BRINDAVOINE. HAR. Here is my son, who also comes to pay his respects to you. MAR. (_aside to_ FROSINE). Oh, Frosine! what a strange meeting! He is the very one of whom I spoke to you. FRO. (_to_ MARIANNE). Well, that is extraordinary. HAR. You are surprised to see that my children can be so old; but I shall soon get rid of both of them. CLE. (_to_ MARIANNE). Madam, to tell you the truth, I little expected such an event; and my father surprised me not a little when he told me to-day of the decision he had come to. MAR. I can say the same thing. It is an unexpected meeting; and I certainly was far from being prepared for such an event. CLE. Madam, my father cannot make a better choice, and it is a great joy to me to have the honour of welcoming you here. At the same time, I cannot say that I should rejoice if it were your intention to become my stepmother. I must confess that I should find it difficult to pay you the compliment; and it is a title, forgive me, that I cannot wish you to have. To some this speech would seem coarse, but I feel that you understand it. This marriage, Madam, is altogether repugnant to me. You are not ignorant, now that you know who I am, how opposed it is to all my own interests, and with my father's permission I hope you will allow me to say that, if things depended on me, it would never take place. HAR. (_aside_). What a very impertinent speech to make; and what a confession to make to her! MAR. And as my answer, I must tell you that things are much the same with me, and that, if you have any repugnance in seeing me your stepmother, I shall have no less in seeing you my stepson. Do not believe, I beg of you, that it is of my own will that this trouble has come upon you. I should be deeply grieved to cause you the least sorrow, and unless I am forced to it by a power I must obey, I give you my word that, I will never consent to a marriage which is so painful to you. HAR. She is right. A foolish speech deserves a foolish answer. I beg your pardon, my love, for the impertinence of my son. He is a silly young fellow, who has not yet learnt the value of his own words. MAR. I assure you that he has not at all offended me. I am thankful, on the contrary, that he has spoken so openly. I care greatly for such a confession from him, and if he had spoken differently, I should feel much less esteem for him. HAR. It is very kind of you to excuse him thus. Time will make him wiser, and you will see that his feelings will change. CLE. No, father, they will never change; and I earnestly beg of you, Madam, to believe me. HAR. Did ever anybody see such folly? He is becoming worse and worse. CLE. Would you have me false to my inmost feelings? HAR. Again! Change your manners, if you please. CLE. Very well, since you wish me to speak differently. Allow me, Madam, to take for a moment my father's place; and forgive me if I tell you that I never saw in the world anybody more charming than you are; that I can understand no happiness to equal that of pleasing you, and that to be your husband is a glory, a felicity, I should prefer to the destinies of the greatest princes upon earth. Yes, Madam, to possess you is, in my mind, to possess the best of all treasures; to obtain you is all my ambition. There is nothing I would not do for so precious a conquest, and the most powerful obstacles ... HAR. Gently, gently, my son, if you please. CLE. These are complimentary words which I speak to her in your name. HAR. Bless me! I have a tongue of my own to explain my feelings, and I really don't care for such an advocate as you... Here, bring us some chairs. FRO. No; I think it is better for us to go at once to the fair, in order to be back earlier, and have plenty of time for talking. HAR. (_to_ BRINDAVOINE). Have the carriage ready at once. SCENE XII.--HARPAGON, MARIANNE, ÉLISE, CLÉANTE, VALÈRE, FROSINE. HAR. (_to_ MARIANNE). I hope you will excuse me, my dear, but I forgot to order some refreshments for you, before you went out. CLE. I have thought of it, father, and have ordered to be brought in here some baskets of China oranges, sweet citrons, and preserves, which I sent for in your name. HAR. (_aside, to_ VALÈRE). Valère! VAL. (_aside, to_ HARPAGON). He has lost his senses! CLE. You are afraid, father, that it will not be enough? I hope, Madam, that you will have the kindness to excuse it. MAR. It was by no means necessary. CLE. Did you ever see, Madam, a more brilliant diamond than the one my father has upon his finger? MAR. It certainly sparkles very much. CLE. (_taking the diamond off his father's finger_). You must see it near. MAR. It is a beautiful one; it possesses great lustre. CLE. (_steps before_ MARIANNE, _who wants to restore it_). No, Madam, it is in hands too beautiful; it is a present my father gives you. HAR. I? CLE. Is it not true, father, that you wish her to keep it for your sake? HAR. (_aside, to his son_). What? CLE. (_to_ MARIANNE). A strange question indeed! He is making me signs that I am to force you to accept it. MAR. I would not.... CLE. (_to_ MARIANNE). I beg of you.... He would not take it back. HAR. (_aside_). I am bursting with rage! MAR. It would be ... CLE. (_still hindering_ MARIANNE _from returning it_). No; I tell you, you will offend him. MAR. Pray ... CLE. By no means. HAR. (_aside_). Plague take ... CLE. He is perfectly shocked at your refusal. HAR. (_aside, to his son_). Ah! traitor! CLE. (_to_ MARIANNE). You see he is in despair. HAR. (_aside, to his son, threatening him_). You villain! CLE. Really, father, it is not my fault. I do all I can to persuade her to accept it; but she is obstinate. HAR. (_in a rage, aside to his son_). Rascal! CLE. You are the cause, Madam, of my father scolding me. HAR. (_aside, with the same looks_). Scoundrel! CLE. (_to_ MARIANNE). You will make him ill; for goodness' sake, hesitate no longer. FRO. (_to_ MARIANNE). Why so much ceremony? Keep the ring, since the gentleman wishes you to. MAR. (_to_ HARPAGON). I will keep it now, Sir, in order not to make you angry, and I shall take another opportunity of returning it to you. SCENE XIII.--HARPAGON, MARIANNE, ÉLISE, VALÈRE, FROSINE, BRINDAVOINE. BRIND. Sir, there is a gentleman here who wants to speak to you. HAR. Tell him that I am engaged, and that I cannot see him to-day. BRIND. He says he has some money for you. HAR. (_to_ MARIANNE). Pray, excuse me; I will come back directly. SCENE XIV.--HARPAGON, MARIANNE, ÉLISE, CLÉANTE, FROSINE, LA MERLUCHE. LA MER. (_comes in running, and throws_ HARPAGON _down_). Sir.... HAR. Oh! he has killed me. CLE. What's the matter, father? Have you hurt yourself? HAR. The wretch must have been bribed by some of my debtors to break my neck. VAL. (_to_ HARPAGON). There is nothing serious. LA MER. (_to_ HARPAGON). I beg your pardon, Sir; I thought I had better run fast to tell you.... HAR. What? LA MER. That your two horses have lost their shoes. HAR. Take them quickly to the smith. CLE. In the meantime, father, I will do the honours of the house for you, and take this lady into the garden, where lunch will be brought. SCENE XV.--HARPAGON, VALÈRE. HAR. Valère, look after all this; and take care, I beseech you, to save as much of it as you can, so that we may send it back to the tradesman again. VAL. I will. HAR. (_alone_). Miscreant! do you mean to ruin me? ACT IV. SCENE I.--CLÉANTE, MARIANNE, ÉLISE, FROSINE. CLE. Let us come in here; we shall be much better. There is no one about us that we need be afraid of, and we can speak openly. ELI. Yes, Madam, my brother has told me of the love he has for you. I know what sorrow and anxiety such trials as these may cause, and I assure you that I have the greatest sympathy for you. MAR. I feel it a great comfort in my trouble to have the sympathy of a person like you, and I entreat you, Madam, ever to retain for me a friendship so capable of softening the cruelty of my fate. FRO. You really are both very unfortunate not to have told me of all this before. I might certainly have warded off the blow, and not have carried things so far. CLE. What could I do? It is my evil destiny which has willed it so. But you, fair Marianne, what have you resolved to do? What resolution have you taken? MAR. Alas! Is it in my power to take any resolution? And, dependent as I am, can I do anything else except form wishes? CLE. No other support for me in your heart? Nothing but mere wishes? No pitying energy? No kindly relief? No active affection? MAR. What am I to say to you? Put yourself in my place, and judge what I can possibly do. Advise me, dispose of me, I trust myself entirely to you, for I am sure that you will never ask of me anything but what is modest and seemly. CLE. Alas! to what do you reduce me when you wish me to be guided entirely by feelings of strict duty and of scrupulous propriety. MAR. But what would you have me do? Even if I were, for you, to divest myself of the many scruples which our sex imposes on us, I have too much regard for my mother, who has brought me up with great tenderness, for me to give her any cause of sorrow. Do all you can with her. Strive to win her. I give you leave to say and do all you wish; and if anything depends upon her knowing the true state of my feelings, by all means tell her what they are; indeed I will do it myself if necessary. CLE. Frosine, dear Frosine, will you not help us? FRO. Indeed, I should like to do so, as you know. I am not naturally unkind. Heaven has not given me a heart of flint, and I feel but too ready to help when I see young people loving each other in all earnestness and honesty. What can we do in this case? CLE. Try and think a little. MAR. Advise us. ELI. Invent something to undo what you have done. FRO. Rather a difficult piece of business. (_To_ MARIANNE) As far as your mother is concerned, she is not altogether unreasonable and we might succeed in making her give to the son the gift she reserved for the father. (_To_ CLÉANTE) But the most disheartening part of it all is that your father is your father. CLE. Yes, so it is. FRO. I mean that he will bear malice if he sees that he is refused, and he will be in no way disposed afterwards to give his consent to your marriage. It would be well if the refusal could be made to come from him, and you ought to try by some means or other to make him dislike you, Marianne. CLE. You are quite right. FRO. Yes, right enough, no doubt. That is what ought to be done; but how in the world are we to set about it? Wait a moment. Suppose we had a somewhat elderly woman with a little of the ability which I possess, and able sufficiently well to represent a lady of rank, by means of a retinue made up in haste, and of some whimsical title of a marchioness or viscountess, whom we would suppose to come from Lower Brittany. I should have enough power over your father to persuade him that she is a rich woman, in possession, besides her houses, of a hundred thousand crowns in ready money; that she is deeply in love with him, and that she would marry him at any cost, were she even to give him all her money by the marriage contract. I have no doubt he would listen to the proposal. For certainly he loves you very much, my dear, but he loves money still better. When once he has consented to your marriage, it does not signify much how he finds out the true state of affairs about our marchioness. CLE. All that is very well made up. FRO. Leave it to me; I just remember one of my friends who will do beautifully. CLE. Depend on my gratitude, Frosine, if you succeed. But, dear Marianne, let us begin, I beg of you, by gaining over your mother; it would be a great deal accomplished if this marriage were once broken off. Make use, I beseech you, of all the power that her tenderness for you gives you over her. Display without hesitation those eloquent graces, those all-powerful charms, with which Heaven has endowed your eyes and lips; forget not, I beseech you, those sweet persuasions, those tender entreaties, those loving caresses to which, I feel, nothing could be refused. MAR. I will do all I can, and will forget nothing. SCENE II.--HARPAGON, MARIANNE, ÉLISE, FROSINE. HAR. (_aside, and without being seen_). Ah! ah! my son is kissing the hand of his intended stepmother, and his intended stepmother does not seem much averse to it! Can there be any mystery in all this? ELI. Here comes my father. HAR. The carriage is quite ready, and you can start when you like. CLE. Since you are not going, father, allow me to take care of them. HAR. No, stop here; they can easily take care of themselves, and I want you. SCENE III.--HARPAGON, CLÉANTE. HAR. Well, now, all consideration of stepmother aside, tell me what do you think of this lady? CLE. What I think of her? HAR. Yes, what do you think of her appearance, her figure, her beauty and intelligence? CLE. So, so. HAR. But still? CLE. To tell you the truth, I did not find her such as I expected. Her manner is that of a thorough coquette, her figure is rather awkward, her beauty very middling, and her intelligence of the meanest order. Do not suppose that I say this to make you dislike her; for if I must have a stepmother, I like the idea of this one as well as of any other. HAR. You spoke to her just now, nevertheless.... CLE. I paid her several compliments in your name, but it was to please you. HAR. So then you don't care for her? CLE. Who? I? Not in the least. HAR. I am sorry for it, for that puts an end to a scheme which had occurred to me. Since I have seen her here, I have been thinking of my own age; and I feel that people would find fault with me for marrying so young a girl. This consideration had made me determine to abandon the project, and as I had demanded her in marriage, and had given her my promise, I would have given her to you if it were not for the dislike you have for her. CLE. To me? HAR. To you. CLE. In marriage? HAR. In marriage. CLE. It is true she is not at all to my taste; but, to please you, father, I will bring myself to marry her, if you please. HAR. If I please! I am more reasonable than you think. I don't wish to compel you. CLE. Excuse me! I will make an attempt to love her. HAR. No, no; a marriage cannot be happy where there is no love. CLE. That, my father, will, perhaps, come by and by, and it is said that love is often the fruit of marriage. HAR. No, it is not right to risk it on the side of the man, and there are some troublesome things I don't care to run the chance of. If you had felt any inclination for her, you should have married her instead of me, but as it is, I will return to my first intention and marry her myself. CLE. Well, father, since things are so, I had better be frank with you, and reveal our secret to you. The truth is that I have loved her ever since I saw her one day on the promenade. I intended to ask you today to let me marry her, and I was only deterred from it because you spoke of marrying her, and because I feared to displease you. HAR. Have you ever paid her any visits? CLE. Yes, father. HAR. Many? CLE. Yes; considering how long we have been acquainted. HAR. You were well received. CLE. Very well, but without her knowing who I was; and that is why Marianne was so surprised when she saw me today. HAR. Have you told her of your love, and of your intention of marrying her? CLE. Certainly, and I also spoke a little to the mother on the subject. HAR. Did she kindly receive your proposal for her daughter? CLE. Yes, very kindly. HAR. And does the daughter return your love? CLE. If I can believe appearances, she is certainly well disposed towards me. HAR. (_aside_). Well! I am very glad to have found out this secret; it is the very thing I wanted to know. (_To his son_) Now, look here, my son, I tell you what. You will have, if you please, to get rid of your love for Marianne, to cease to pay your attentions to a person I intend for myself, and to marry very soon the wife I have chosen for you. CLE. So, father, it is thus you deceive me! Very well, since things are come to such a pass, I openly declare to you that I shall not give up my love for Marianne. No! understand that henceforth there is nothing from which I shall shrink in order to dispute her with you; and if you have on your side the consent of the mother, perhaps I shall have some other resources left to aid me. HAR. What, rascal! You dare to trespass on my grounds? CLE. It is you who trespass on mine. I was the first. HAR. Am I not your father, and do you not owe me respect? CLE. There are things in which children are not called upon to pay deference to their fathers; and love is no respector of persons. HAR. My stick will make you know me better. CLE. All your threatenings are nothing to me. HAR. You will give up Marianne? CLE. Never! HAR. Bring me my stick. Quick, I say! my stick! SCENE IV.--HARPAGON, CLÉANTE, MASTER JACQUES. JAC. Hold! hold! Gentlemen, what does this mean? What are you thinking of? CLE. I don't care a bit for it. JAC. (_to_ CLÉANTE). Ah! Sir, gently. HAR. He dares to speak to me with such impudence as that! JAC. (_to_ HARPAGON). Ah! Sir, I beg of you. CLE. I shall keep to it. JAC. (_to_ CLÉANTE). What! to your father? HAR. Let me do it. JAC. (_to_ HARPAGON). What! to your son? To me it's different. HAR. I will make you judge between us, Master Jacques, so that you may see that I have right on my side. JAC. Willingly. (_To_ CLÉANTE) Go a little farther back. HAR. There is a young girl I love and want to marry, and the scoundrel has the impudence to love her also, and wants to marry her in spite of me. JAC. Oh! he is wrong. HAR. Is it not an abominable thing to see a son who does not shrink from becoming the rival of his father? And is it not his bounden duty to refrain from interfering with my love? JAC. You are quite right; stop here, and let me go and speak to him. CLE. (_to_ MASTER JACQUES, _who comes near him_). Very well; if he wants to make you a judge between us, I have no objection. I care little who it is, and I don't mind referring our quarrel to you. JAC. You do me great honour. CLE. I am in love with a young girl who returns my affection, and who receives kindly the offer of my heart; but my father takes it into his head to disturb our love by asking her in marriage. JAC. He certainly is wrong. CLE. Is it not shameful for a man of his age to think of marrying? I ask you if it is right for him to fall in love? and ought he not now to leave that to younger men? JAC. You are quite right; he is not serious; let me speak a word or two to him. (_To_ HARPAGON) Really, your son is not so extravagant as you think, and is amenable to reason. He says that he is conscious of the respect he owes you, and that he only got angry in the heat of the moment. He will willingly submit to all you wish if you will only promise to treat him more kindly than you do, and will give him in marriage a person to his taste. HAR. Ah! tell him, Master Jacques, that he will obtain everything from me on those terms, and that, except Marianne, I leave him free to choose for his wife whomsoever he pleases. JAC. Leave that to me. (_To_ CLÉANTE) Really, your father is not so unreasonable as you make him out to me; and he tells me that it is your violence which irritated him. He only objects to your way of doing things, and is quite ready to grant you all you want, provided you will use gentle means and will give him the deference, respect, and submission that a son owes to his father. CLE. Ah! Master Jacques, you can assure him that if he grants me Marianne, he will always find me the most submissive of men, and that I shall never do anything contrary to his pleasure. JAC. (_to_ HARPAGON). It's all right; he consents to what you say. HAR. Nothing could be better. JAC. (_to_ CLÉANTE). It's all settled; he is satisfied with your promises. CLE. Heaven be praised! JAC. Gentlemen, you have nothing to do but to talk quietly over the matter together; you are agreed now, and yet you were on the point of quarrelling through want of understanding each other. CLE. My poor Jacques, I shall be obliged to you all my life. JAC. Don't mention it, Sir. HAR. You have given me great pleasure, Master Jacques, and deserve a reward. (HARPAGON _feels in his pocket_, JACQUES _holds out his hand, but_ HARPAGON _only pulls out his handkerchief, and says_,) Go; I will remember it, I promise you. JAC. I thank you kindly, Sir. SCENE V.--HARPAGON, CLÉANTE. CLE. I beg your pardon, father, for having been angry. HAR. It is nothing. CLE. I assure you that I feel very sorry about it. HAR. I am very happy to see you reasonable again. CLE. How very kind of you so soon to forget my fault. HAR. One easily forgets the faults of children when they return to their duty. CLE. What! you are not angry with me for my extravagant behaviour? HAR. By your submission and respectful conduct you compel me to forget my anger. CLE. I assure you, father, I shall for ever keep in heart the remembrance of all your kindness. HAR. And I promise you that, in future, you will obtain all you like from me. CLE. Oh, father! I ask nothing more; it is sufficient for me that you give me Marianne. HAR. What? CLE. I say, father, that I am only too thankful already for what you have done, and that when you give me Marianne, you give me everything. HAR. Who talks of giving you Marianne? CLE. You, father. HAR. I? CLE. Yes. HAR. What! is it not you who promised to give her up? CLE. I! give her up? HAR. Yes. CLE. Certainly not. HAR. Did you not give up all pretensions to her? CLE. On the contrary, I am more determined than ever to have her. HAR. What, scoundrel! again? CLE. Nothing can make me change my mind. HAR. Let me get at you again, wretch! CLE. You can do as you please. HAR. I forbid you ever to come within my sight. CLE. As you like. HAR. I abandon you. CLE. Abandon me. HAR. I disown you. CLE. Disown me. HAR. I disinherit you. CLE. As you will. HAR. I give you my curse. CLE. I want none of your gifts. SCENE VI.--CLÉANTE, LA FLÈCHE. LA FL. (_leaving the garden with a casket_). Ah! Sir, you are just in the nick of time. Quick! follow me. CLE. What is the matter? LA FL. Follow me, I say. We are saved. CLE. How? LA FL. Here is all you want. CLE. What? LA FL. I have watched for this all day. CLE. What is it? LA FL. Your father's treasure that I have got hold of. CLE. How did you manage it? LA FL. I will tell you all about it. Let us be off. I can hear him calling out. SCENE VII.--HARPAGON, _from the garden, rushing in without his hat, and crying_-- Thieves! thieves! assassins! murder! Justice, just heavens! I am undone; I am murdered; they have cut my throat; they have stolen my money! Who can it be? What has become of him? Where is he? Where is he hiding himself? What shall I do to find him? Where shall I run? Where shall I not run? Is he not here? Who is this? Stop! (_To himself, taking hold of his own arm_) Give me back my money, wretch.... Ah...! it is myself.... My mind is wandering, and I know not where I am, who I am, and what I am doing. Alas! my poor money! my poor money! my dearest friend, they have bereaved me of thee; and since thou art gone, I have lost my support, my consolation, and my joy. All is ended for me, and I have nothing more to do in the world! Without thee it is impossible for me to live. It is all over with me; I can bear it no longer. I am dying; I am dead; I am buried. Is there nobody who will call me from the dead, by restoring my dear money to me, or by telling me who has taken it? Ah! what is it you say? It is no one. Whoever has committed the deed must have watched carefully for his opportunity, and must have chosen the very moment when I was talking with my miscreant of a son. I must go. I will demand justice, and have the whole of my house put to the torture--my maids and my valets, my son, my daughter, and myself too. What a crowd of people are assembled here! Everyone seems to be my thief. I see no one who does not rouse suspicion in me. Ha! what are they speaking of there? Of him who stole my money? What noise is that up yonder? Is it my thief who is there? For pity's sake, if you know anything of my thief, I beseech you to tell me. Is he hiding there among you? They all look at me and laugh. We shall see that they all have a share in the robbery. Quick! magistrates, police, provosts, judges, racks, gibbets, and executioners. I will hang everybody, and if I do not find my money, I will hang myself afterwards. ACT V. SCENE I.--HARPAGON, A POLICE OFFICER. OFF. Leave that to me. I know my business. Thank Heaven! this is not the first time I have been employed in finding out thieves; and I wish I had as many bags of a thousand francs as I have had people hanged. HAR. Every magistrate must take this affair in hand; and if my money is not found, I shall call justice against justice itself. OFF. We must take all needful steps. You say there was in that casket...? HAR. Ten thousand crowns in cash. OFF. Ten thousand crowns! HAR. Ten thousand crowns. OFF. A considerable theft. HAR. There is no punishment great enough for the enormity of the crime; and if it remain unpunished, the most sacred things are no longer secure. OFF. In what coins was that sum? HAR. In good louis d'or and pistoles of full weight. OFF. Whom do you suspect of this robbery? HAR. Everybody. I wish you to take into custody the whole town and suburbs. OFF. You must not, if you trust me, frighten anybody, but must use gentle means to collect evidence, in order afterwards to proceed with more rigour for the recovery of the sum which has been taken from you. SCENE II.--HARPAGON, THE POLICE OFFICER, MASTER JACQUES. JAC. (_at the end of the stage, turning back to the door by which he came in_). I am coming back. Have his throat cut at once; have his feet singed; put him in boiling water, and hang him up to the ceiling. HAR. What! Him who has robbed me? JAC. I was speaking of a sucking pig that your steward has just sent me; and I want to have it dressed for you after my own fancy. HAR. This is no longer the question; and you have to speak of something else to this gentleman. OFF. (_to_ JACQUES). Don't get frightened. I am not a man to cause any scandal, and matters will be carried on by gentle means. JAC. (_to_ HARPAGON). Is this gentleman coming to supper with you? OFF. You must, in this case, my good man, hide nothing from your master. JAC. Indeed, Sir, I will show you all I know, and will treat you in the best manner I possibly can. OFF. That's not the question. JAC. If I do not give as good fare as I should like, it is the fault of your steward, who has clipped my wings with the scissors of his economy. HAR. Rascal! We have other matters to talk about than your supper; and I want you to tell me what has become of the money which has been stolen from me. JAC. Some money has been stolen from you? HAR. Yes, you rascal! And I'll have you hanged if you don't give it me back again. OFF. (_to_ HARPAGON). Pray, don't be hard upon him. I see by his looks that he is an honest fellow, and that he will tell you all you want to know without going to prison. Yes, my friend, if you confess, no harm shall come to you, and you shall be well rewarded by your master. Some money has been stolen from him, and it is not possible that you know nothing about it. JAC. (_aside_). The very thing I wanted in order to be revenged of our steward. Ever since he came here, he has been the favourite, and his advice is the only one listened to. Moreover, I have forgotten neither the cudgelling of to-day nor ... HAR. What are you muttering about there? OFF. (_to_ HARPAGON). Leave him alone. He is preparing himself to satisfy you; I told you that he was an honest fellow. JAC. Sir, since you want me to tell you what I know, I believe it is your steward who has done this. HAR. Valère? JAC. Yes. HAR. He who seemed so faithful to me! JAC. Himself. I believe that it is he who has robbed you. HAR. And what makes you believe it? JAC. What makes me believe it? HAR. Yes. JAC. I believe it...because I believe it. OFF. But you must tell us the proofs you have. HAR. Did you see him hanging about the place where I had put my money? JAC. Yes, indeed. Where was your money? HAR. In the garden. JAC. Exactly; I saw him loitering about in the garden; and in what was your money? HAR. In a casket. JAC. The very thing. I saw him with a casket. HAR. And this casket, what was it like? I shall soon see if it is mine. JAC. What it was like? HAR. Yes. JAC. It was like ... like a casket. OFF. Of course. But describe it a little, to see if it is the same. JAC. It was a large casket. HAR. The one taken from me is a small one. JAC. Yes, small if you look at it in that way; but I call it large because of what it contains. HAR. And what colour was it? JAC. What colour? OFF. Yes. JAC. Of a colour ... of a certain colour.... Can't you help me to find the word? HAR. Ugh! JAC. Red; isn't it? HAR. No, grey. JAC. Ha! yes, reddish-grey! That's what I meant. HAR. There is no doubt about it, it's my casket for certain. Write down his evidence, Sir! Heavens! whom can we trust after that? We must never swear to anything, and I believe now that I might rob my own self. JAC. (_to_ HARPAGON). There he is coming back, Sir; I beg of you not to go and tell him that it was I who let it all out, Sir. SCENE III.--HARPAGON, THE POLICE OFFICER, VALÈRE, MASTER JACQUES. HAR. Come, come near, and confess the most abominable action, the most horrible crime, that was ever committed. VAL. What do you want, Sir? HAR. What, wretch! you do not blush for shame after such a crime? VAL. Of what crime do you speak? HAR. Of what crime I speak? Base villain, as if you did not know what I mean! It is in vain for you to try to hide it; the thing is discovered, and I have just heard all the particulars. How could you thus abuse my kindness, introduce yourself on purpose into my house to betray me, and to play upon me such an abominable trick? VAL. Sir, since everything is known to you, I will neither deny what I have done nor will I try to palliate it. JAC. (_aside_). Oh! oh! Have I guessed the truth? VAL. I intended to speak to you about it, and I was watching for a favourable opportunity; but, as this is no longer possible, I beg of you not to be angry, and to hear my motives. HAR. And what fine motives can you possibly give me, infamous thief? VAL. Ah! Sir, I do not deserve these names. I am guilty towards you, it is true; but, after all, my fault is pardonable. HAR. How pardonable? A premeditated trick, and such an assassination as this! VAL. I beseech you not to be so angry with me. When you have heard all I have to say, you will see that the harm is not so great as you make it out to be. HAR. The harm not so great as I make it out to be! What! my heart's blood, scoundrel! VAL. Your blood, Sir, has not fallen into bad hands. My rank is high enough not to disgrace it, and there is nothing in all this for which reparation cannot be made. HAR. It is, indeed, my intention that you should restore what you have taken from me. VAL. Your honour, Sir, shall be fully satisfied. HAR. Honour is not the question in all this. But tell me what made you commit such a deed? VAL. Alas! do you ask it? HAR. Yes, I should rather think that I do. VAL. A god, Sir, who carries with him his excuses for all he makes people do: Love. HAR. Love? VAL. Yes. HAR. Fine love that! fine love, indeed! the love of my gold! VAL. No, Sir, it is not your wealth that has tempted me, it is not that which has dazzled me; and I swear never to pretend to any of your possessions, provided you leave me what I have. HAR. In the name of all the devils, no, I shall not leave it to you. But did anyone ever meet with such villainy! He wishes to keep what he has robbed me of! VAL. Do you call that a robbery? HAR. If I call that a robbery? A treasure like that! VAL. I readily acknowledge that it is a treasure, and the most precious one you have. But it will not be losing it to leave it to me. I ask you on my knees to leave in my possession this treasure so full of charms; and if you do right, you will grant it to me. HAR. I will do nothing of the kind. What in the world are you driving at? VAL. We have pledged our faith to each other, and have taken an oath never to forsake one another. HAR. The oath is admirable, and the promise strange enough! VAL. Yes, we are engaged to each other for ever. HAR. I know pretty well how to disengage you, I assure you of that. VAL. Nothing but death can separate us. HAR. You must be devilishly bewitched by my money. VAL. I have told you already, Sir, that it is not self-interest which has prompted me to what I have done. It was not that which prompted my heart; a nobler motive inspired me. HAR. We shall hear presently that it is out of Christian charity that he covets my money! But I will put a stop to all this, and justice, impudent rascal, will soon give me satisfaction. VAL. You will do as you please, and I am ready to suffer all the violence you care to inflict upon me, but I beg of you to believe, at least, that if there is any harm done, I am the only one guilty, and that your daughter has done nothing wrong in all this. HAR. I should think not! It would be strange, indeed, if my daughter had a share in this crime. But I will have that treasure back again, and you must confess to what place you have carried it off.[6] VAL. I have not carried it off, and it is still in your house. HAR. (_aside_). O my beloved casket! (_To_ VALÈRE) My treasure has not left my house? VAL. No, Sir. HAR. Well, then, tell me, have you taken any liberties with...? VAL. Ah! Sir, you wrong us both; the flame with which I burn is too pure, too full of respect. HAR. (_aside_). He burns for my casket! VAL. I had rather die than show the least offensive thought: I found too much modesty and too much purity for that. HAR. (_aside_). My cash-box modest! VAL. All my desires were limited to the pleasures of sight, and nothing criminal has profaned the passion those fair eyes have inspired me with. HAR. (_aside_). The fair eyes of my cash-box! He speaks of it as a lover does of his mistress. VAL. Dame Claude knows the whole truth, and she can bear witness to it. HAR. Hallo! my servant is an accomplice in this affair? VAL. Yes, Sir, she was a witness to our engagement; and it was after being sure of the innocence of my love that she helped me to persuade your daughter to engage herself to me. HAR. Ah! (_Aside_) Has the fear of justice made him lose his senses? (_To_ VALÈRE) What rubbish are you talking about my daughter? VAL. I say, Sir, that I found it most difficult to make her modesty consent to what my love asked of her. HAR. The modesty of whom? VAL. Of your daughter; and it was only yesterday that she could make up her mind to sign our mutual promise of marriage. HAR. My daughter has signed a promise of marriage? VAL. Yes, Sir, and I have also signed. HAR. O heavens! another misfortune! JAC. (_to the_ OFFICER). Write, Sir, write. HAR. Aggravation of misery! Excess of despair! (_To the_ OFFICER) Sir, discharge your duty, and draw me up an indictment against him as a thief and a suborner. JAC. As a thief and a suborner. VAL. These are names which I do not deserve, and when you know who I am.... SCENE IV.--HARPAGON, ÉLISE, MARIANNE, VALÈRE, FROSINE, MASTER JACQUES, THE POLICE OFFICER. HAR. Ah! guilty daughter! unworthy of a father like me! is it thus that you put into practice the lessons I have given you? You give your love to an infamous thief, and engage yourself to him without my consent! But you shall both be disappointed. (_To_ ÉLISE) Four strong walls will answer for your conduct in the future; (_to_ VALÈRE) and good gallows, impudent thief, shall do me justice for your audacity. VAL. Your anger will be no judge in this affair, and I shall at least have a hearing before I am condemned. HAR. I was wrong to say gallows; you shall be broken alive on the wheel. ELI. (_kneeling to her father_). Ah! my father, be more merciful, I beseech you, and do not let your paternal authority drive matters to extremes. Do not suffer yourself to be carried away by the first outburst of your anger, but give yourself time to consider what you do. Take the trouble of inquiring about him whose conduct has offended you. He is not what you imagine, and you will think it less strange that I should have given myself to him, when you know that without him you would long ago have lost me for ever. Yes, father, it is he who saved me from the great danger I ran in the waters, and to whom you owe the life of that very daughter who ... HAR. All this is nothing; and it would have been much better for me if he had suffered you to be drowned rather than do what he has done. ELI. My father, I beseech you, in the name of paternal love, grant me ... HAR. No, no. I will hear nothing, and justice must have its course. JAC. (_aside_). You shall pay me for the blows you gave me. FRO. What a perplexing state of affairs! SCENE V.--ANSELME, HARPAGON, ÉLISE, MARIANNE, FROSINE, VALÈRE, THE POLICE OFFICER, MASTER JACQUES. ANS. What can have happened, Mr. Harpagon? You are quite upset. HAR. Ah, Mr. Anselme, you see in me the most unfortunate of men; and you can never imagine what vexation and disorder is connected with the contract you have come to sign! I am attacked in my property; I am attacked in my honour; and you see there a scoundrel and a wretch who has violated the most sacred rights, who has introduced himself into my house as a servant in order to steal my money, and seduce my daughter. VAL. Who ever thought of your money about which you rave? HAR. Yes; they have given each other a promise of marriage. This insult concerns you, Mr. Anselme; and it is you who ought to be plaintiff against him, and who at your own expense ought to prosecute him to the utmost, in order to be revenged. ANS. It is not my intention to force anybody to marry me, and to lay claim to a heart which has already bestowed itself; but as far as your interests are concerned, I am ready to espouse them as if they were my own. HAR. This is the gentleman, an honest commissary, who has promised that he will omit nothing of what concerns the duties of his office. (_To the_ OFFICER, _showing_ VALÈRE) Charge him, Sir, as he ought to be, and make matters very criminal. VAL. I do not see what crime they can make of my passion for your daughter, nor the punishment you think I ought to be condemned to for our engagement; when it is known who I am ... HAR. I don't care a pin for all those stories, and the world is full, nowadays, of those pretenders to nobility, of those impostors, who take advantage of their obscurity and deck themselves out insolently with the first illustrious name that comes into their head. VAL. Know that I am too upright to adorn myself with a name which is not mine, and that all Naples can bear testimony to my birth! ANS. Softly! Take care of what you are about to say. You speak before a man to whom all Naples is known, and who can soon see if your story is true. VAL. (_proudly putting on his hat_). I am not the man to fear anything; and if all Naples is known to you, you know who was Don Thomas d'Alburci. ANS. Certainly; I know who he is, and few people know him better than I do. HAR. I care neither for Don Thomas nor Don Martin. (_Seeing two candles burning, he blows one out_.) ANS. Have patience and let him speak; we shall soon know what he has to say of him. VAL. That it is to him that I owe my birth. ANS. To him? VAL. Yes. ANS. Nonsense; you are laughing. Try and make out a more likely story, and don't pretend to shelter yourself under such a piece of imposture. VAL. Consider your words better before you speak; it is no imposture, and I say nothing here that I cannot prove. ANS. What! You dare to call yourself the son of Don Thomas d'Alburci? VAL. Yes, I dare to do so; and I am ready to maintain the truth against anyone, who ever he may be. ANS. This audacity is marvellous. Learn to your confusion that it is now at least sixteen years ago since the man of whom you speak died in a shipwreck at sea with his wife and children, when he was trying to save their lives from the cruel persecutions which accompanied the troubles at Naples, and which caused the banishment of several noble families. VAL. Yes; but learn to your confusion that his son, seven years of age, was, with a servant, saved from the wreck by a Spanish vessel, and that this son is he who now speaks to you. Learn that the captain of that ship, touched with compassion at my misfortune, loved me; that he had me brought up as his own son, and that the profession of arms has been my occupation ever since I was fit for it; that lately I heard that my father is not dead, as I thought he was; that, passing this way to go and find him out, an accident, arranged by heaven, brought to my sight the charming Élise; that the sight of her made me a slave to her beauty, and that the violence of my love and the harshness of her father made me take the resolution to come into his house disguised as a servant, and to send some one else to look after my parents. ANS. But what other proofs have you besides your own words that all this is not a fable based by you upon truth. VAL. What proofs? The captain of the Spanish vessel; a ruby seal which belonged to my father; an agate bracelet which my mother put upon my arm; and old Pedro, that servant who was saved with me from the wreck. MAR. Alas! I can answer here for what you have said; that you do not deceive us; and all you say clearly tells me that you are my brother. VAL. You my sister! MAR. Yes, my heart was touched as soon as you began to speak; and our mother, who will be delighted at seeing you, often told me of the misfortunes of our family. Heaven spared us also in that dreadful wreck; but our life was spared at the cost of our liberty, for my mother and myself were taken up by pirates from the wreck of our vessel. After ten years of slavery a lucky event gave us back to liberty, and we returned to Naples, where we found all our property sold, and could hear no news of our father. We embarked for Genoa, where my mother went to gather what remained of a family estate which had been much disputed. Leaving her unjust relatives, she came here, where she has lived but a weary life. ANS. O heaven! how wonderful are thy doings, and how true it is that it only belongs to thee to work miracles! Come to my arms, my children, and share the joy of your happy father! VAL. You are our father? MAR. It was for you that my mother wept? ANS. Yes, my daughter; yes, my son; I am Don Thomas d'Alburci, whom heaven saved from the waves, with all the money he had with him, and who, after sixteen years, believing you all dead, was preparing, after long journeys, to seek the consolations of a new family in marrying a gentle and virtuous woman. The little security there was for my life in Naples has made me abandon the idea of returning there, and having found the means of selling what I had, I settled here under the name of Anselme. I wished to forget the sorrows of a name associated with so many and great troubles. HAR. (_to_ ANSELME). He is your son? ANS. Yes. HAR. That being so, I make you responsible for the ten thousand crowns that he has stolen from me. ANS. He steal anything from you! HAR. Yes. VAL. Who said so? HAR. Master Jacques. VAL. (_to_ MASTER JACQUES). You say that? JAC. You see that I am not saying anything. HAR. He certainly did. There is the officer who has received his deposition. VAL. Can you really believe me capable of such a base action? HAR. Capable or not capable, I must find my money. SCENE VI.--HARPAGON, ANSELME, ÉLISE, MARIANNE, CLÉANTE, VALÈRE, FROSINE, THE POLICE OFFICER, MASTER JACQUES, LA FLÈCHE. CLE. Do not grieve for your money, father, and accuse any one. I have news of it, and I come here to tell you that if you consent to let me marry Marianne, your money will be given back to you. HAR. Where is it? CLE. Do not trouble yourself about that. It is in a safe place, and I answer for it; everything depends on your resolve. It is for you to decide, and you have the choice either of losing Marianne or your cash-box. HAR. Has nothing been taken out? CLE. Nothing at all. Is it your intention to agree to this marriage, and to join your consent to that of her mother, who leaves her at liberty to do as she likes? MAR. (_to_ CLÉANTE). But you do not know that this consent is no longer sufficient, and that heaven has given me back a brother (_showing_ VALÈRE), at the same time that it has given me back a father (_showing_ ANSELME); and you have now to obtain me from him. ANS. Heaven, my dear children, has not restored you to me that I might oppose your wishes. Mr. Harpagon, you must be aware that the choice of a young girl is more likely to fall upon the son than upon the father. Come, now, do not force people to say to you what is unnecessary, and consent, as I do, to this double marriage. HAR. In order for me to be well advised, I must see my casket. CLE. You shall see it safe and sound. HAR. I have no money to give my children in marriage. ANS. Never mind, I have some; do not let this trouble you. HAR. Do you take upon yourself to defray the expenses of these two weddings? ANS. Yes, I will take this responsibility upon myself. Are you satisfied? HAR. Yes, provided you order me a new suit of clothes for the wedding. ANS. Agreed! Let us go and enjoy the blessings this happy day brings us. OFF. Stop, Sirs, stop; softly, if you please. Who is to pay me for my writing? HAR. We have nothing to do with your writing. OFF. Indeed! and yet I do not pretend to have done it for nothing. HAR. (_showing_ MASTER JACQUES). There is a fellow you can hang in payment! JAC. Alas! what is one to do? I receive a good cudgelling for telling the truth, and now they would hang me for lying. ANS. Mr. Harpagon, you must forgive him this piece of imposture. HAR. You will pay the officer then? ANS. Let it be so. Let us go quickly, my children, to share our joy with your mother! HAR. And I to see my dear casket THE END FOOTNOTES: [1] An old comic pastoral. [2] The real hero in Rabelais' 'Pantagruel.' [3] Frosine professes a knowledge of palmistry. [4] Old enemies. The Turks took Candia from the Venetians in 1669, after a war of twenty years. [5] Molière makes use even of his own infirmities. Compare act i. scene iii. This cough killed him at last. [6] A good deal of the mystification is lost in the translation through the necessity of occasionally putting _it_ for _casket_, and _she_ for Élise. 
43907	----	[Illustration: "TAKE YOUR OLD BUTTER!" SHE STORMED AT THE ASTONISHED MR. PEABODY. "Betty Gordon at Bramble Farm." Page 63] Betty Gordon at Bramble Farm OR The Mystery of a Nobody BY ALICE B. EMERSON AUTHOR OF "BETTY GORDON IN WASHINGTON," "BETTY GORDON IN THE LAND OF OIL," "THE RUTH FIELDING SERIES," ETC. _ILLUSTRATED_ [Illustration] NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY PUBLISHERS Books for Girls BY ALICE B. EMERSON 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. BETTY GORDON SERIES BETTY GORDON AT BRAMBLE FARM BETTY GORDON IN WASHINGTON BETTY GORDON IN THE LAND OF OIL RUTH FIELDING SERIES RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOOD HALL RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND RUTH FIELDING AT SUNRISE FARM RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES RUTH FIELDING IN MOVING PICTURES RUTH FIELDING DOWN IN DIXIE RUTH FIELDING AT COLLEGE RUTH FIELDING IN THE SADDLE RUTH FIELDING IN THE RED CROSS RUTH FIELDING AT THE WAR FRONT RUTH FIELDING HOMEWARD BOUND RUTH FIELDING DOWN EAST CUPPLES & LEON CO., PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK. COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY BETTY GORDON AT BRAMBLE FARM CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I WAITING FOR WORD 1 II UNCLE DICK'S PLAN 10 III DINING OUT 19 IV AT THE CROSSING 28 V MRS. PEABODY WRITES 37 VI THE POORHOUSE RAT 46 VII BRAMBLE FARM 55 VIII BETTY MAKES UP HER MIND 64 IX ONE ON BOB 72 X ROAD COURTESY 80 XI A KEEN DISAPPOINTMENT 89 XII BETTY DEFENDS HERSELF 96 XIII FOLLOWING THE PRESCRIPTION 105 XIV WINNING NEW FRIENDS 114 X NURSE AND PATIENT 123 XVI A MIDNIGHT CALL 132 XVII AN OMINOUS QUARREL 141 XVIII IN THE NAME OF DISCIPLINE 149 XIX THE ESCAPE 157 XX STORMBOUND ON THE WAY 165 XXI THE CHICKEN THIEVES 174 XXII SPREADING THE NET 181 XXIII IN AMIABLE CONFERENCE 188 XXIV A NEW ACQUAINTANCE 197 XXV THEIR MUTUAL SECRETS 204 BETTY GORDON AT BRAMBLE FARM CHAPTER I WAITING FOR WORD "I DO wish you'd wear a sunbonnet, Betty," said Mrs. Arnold, glancing up from her ironing board as Betty Gordon came into the kitchen. "You're getting old enough now to think a little about your complexion." Betty's brown eyes laughed over the rim of the glass of water she had drawn at the sink. "I can't stand a sunbonnet," she declared vehemently, returning the glass to the nickel holder under the shelf. "I know just how a horse feels with blinders on. You know you wouldn't like it, Mrs. Arnold, if I pulled up half your onion sets in mistake for weeds because I couldn't see what I was doing." Mrs. Arnold shook her head over the white ruffle she was fluting with nervous, skillful fingers. "There's no call for you to go grubbing in that onion bed," she said. "I'd like you to have nice hands and not be burnt black as an Indian when your uncle comes. But then, nobody pays any attention to what I say." There was more truth in this statement than Mrs. Arnold herself suspected. She was one of these patient, anxious women who unconsciously nag every one about them and whose stream of complaint never rises above a constant murmur. Her family were so used to Mrs. Arnold's monotonous fault-finding that they rarely if ever knew what she was complaining about. They did not mean to be disrespectful, but they had fallen into the habit of not listening. "Uncle Dick won't mind if I'm as black as an Indian," said Betty confidently, spreading out her strong little brown right hand and eyeing it critically. "With all the traveling he's done, I guess he's seen people more tanned than I am. You're sure there wasn't a letter this morning?" "The young ones said there wasn't," returned Mrs. Arnold, changing her cool iron for a hot one, and testing it by holding it close to her flushed face. "But I don't know that Ted and George would know a letter if they saw it, their heads are so full of fishing." "I thought Uncle Dick would write again," observed Betty wistfully. "But perhaps there wasn't time. He said he might come any day." "I don't know what he'll say," worried Mrs. Arnold, her eyes surveying the slender figure leaning against the sink. "Your not being in mourning will certainly seem queer to him. I hope you'll tell him Sally Pettit and I offered to make you black frocks." Betty smiled, her peculiarly vivid, rich smile. "Dear Mrs. Arnold!" she said, affection warm in her voice. "Of course I'll tell him. He will understand, and not blame you. And now I'm going to tackle those weeds." The screen door banged behind her. Betty Gordon was an orphan, her mother having died in March (it was now June) and her father two years before. The twelve-year-old girl had to her knowledge but one single living relative in the world, her father's brother, Richard Gordon. Betty had never seen this uncle. For years he had traveled about the country, wherever his work called him, sometimes spending months in large cities, sometimes living for weeks in the desert. Mr. Gordon was a promoter of various industrial enterprises and was frequently sent for to investigate new mines, oil wells and other large developments. "I'd love to travel," thought Betty, pulling at an especially stubborn weed. "I hope Uncle Dick will like me and take me with him wherever he goes. Wouldn't it be just like a fairy story if he should come here and scoop me out of Pineville and take me hundreds of miles away to beautiful and exciting adventures!" This enchanting prospect so thrilled the energetic young gardener that she sat down comfortably in the middle of the row to dream a little more. While her father lived, Betty's home had been in a small, bustling city where she had gone to school in the winter. The family had always gone to the seashore in the summer; but the only exciting adventure she could recall had been a tedious attack of the measles when she was six years old. Mrs. Gordon, upon her husband's sudden death, had taken her little daughter and come back to Pineville, the only home she had known as a lonely young orphan girl. She had many kind friends in the sleepy country town, and when she died these same friends had taken loving charge of Betty. The girl's grief for the loss of her mother baffled the villagers who would have known how to deal with sorrow that expressed itself in words or flowed out in tears. Betty's long silences, her desire to be left quite alone in her mother's room, above all her determination not to wear mourning, puzzled them. That she had sustained a great shock no one could doubt. White and miserable, she went about, the shadow of her former gay-hearted self. For the first time in her life she was experiencing a real bereavement. When Betty's father had died, the girl's grieving was principally for her mother's evident pain. She had always been her mother's confidante and chum, and the bond between them, naturally close, had been strengthened by Mr. Gordon's frequent absences on the road as a salesman. It was Betty and her mother who locked up the house at night, Betty and her mother who discussed household finances and planned to surprise the husband and father. The daughter felt his death keenly, but she could never miss his actual presence as she did that of the mother from whom she had never been separated for one night from the time she was born. The neighbors took turns staying with the stricken girl in the little brown house that had been home for the two weeks following Mrs. Gordon's death. Then, as Betty seemed to be recovering her natural poise, a discussion of her affairs was instigated. The house had been a rented one and Betty owned practically nothing in the world except the simple articles of furniture that had been her mother's household effects. These Mrs. Arnold stored for her in a vacant loft over a store, and Mrs. Arnold, her mother's closest friend, bore the lonely child off to stay with them till Richard Gordon could be heard from and some arrangement made for the future. Communication with Mr. Gordon was necessarily slow, since he moved about so frequently, but when the news of his sister-in-law's death reached him, he wrote immediately to Betty, promising to come to Pineville as soon as he could plan his business affairs to release him. "Betty!" a shrill whisper, apparently in the lilac bushes down by the fence, startled Betty from her day dreams. "Betty!" came the whisper again. "Is that you, Ted?" called Betty, standing up and looking expectantly toward the bushes. "Sh! don't let ma hear you." Ted Arnold parted the lilac bushes sufficiently to show his round, perspiring face. "George and me's going fishing, and we hid the can of worms under the wheelbarrow. Hand 'em to us, will you, Betty? If ma sees us, she'll want something done." "Did you go to the post-office this morning?" demanded Betty severely. "Sure I did. There wasn't anything but a postal from pa," came the answer from the bushes. "He's coming home next week, and then it'll be nothing but work in the garden all day long. Hand us the can of worms, like a good sport, won't you?" "Where did you hide them?" asked Betty absently. "Under the wheelbarrow, there at the end of the arbor," directed Ted. "Thanks awfully, Betty." "Where's George?" she asked. "Isn't there another mail at eleven, Ted?" "Oh, Betty, how you do harp on one subject," complained Ted, poking about in his can of worms with a stick, but keeping carefully out of sight of the kitchen window and the maternal eye. "Hardly anything ever comes in that eleven o'clock mail. Anyway, didn't mother say your uncle would probably come without bothering to write again?" "I suppose he will," sighed Betty. "Only it seems so long to wait. Where did you say George was?" Ted answered reluctantly. "He's in swimming." "Well I must say! You wait till your father comes home," said Betty ominously. The boys had been forbidden to go swimming in the treacherous creek hole, and George was where he had no business to be. "You needn't tell everything you know," muttered Ted uncomfortably, picking up his treasured can and preparing to depart. "Oh, I won't tell," promised Betty quickly. She went back to her weeding, and Ted scuffled off to fish. "Goodness!" Betty pushed the hair from her forehead with a grimy hand. "I do believe this is the warmest day we've had! I'll be glad when I get down to the other end where the arbor makes a little shade." She had reached the end of the long row and had stood up to rest her back when she saw some one leaning over the white picket fence. "Probably wants a drink of water," thought Betty, crossing the strip of garden and grass to ask him, after the friendly fashion of Pineville folk. "I've never seen him before." The stranger was leaning over the fence, staring abstractedly at a border of sweet alyssum which straggled down one side of the sunken brick walk. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his straw hat pushed slightly back on his head revealed a keen, tanned face and close-cropped iron gray hair. He did not look up as Betty drew near and suddenly she felt shy. "I--I beg your pardon," she faltered, "were you looking for any particular house?" The stranger lifted his hat, and a pair of sharp blue eyes smiled pleasantly into Betty's brown ones. "I was looking, not for a particular house, but for a particular person," admitted the man, gazing at her intently. "I shouldn't wonder if I had found her, too. Can you guess who I am?" Betty's mind was so full of one subject that it would have been strange indeed if she had failed to guess correctly. "You're Uncle Dick!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neck and running the risk of spiking herself on the sharp pickets. "Oh, I thought you'd never come!" Uncle Dick, for it really was Mr. Gordon, hurdled the low fence lightly and stood smiling down on his niece. "I don't believe in wasting time writing letters," he declared cheerfully, "especially as I seldom know my plans three days ahead. You're the image of your father, child. I should have known you anywhere." Betty put her hands behind her, suddenly conscious that they could not be very clean. "I'm afraid I mussed your collar," she apologized contritely. "Mrs. Arnold was hoping you'd write so she could have me all scrubbed up for you;" and here Betty's dimple would flicker out. Mr. Gordon put an arm about the little figure in the grass-stained rose-colored smock. "I'd rather find you a garden girl," he announced contentedly. "Isn't there a place where you and I can have a little talk before we go in to see Mrs. Arnold and make our explanations?" Betty drew him toward the arbor. She knew they would be undisturbed there. CHAPTER II UNCLE DICK'S PLAN THE arbor was rather small and rickety, but at least it was shady. Betty sat down beside her uncle, who braced his feet against the opposite seat to keep his place on the narrow ledge. "I'm afraid I take up a good deal of room," he said apologetically. "Well, my dear, had you begun to think I was never coming?" Betty glanced up at him bravely. "It was pretty long--waiting," she admitted. "But now you're here, Uncle Dick, everything is all right. When can we go away?" "Aren't you happy here, dear?" asked her uncle, plainly troubled. "I thought from your first letter that Mrs. Arnold was a pretty good kind of friend, and I pictured you as contented as a girl could possibly be after a bitter loss like yours." He smiled a bit ruefully. "Maybe I'm not strong on pictures," he added. "I thought of you as a little girl, Betty. Don't know what'll you say, but there's a doll in my grip for you." Betty laughed musically. "I've always saved my old doll," she confided, slipping a hand into Uncle Dick's broad fist where it lay clinched on his knee. He was very companionable, was this uncle, and she felt that she already loved him dearly. "But, Uncle Dick, I haven't really played with dolls since we moved from the city. I like outdoor things." "Well, now, so do I," agreed her uncle. "I can't seem to breathe properly unless I'm outdoors. But about this going away--do you want to leave Pineville, Sister?" Betty's troubled eyes rested on the little garden hot in the bright sunshine. "It isn't home any more, without mother," she said slowly. "And--I don't belong, Uncle Dick. Mrs. Arnold is a dear, and I love her and she loves me. But they want to go to California, though they won't talk it before me, 'cause they think I'll feel in the way. Mr. Arnold has a brother on a fruit farm, and he's wild to move out there. As soon as you take me somewhere, they're going to pack up." "Well, then, we'll have to see that you do belong somewhere," said Mr. Gordon firmly. "Anything else, Sister?" Betty drew a deep breath. "It's heavenly to have you to listen to me," she declared. "I want to go! I've never been anywhere, and I feel as though I could go and go and never stop. Daddy was like that. Mother used to say if he hadn't had us to look after he would have been an explorer, but that he had to manage to earn a living and do his traveling as a salesman. Couldn't I learn to be a salesman, a saleswoman, I mean? Lots of girls do travel." "We'll think it over," answered her uncle diplomatically. "And then there's another thing," went on Betty, her pent-up thoughts finding relief in speech. "Although Mrs. Arnold was mother's dearest friend, I can't make her understand how mother felt about wearing mourning." Betty indicated her rose smock. "Lots of Pineville folks think I don't care about losing my mother," she asserted softly, "because I haven't a single black dress. But mother said mourning was selfish. She wouldn't wear black when daddy died. Black makes other people feel sorry. But I did love mother! And do yet!" Uncle Dick's keen blue eyes misted and the brave little figure in the bright smock was blurred for a moment. "I suppose the whole town has been giving you reams of advice," he said irrelevantly. "Well Betty, I can't promise to take you with me--bless me, what would an old bachelor like me do with a young lady like you? But I think I know of a place where you can spend a summer and be neither lonesome nor unhappy. And perhaps in the fall we can make other arrangements." Betty was disappointed that he did not promise to take her with him at once. But she had been trained not to tease, and she accepted the compromise as pleasantly as it was offered. "Mrs. Arnold will be disappointed if you don't go round to the front door," she informed her uncle, as he stretched his long legs preparatory to rising from the low seat. "Company always comes to the front door, Uncle Dick." Mr. Gordon stepped out of the summer house and turned toward the gate. "We'll walk around and make a proper entry," he declared obligingly. "I meant to, and then as I came up the street I remembered how we used to cut across old Clinton's lot and climb the fence. So I had to come the back way for old times' sake." Betty's eyes were round with wonder. "Did you ever live in Pineville?" she asked in astonishment. "You don't mean to tell me you didn't know that?" Uncle Dick was as surprised as his niece. "Why, they shipped me into this town to read law with old Judge Clay before they found there was no law in me, and your father first met your mother one Sunday when he drove twenty miles from the farm to see me." Betty was still pondering over this when they reached the Arnold front door and Mrs. Arnold, flustered and delighted, answered Mr. Gordon's knock. "Sit right down on the front porch where it's cool," she insisted cordially. "I've just put on my dinner, and you'll have time for a good talk. No, Betty, there isn't a thing you can do to help me--you entertain your uncle." But Betty, who knew that excitement always affected Mrs. Arnold's bump of neatness, determined to set the table, partly to help her hostess and partly, it must be confessed, to make sure that the knives and forks and napkins were in their proper places. "I'm sure I don't know where those boys can be," scolded the flushed but triumphant mother, as she tested the flaky chicken dumplings and pronounced the dinner "done to a turn." "We'll just sit down without them, and it'll do 'em good," she decided. Betty ran through the hall to call her uncle. Just as she reached the door two forlorn figures toiled up the porch steps. "Where's ma?" whispered Ted, for the moment not seeing the stranger and appealing to Betty, who stood in the doorway. "In the kitchen? We thought maybe we could sneak up the front stairs." Ted was plastered from head to foot with slimy black mud, and George, his younger edition, was draped only in a wet bath towel. Both boys clung to their rough fishing rods, and Ted still carried the dirty tin can that had once held bait. "I should say," observed Mr. Gordon in his deep voice, "that we had been swimming against orders. Things usually happen in such cases." "Oh, gee!" sighed Ted despairingly. "Who's that? Company?" Mrs. Arnold had heard the talk, and she came to the door now, pushing Betty aside gently. "Well, I must say you're a pretty sight," she told her children. "If your father were at home you know what would happen to you pretty quick. Betty's uncle here, too! Aren't you ashamed of yourselves? I declare, I've a good mind to whip you good. Where are your clothes, George?" "They--they floated away," mumbled George. "Ted borrowed this towel. It's Mrs. Smith's. Say, ma, we're awful hungry." "You march upstairs and get cleaned up," said their mother sternly. "We're going to sit down to dinner this minute. Chicken and dumplings. When you come down looking like Christians I'll see about giving you something to eat." Midway in the delicious dinner Ted and George sidled into the room, very wet and shiny as to hair and conspicuously immaculate as to shirt and collar. Mrs. Arnold relented at the transformation and proceeded to pile two plates high with samples of her culinary skill. "Betty," said Mr. Gordon suddenly, "is there a garage here where we can hire a car?" "There isn't a garage in Pineville," answered Betty. "You see we're off the state road where the automobile traffic goes. There are only two or three cars in town, and they're for business. But we can get a horse and buggy, Uncle Dick." "Guess that's better, after all," said Mr. Gordon contentedly. "I want to talk to you about that plan I spoke of, and we'll stand a better chance of having our talk if we travel behind a horse. I wonder----" his eyes twinkled--"if there's a young man about who would care to earn a quarter by running down to the livery stable and seeing about a horse and buggy for the afternoon?" Ted and George grinned above their respective dishes of ice-cold rice pudding. "I'll go," offered Ted. "I'll go, too," promised George. "Can we drive the rig back to the house?" Mr. Gordon said they could, and the two boys dispatched their dessert in double quick time. While they went down to the town livery stable, Betty hurried to put on a cool, white frock, but, to Mrs. Arnold's disappointment, she refused to wear a hat. "The buggy top will be up, so my complexion will be safe," Betty declared merrily, giving Mrs. Arnold a hearty squeeze as that lady followed her downstairs to the porch where Mr. Gordon was waiting. "What's that? Go without a hat?" he repeated, when Betty consulted him. "I should say so! You're fifty times prettier with those smooth braids than with any hat, I don't care how fine it is. This must be our turnout approaching." As he guessed, it was their horse and buggy coming toward the house. Ted was driving, assisted by George, and the patient horse was galloping like mad as they urged it on. "Never knew a boy of that age who could be trusted to drive alone," muttered Mr. Gordon, going down to the gate to meet them. The boys beamed at him and Betty, sure that they had pleased with their haste. They then watched Betty step in, followed by her uncle, and drive away with something like envy. "Are you used to driving, Betty?" asked Mr. Gordon, as he chirped lightly to the horse that obediently quickened its lagging pace. "Why, I've driven some," replied Betty hesitatingly. "But I wouldn't know what to do if he should be frightened at anything. Do you like to drive, Uncle?" "I'm more used to horseback riding," was the answer. "I hope you'll have a chance to learn that this summer, Betty. I must have you measured for a habit and have it sent up to you from the city. There's no better sport for a man or a woman, to my way of thinking, than can be found in the saddle." "Where am I going?" asked the girl timidly. "Who'll teach me to ride?" "Oh, there'll be some one," said her uncle easily. "I never knew a ranch yet where there were not good horsemen. The idea came to me that you might like to spend the summer with Mrs. Peabody, Betty." "Mrs. Peabody?" repeated Betty, puzzled. "Does she live on a ranch? I'd love to go out West, Uncle Dick." CHAPTER III DINING OUT FOR a moment Mr. Gordon stared at his niece, a puzzled look in his eyes. Then his face cleared. "Oh, I see. You've made a natural mistake," he said. "Mrs. Peabody doesn't live out West, Betty, but up-state--about one hundred and fifty miles north of Pineville. I've picked up that word ranch in California. Everything outside the town limits, from a quarter of an acre to a thousand, is called a ranch. I should have said farm." Betty settled back in the buggy, momentarily disappointed. A farm sounded so tame and--and ordinary. "The plan came to me while I was sitting out on the porch waiting for dinner," pursued her uncle, unconscious that he had dashed her hopes. "Your father and I had such a happy childhood on a farm that I'm sure he would want you to know something about such a life first-hand. But of course I intend to talk it over with you before writing to Agatha." "Agatha?" repeated Betty. "Mrs. Peabody," explained Mr. Gordon. "She and I went to school together. Last year I happened to run across her brother out in the mines. He told me that Agatha had married, rather well, I understood, and was living on a fine, large farm. What did he say they called their place? 'Bramble Farm'--yes, that's it." "Bramble Farm," echoed Betty. "It sounds like wild roses, doesn't it, Uncle Dick? But suppose Mrs. Peabody doesn't want me to come to live with her?" "Bless your heart, child, this is no permanent arrangement!" exclaimed her uncle vigorously. "You're my girl, and mighty proud I am to have such a bonny creature claiming kin with me. I've knocked about a good bit, and sometimes the going has been right lonesome." He seemed to have forgotten the subject of Bramble Farm for the moment, and something in his voice made Betty put out a timid hand and stroke his coat sleeve silently. "All right, dear," he declared suddenly, throwing off the serious mood with the quick shift that Betty was to learn was characteristic of him. "If your old bachelor uncle had the slightest idea where he would be two weeks from now, he'd take you with him and not let you out of his sight. But I don't know; though I strongly suspect, and it's no place to take a young lady to. However, if we can fix it up with Agatha for you to spend the summer with her, perhaps matters will shape up better in the fall. I'll tell her to get you fattened up a bit; she ought to have plenty of fresh eggs and milk." Betty made a wry face. "I don't want to be fat, Uncle Dick," she protested. "I remember a fat girl in school, and she had an awful time. Is Mrs. Peabody old?" Mr. Gordon laughed. "That's a delicate question," he admitted. "She's some three or four years younger than I, I believe, and I'm forty-two. Figure it out to suit yourself." The bay horse had had its own sweet way so far, and now stopped short, the road barred by a wide gate. It turned its head and looked reproachfully at the occupants of the buggy. "Bless me, I never noticed where we were going," said Mr. Gordon, surprised. "What's this we're in, Betty, a private lane? Where does it lead?" "Let me open the gate," cried Betty, one foot on the step. "We're in Mr. Bradway's meadow. Uncle Dick. We can keep right on and come out on the turnpike. He doesn't care as long as the gates are kept closed." "I'll open the gate," said Mr. Gordon decidedly. "Take the reins and drive on through." Betty obeyed, and Mr. Gordon swung the heavy gate into place again and fastened it. "Is Mrs. Peabody pretty?" asked Betty, as he took his place beside her and gathered up the lines. "Has she any children?" The blue eyes surveyed her quizzically. "A real girl, aren't you?" teased her uncle. "Why, child, I couldn't tell you to save me, whether Agatha is pretty or not. I haven't seen her for years. But she has no children. Her brother, Lem, told me that. She was a pretty girl." Mr. Gordon added reflectively: "I recollect she had long yellow braids and very blue eyes. Yes, she's probably a pretty woman." To reach the turnpike they had to pass through another barred gate, and then when they did turn into the main road, Mr. Gordon, glancing at his watch, uttered an exclamation. "Four o'clock," he announced. "Why, it must have been later than I thought when we started. The horse has taken its own sweet time. Look, Betty, is there a place around here where we can get some ice-cream?" Betty's eyes danced. Like most twelve-year-old girls, she regarded ice-cream as a treat. "There's a place in Pineville; but let's not go there--the whole town goes to the drug-store in the afternoons," she answered. "Couldn't we go as far as Harburton and stop at the ice-cream parlor? The horse isn't very tired, is it, Uncle Dick?" "Considering the pace he has been going, I doubt it," responded her uncle. "What's the matter with you and me having a regular lark, Betty? Let's not go back for supper--we'll have it at the hotel. They can put up the horse, and we'll drive back when it's cooler." Betty was thrilled at the idea of eating supper at the Harburton Hotel; certainly that would be what she called "exciting." But since her mother's death she had learned to think not only for herself but for others. "Mrs. Arnold would be so worried," she objected, trying to keep the longing out of her voice. "She'd think we'd been struck at the grade crossing. And, Uncle Dick, I don't believe this dress is good enough." But Mr. Gordon was not accustomed to being balked by objections. He swept Betty's aside with a half-dozen words. They would telephone to Mrs. Arnold. Well, then, if she had no telephone, they would telephone a near neighbor and get her to carry the message. As for the dress--here he glanced contentedly at Betty--he didn't see but that she looked fine enough to attend the King's wedding. She could wash and freshen up a little when they reached the hotel. Betty's face glowed. "You're just like Daddy," she said happily. "Mother used to say she never had to worry about anything when he was at home. Mrs. Arnold doesn't either, when her husband's home. Do all husbands do the deciding, Uncle Dick?" Mr. Gordon submitted, amusedly, that as he was not a husband, he could not give accurate information on that point. But Betty's active mind was turning over something. "Mrs. Arnold says Mr. Arnold makes the boys stand round," she confided. "I notice they mind him ten times as quick as they do their mother. But they love him more. Do you make people stand round, Uncle Dick?" Mr. Gordon smiled down into the serious little face tilted to meet his glance. "I haven't much patience with disobedience, I'm afraid," he replied. "I suppose some of the men I've bossed would consider me a Tartar. Why, Betty? Are you thinking of going on strike against my authority? I don't advise you to try it." Betty blushed. "It isn't that," she said hastily. "But--but--well, I have a temper, Uncle Dick. I get so raging mad! If I don't tell you, some one else will, or else you'll see me 'acting up,' as Mrs. Arnold says, before you go. So I thought I'd better tell you." Mr. Gordon's lips twitched. "A temper, out of control, is a mighty useless possession," he said solemnly. "But as long as you know you've got a spark of fire in you, Betty, you can watch out for it. Afraid of going on the rampage while you're at Bramble Farm? Is that what's worrying you?" "Some," confessed his niece, with scarlet cheeks. "I'll tell you what to do," counseled Mr. Gordon, and his even, rather slow voice soothed Betty inexpressibly. "When you get a 'mad fit,' you fly out to the wood pile and chop kindling as hard as you can. You can't talk and chop wood, and the tongue does most of the mischief when our tempers get the best of us. You'll remember that little trick, won't you?" Betty promised she would, and, as they were now driving into the thriving county seat of Harburton, she began to point out the few places of interest. The hotel was opposite the court house, and as they stopped before the curb and Betty saw the porch well filled with men, with here and there a woman in a pretty summer dress, she felt extremely shy. A boy ran up to take their horse and lead it around to the stables for a rub-down and a comfortable supper. Mr. Gordon tucked his niece's hand under his arm and marched unconcernedly up the hotel steps. "I suppose he's used to hotels," thought Betty, sinking into one of the stuffed red velvet chairs at her uncle's bidding and looking interestedly about her as he went in search of the proprietor. "I wonder if it's fun to live in a hotel all the time instead of a house." Her uncle came back in a few moments with a pleasant-faced, matronly woman, whom he introduced as the sister of the proprietor. She was to take Betty upstairs and let her make herself neat for supper, which would, so the woman said, be ready in twenty minutes. "I'll wait for you right here," promised Mr. Gordon, divining in Betty's anxious glance a fear that she would have to search for him on the crowded piazza. "You drove in, didn't you?" asked Mrs. Holmes, leading the way upstairs and ushering Betty into a pretty, chintz-hung room. "You'll find fresh water in the pitcher, dear. Didn't your father say you were from Pineville?" Betty, pouring the clear, cool water into the basin, explained that Mr. Gordon was her uncle and said that they had driven over from Pineville that afternoon. "Well, you want to be careful driving back," cautioned Mrs. Holmes. "The flag man goes off duty at six o'clock, and that crossing lies right in a bad cut. There was a nasty accident there last week." Betty had read of it in the _Pineville Post_, and thanked Mrs. Holmes for her warning. When that kind woman had ascertained that Betty needed nothing more, she excused herself and went down to superintend the two waitresses. Betty managed to smooth her hair nicely with the aid of a convenient sidecomb, and after bathing her face and hands felt quite refreshed and neat again. She found her uncle reading a magazine. "Well, you look first rate," he greeted her. "I picked this up off the table without glancing at it; it's a fashion magazine. It reminds me, Betty, you'll need some new clothes this summer, eh? You'll have to take Mrs. Arnold when you go shopping. I wouldn't know a bonnet from a pair of gloves." Betty laughed and slipped her hand into his, and they went toward the dining room. What a dear Uncle Dick was! She had not had many new clothes since her father's death. CHAPTER IV AT THE CROSSING THE country hotel supper was no better than the average of its kind, but to Betty, to whom any sort of change was "fun," it was delicious. She and Uncle Dick became better acquainted over the simple meal in the pleasant dining room than they could ever have hoped to have been with Mrs. Arnold and the two boys present, and it was not until her dessert was placed before her that Betty remembered her friend. "Mrs. Arnold will think we're lost!" she exclaimed guiltily. "I meant to telephone! And oh, Uncle Dick, she does hate to keep supper waiting." Uncle Dick smiled. "I telephoned the neighbor you told me about," he said reassuringly. "She said she would send one of her children right over with the message. That was while you were upstairs. So I imagine Mrs. Arnold has George and Ted hard at work drying the dishes by this time." "They don't dry the dishes, 'cause they're boys," explained Betty dimpling. "In Pineville, the men and boys never think of helping with the housework. Mother said once that was one reason she fell in love with daddy--because he came out and helped her to do a pile of dishes one awfully hot Sunday afternoon." After supper Betty and her uncle walked about Harburton a bit, and Betty glanced into the shop windows. She knew that probably her new dresses, at least the material for them, would be bought here, and she was counting more on the new frocks than even Uncle Dick knew. When they went back to the hotel it was still light, but the horse was ordered brought around, for they did not want to hurry on the drive home. "I guess I missed not belonging to any body," she said shyly, after a long silence. Uncle Dick glanced down at her understandingly. "I've had that feeling, too," he confessed. "We all need a sense of kinship, I think, Betty. Or a home. I haven't had either for years. Now you and I will make it up to each other, my girl." The darkness closed in on them, and Uncle Dick got out and lit the two lamps on the dashboard and the little red danger light behind. Once or twice a big automobile came glaring out of the road ahead and swept past them with a roar and a rush, but the easy going horse refused to change its steady trot. But presently, without warning, it stopped. Uncle Dick slapped the reins smartly, with no result. "He balks," said Betty apologetically. "I know this horse. The livery stable man says he never balks on the way home, but I suppose he was so good all the afternoon he just has to act up now." "Balks!" exploded Uncle Dick. "Why, no stable should send out a horse with that habit. Is there any special treatment he favors, Betty?" he added ironically. Betty considered. "Whipping him only makes him worse, they say," she answered. "He puts his ears back and kicks. Once he kicked a buggy to pieces. I guess we'll have to get out and coax him, Uncle Dick." Mr. Gordon snorted, but he climbed down and went to the horse's head. "You stay where you are, Betty," he commanded. "I'm not going to have you dancing all over this dark road and likely to be run down by a car any minute simply to cater to the whim of a fool horse. You hold the reins and if he once starts don't stop him; I'll catch the step as it goes by." Betty held the reins tensely and waited. There was no moon, and clouds hid whatever light they might have gained from the stars. It was distinctly eery to be out on the dark road, miles from any house, with no noise save the incessant low hum of the summer insects. Betty shivered slightly. She could hear her uncle talking in a low tone to the dejected, drooping, stubborn bay horse, and she could see the dim outline of his figure. The rays of the buggy lamps showed her a tiny patch of the wheels and road, but that was every bit she could see. Up over the slight rise of ground before them shone a glare, followed in a second by the headlights of a large touring car. Abreast of the buggy it stopped. "Tire trouble?" asked some one with a hint of laughter in the deep strong voice. "No, head trouble," retorted Mr. Gordon, stepping over to the driver of the car. "Balky horse." "You don't say!" The motorist seemed surprised and interested. "I'd give you a tow if you were going my way. But, do you know, my son who runs a farm for me has a way of fixing a horse like that. He says it's all mental. Beating 'em is a waste of time. Jim unharnesses a horse that balks with him, leads it on a way and then rolls the wagon up and gears up again. Horse thinks he's starting all over--new trip, you see. What's the word I want?" "Psychological?" said the sweet, clear voice of Betty promptly. "Well, I'll be jiggered!" the motorist swept off his cap. "Thank you, whoever you are. That's what I wanted to say. Yes, nowadays they believe in reasoning with a horse. I'll help you unhitch if you say so." "Let me," pleaded Betty. "Please, Uncle Dick. I know quite a lot about unharnessing. Can't I get out and do one side?" The motorist was already out of his car, and at her uncle's brief "all right," Betty slipped down and ran to the traces. The stranger observed her curiously. "Thought you were older," he said genially. "Where did a little tyke like you get hold of such a long word?" "I read it," replied Betty proudly. "They use it in the Ladies' Aid when they want to raise more money than usual and they hate to ask for it. Mrs. Banker says there's a psychological moment to ask for contributions, and I have to copy the secretary's notes for her." "I see," said the stranger. "There! Now, Mr. Heady here is free, and we'll lead him up the road a way." Uncle Dick led the horse, who went willingly enough, and Betty and the kind friend-in-need, as she called him to herself, each took a shaft of the light buggy and pulled it after them. To their surprise, when the horse was again harnessed to the wagon it started at the word "gid-ap," and gave every evidence of a determination to do as all good horses do--whatever they are ordered. "Guess he's all right," said the motorist, holding out his hand to Mr. Gordon. "Now, don't thank me--only ordinary road courtesy, I assure you. Hope your troubles are over for the night." The two men exchanged cards, and, lifting his hat to Betty, though he couldn't see her in the buggy, the stranger went back to his car. "Wasn't he nice?" chattered Betty, as the horse trotted briskly. Uncle Dick grimly resolved to make it pay for the lost time. "We might have been stuck all night." "Every indication of it," admitted Mr. Gordon. "However, I'm glad to say that I've always found travelers willing to go to any trouble to help. Don't ever leave a person in trouble on the road if you can do one thing to aid him, Betty. I want you to remember that." Betty promised, a bit sleepily, for the motion and the soft, night air were making her drowsy. She sat up, however, when they came in sight of the winking red and green lights that showed the railroad crossing. "No gateman, is there?" inquired her uncle. "Well, I'll go ahead and look, and you be ready to drive across when I whistle." He climbed down and ran forward, and Betty sat quietly, the reins held ready in her hand. In a few moments she heard her signal, a clear, sharp whistle. She spoke to the horse, who moved on at an irritatingly slow pace. "For goodness sake!" said Betty aloud, "can't you hurry?" She peered ahead, trying to make out her uncle's figure, but the heavy pine trees that grew on either side of the road threw shadows too deep for anything to be plainly outlined. Betty, nervously on the lookout, scarcely knew when they reached the double track, but she realized her position with a sickening heart thump when the horse stopped suddenly. The bay had chosen the grade crossing as a suitable place to enjoy a second fit of balkiness. "Uncle Dick!" cried Betty in terror. "Uncle Dick, he's stopped again! Come and help me unhitch!" No one answered. Betty had nerves as strong and as much presence of mind as any girl of her age, but a woman grown might consider that she had cause for hysterics if she found herself late at night marooned in the middle of a railroad track with a balky horse and no one near to give her even a word of advice. For a moment Betty rather lost her head and screamed for her uncle. This passed quickly though, and she became calmer. The whip she knew was useless. So was coaxing. There was nothing to do with any certainty of success but to unharness the horse and lead her over. But where was Uncle Dick? Betty jumped down from the buggy and ran ahead into the darkness, calling. "Uncle Dick!" shouted Betty. "Uncle Dick, where are you?" The cheery little hum of the insects filled the silence as soon as her voice died away. There was no other sound. Common sense coming to her aid, Betty reasoned that her uncle would not have gone far from the crossing, and she soon began to retrace her steps, calling at intervals. As she came back to the twinkling red and green lights, she heard a noise that brought her heart into her throat. Some one had groaned! "He's hurt!" she thought instantly. The groan was repeated, and, listening carefully, Betty detected that it came from the other side of the road. A few rods away from the flagman's house was a pit that had recently been excavated for some purpose and then abandoned. Betty peered down into this. "Uncle Dick?" she said softly. Another deep groan answered her. Betty ran back to the buggy and managed to twist one of the lamps from the dashboard. She was back in a second, and carefully climbed down into the pit. Sure enough, huddled in a deplorable heap, one foot twisted under him, lay Mr. Gordon. Betty had had little experience with accidents, but she instinctively took his head in her lap and loosened his collar. He was unconscious, but when she moved him he groaned again heart-breakingly. "How shall I ever get him up to the road?" wondered Betty, wishing she knew something of first-aid treatment. "If I could drag him up and then go and get the horse and buggy----" Her pulse gave an astounding leap and her brown eyes dilated. Putting her uncle's head back gently on the gravel, she scrambled to her feet, feeling only that whatever she did she must not waste time in screaming. She had heard the whistle of a train! CHAPTER V MRS. PEABODY WRITES THE bad, little stubborn horse standing on the track at the mercy of the coming comet! That was Betty's thought as she sped down the road. In the hope that a sense of the danger might have reached the animal's instinct, she gave the bridle a desperate tug when she reached the horse, but it was of no use. Feverishly Betty set to work to unharness the little bay horse. She was unaccustomed to many of the buckles, and the harness was stiff and unyielding. Working at it in a hurry was very different from the few times she had done it for fun, or with some one to manage all the hard places. She had finished one side when the whistle sounded again. To the girl's overwrought nerves it seemed to be just around the curve. She had no thought of abandoning the animal, however, and she set her teeth and began on the second set of snaps and buckles. These, too, gave way, and with a strong push Betty sent the buggy flying backward free of the tracks, and, seizing the bridle, she led the cause of all the trouble forward and into safety. For the third time the whistle blew warningly, and this time the noise of the train could be plainly heard. But it was nearly a minute before the glare of the headlight showed around the curve. "Look what didn't hit you, no thanks to you," Betty scolded the horse, as a relief to herself. "I 'most wish I'd left you there; only then we never would get Uncle Dick home." Poor Betty had now the hardest part of her task before her. She went back and dragged the buggy over the tracks, up to the horse and started the tedious business of harnessing again. She was not sure where all the straps went, but she hoped enough of them would hold together till they could get home. When she had everything as nearly in place as she could get them she climbed down into the pit. To her surprise, her uncle's eyes were open. He lay gazing at the buggy lamp she had left. "Uncle Dick," she whispered, "are you hurt? Can you walk? Because you're so big, I can't pull you out very well." "Why, I can't be hurt," said her uncle slowly in his natural voice. "What's happened? Where are we? Goodness, child, you look like a ghost with a dirty face." Betty was not concerned with her looks at that moment, and she was so delighted to find her uncle conscious that she did not feel offended at his uncomplimentary remark. In a few words she sketched for him what had happened. "My dear child!" he ejaculated when she had told him, "have you been through all that? Why, you're the pluckiest little woman I ever heard of! No wonder you look thoroughly done up. All I remember is whistling for you to come ahead and then taking a step that landed me nowhere. In other words, I must have stepped into this pit. I'm not hurt--just a bit dazed." To prove it, he got to his feet a trifle shakily. Declining Betty's assistance, he managed to scramble out of the pit, up on to the road. His head cleared rapidly, and in a few more moments he declared he felt like himself. "In with you," he ordered Betty, after a preliminary examination of the harness which, he announced, was "as right as a trivet." "You've done your share for to-night. Go to sleep, if you like, and I'll wake you up in time to hear Mrs. Arnold send Ted out to take the horse around to the livery stable. It wouldn't do for me to do it--I might murder the owner!" Betty leaned her head against her uncle's broad shoulder, for a minute she thought, and when she woke found herself being helped gently from the buggy. "You're all right, Betty," soothed Mrs. Arnold's voice in the darkness. "I've worried myself sick! Do you know it's one o'clock?" Mr. Gordon took the wagon around to the stable, and Betty, with Mrs. Arnold's help, got ready for bed. Betty was fast asleep almost before the undressing was completed, and she slept until late the next morning. When she came down to the luxury of a special breakfast, she found only Mrs. Arnold in the house. "Your uncle's gone out to post a letter," that voluble lady informed her. "Both boys have gone fishing again. I'm only waiting for their father to come home and straighten 'em out. Will you have cocoa, dearie?" Before she had quite finished her breakfast, Mr. Gordon came back from the post-office, and then, as Mrs. Arnold wanted to go over to a neighbor's to borrow a pattern, he sat down opposite Betty. "You look rested," he commented. "I don't like to think what might have happened last night. However, we'll be optimistic and look ahead. I've written to Mrs. Peabody, dear, and to-morrow I think you and Mrs. Arnold had better go shopping. I'll write you a check this morning. Agatha will want you to come, I know. And to tell you the truth, Betty, I've had a letter that makes me anxious to be off. I want to stay to see you safely started for Bramble Farm, and then I must peg away at this new work. Finished? Then let's go into the sitting room and I'll explain about the check." The next morning Betty and Mrs. Arnold started for Harburton with what seemed to Betty a small fortune folded in her purse. Mrs. Arnold had shown her how to cash the check at the Pineville Bank, and she was to advise as to material and value of the clothing Betty might select; but the outfit was to represent Betty's choice and was to please her primarily--Uncle Dick had made this very clear. Betty had learned a good deal about shopping in the last months of her mother's illness, and she did not find it difficult to choose suitable and pretty ginghams for her frocks, a middy blouse or two, some new smocks, and a smart blue sweater. She very sensibly decided that as she was to spend the summer on a farm she did not need elaborate clothes, and she knew, from listening to Mrs. Arnold, that those easiest to iron would probably please Mrs. Peabody most whether she did her own laundry work or had a washerwoman. When the purchases came home Uncle Dick delighted Betty with his warm approval. For a couple of days the sewing machine whirred from morning to night as the village dressmaker sewed and fitted the new frocks and made the old presentable. Then the letter from Mrs. Peabody arrived. "I will be very glad to have your niece spend the summer with me," she wrote, in a fine, slanting hand. "The question of board, as you arrange it, is satisfactory. I would not take anything for her, you know, Dick, and for old times' sake would welcome her without compensation, but living is so dreadfully high these days. Joseph has not had good luck lately, and there are so many things against the farmer.... Let me know when to expect Betty and some one will meet her." The letter rambled on for several pages, complaining rather querulously of hard times and the difficulties under which the writer and her husband managed to "get along." "Doesn't sound like Agatha, somehow," worried Uncle Dick, a slight frown between his eyes. "She was always a good-natured, happy kind of girl. But most likely she can't write a sunny letter. I know we used to have an aunt whose letters were always referred to as 'calamity howlers.' Yet to meet her you'd think she hadn't a care in the world. Yes, probably Agatha puts her blues into her letters and so doesn't have any left to spill around where she lives." Several times that day Betty saw him pull the letter from his pocket and re-read it, always with the puzzled lines between his brows. Once he called to her as she was going upstairs. "Betty," he said rather awkwardly, "I don't know exactly how to put it, but you're going to board with Mrs. Peabody, you know. You'll be independent--not 'beholden,' as the country folk say, to her. I want you to like her and to help her, but, oh, well, I guess I don't know what I am trying to say. Only remember, child, if you don't like Bramble Farm for any good reason, I'll see that you don't have to remain there." A brand-new little trunk for Betty made its appearance in the front hall of the Arnold house, and two subdued boys--for Mr. Arnold had returned home--helped her carry down her new treasures and, after the clothes were neatly packed, strap and lock the trunk. There was a tiny "over-night" bag, too, fitted with toilet articles and just large enough to hold a nightdress and a dressing gown and slippers. Betty felt very young-ladyish indeed with these traveling accessories. "I'll order a riding habit for you in the first large city I get to," promised her uncle. "I want you to learn to ride--I wrote Agatha that. She doesn't say anything about saddle horses, but they must have something you can ride. And you'll write to me, my dear, faithfully?" "Of course," promised Betty, clinging to him, for she had learned to love him dearly even in the short time they had been together. "I'll write to you, Uncle Dick, and I'll do everything you ask me to do. Then, this winter, do let's keep house." "We will," said Uncle Dick, fervently, "if we have to keep house on the back of a camel in the desert!" At this Betty giggled delightedly. Betty's train left early in the morning, and her uncle went to the station with her. Mrs. Arnold cried a great deal when she said good-bye, but Betty cheered her up by picturing the long, chatty letters they would write to each other and by assuring her friend that she might yet visit her in California. Mr. Gordon placed his niece in the care of the conductor and the porter, and the last person Betty saw was this gray-haired uncle running beside the train, waving his hat and smiling at her till her car passed beyond the platform. "Now," said Betty methodically, "if I think back, I shall cry; so I'll think ahead." Which she proceeded to do. She pictured Mrs. Peabody as a gray-haired, capable, kindly woman, older than Mrs. Arnold, and perhaps more serene. She might like to be called "Aunt Agatha." Mr. Peabody, she decided, would be short and round, with twinkling blue eyes and perhaps a white stubby beard. He would probably call her "Sis," and would always be studying how to make things about the house comfortable for his wife. "I hope they have horses and pigs and cows and sheep," mused Betty, the flying landscape slipping past her window unheeded. "And if they have sheep, they'll have a dog. Wouldn't I love to have a dog to take long walks with! And, of course, there will be a flower garden. 'Bramble Farm' sounds like a bed of roses to me." The idea of roses persisted, and while Betty outwardly was strictly attentive to the things about her, giving up her ticket at the proper time, drinking the cocoa and eating the sandwich the porter brought her (on Uncle Dick's orders she learned) at eleven o'clock, she was in reality busy picturing a white farmhouse set in the center of a rose garden, with a hedge of hollyhocks dividing it from a scarcely less beautiful and orderly vegetable kingdom. Day dreams, she was soon to learn. CHAPTER VI THE POORHOUSE RAT "THE next station's yours, Miss," said the porter, breaking in on Betty's reflections. "Any small luggage? No? All right, I'll see that you get off safely." Betty gathered up her coat and stuffed the magazine she had bought from the train boy, but scarcely glanced at, into her bag. Then she carefully put on her pretty grey silk gloves and tried to see her face in the mirror of the little fitted purse. She wanted to look nice when the Peabodys first saw her. The train jarred to a standstill. Betty hurried down the aisle to find the porter waiting for her with his little step. She was the only person to leave the train at Hagar's Corners, and, happening to glance down the line of cars, she saw her trunk, the one solitary piece of baggage, tumbled none too gently to the platform. The porter with his step swung aboard the train which began to move slowly out. Betty felt unaccountably small and deserted standing there, and as the platform of the last car swept past her, she was conscious of a lump in her throat. "Hello!" blurted an oddly attractive voice at her shoulder, a boy's voice, shy and brusque but with a sturdy directness that promised strength and honesty. The blue eyes into which Betty turned to look were honest, too, and the shock of tow-colored hair and the half-embarrassed grin that displayed a set of uneven, white teeth instantly prepossessed the girl in favor of the speaker. There was a splash of brown freckles across the snub nose, and the tanned cheeks and blue overalls told Betty that a country lad stood before her. "Hello!" she said politely. "You're from Mr. Peabody's, aren't you? Did they send you to meet me?" "Yes, Mr. Peabody said I was to fetch you," replied the boy. "I knew it was you, 'cause no one else got off the train. If you'll give me your trunk check I'll help the agent put it in the wagon. He locks up and goes off home in a little while." Betty produced the check and the boy disappeared into the little one-room station. The girl for the first time looked about her. Hagar's Corners, it must be confessed, was not much of a place, if one judged from the station. The station itself was not much more than a shanty, sadly in need of paint and minus the tiny patch of green lawn that often makes the least pretentious railroad station pleasant to the eye. Cinders filled in the road and the ground about the platform. Hitched to a post Betty now saw a thin sorrel horse harnessed to a dilapidated spring wagon with a board laid across it in lieu of a seat. To her astonishment, she saw her trunk lifted into this wagon by the station agent and the boy who had spoken to her. "Why--why, it doesn't look very comfortable," said Betty to herself. "I wonder if that's the best wagon Mr. Peabody has? But perhaps his good horses are busy, or the carriage is broken or something." The boy unhitched the sorry nag and drove up to the platform where Betty was waiting. His face flushed under his tan as he jumped down to help her in. "I'm afraid it isn't nice enough for you," he said, glancing with evident admiration at Betty's frock. "I spread that salt bag on the seat so you wouldn't get rust from the nails in that board on your dress. I'm awfully sorry I haven't a robe to put over your lap." "Oh, I'm all right," Betty hastened to assure him tactfully. Then, with a desire to put him at his ease, "Where is the town?" she asked. They had turned from the station straight into a country road, and Betty had not seen a single house. "Hagar's Corners is just a station," explained the lad. "Mostly milk is shipped from it. All the trading is done at Glenside. There's stores and schools and a good-sized town there. Mr. Peabody had you come to Hagar's Corners 'cause it's half a mile nearer than Glenside. The horse has lost a shoe, and he doesn't want to run up a blacksmith's bill till the foot gets worse than it is." Betty's brown eyes widened with amazement. "That horse is limping now," she said severely, "Do you mean to tell me Mr. Peabody will let a horse get a sore foot before he'll pay out a little money to have it shod?" The boy turned and looked at her with something smoldering in his face that she did not understand. Betty was not used to bitterness. "Joe Peabody," declared the boy impressively, "would let his own wife go without shoes if he thought she could get through as much work as she can with 'em. Look at my feet!" He thrust out a pair of rough, heavy work shoes, the toes patched abominably, the laces knotted in half a dozen places; Betty noticed that the heel of one was ripped so that the boy's skin showed through. "Let his horse go to save a blacksmith's bill!" repeated the lad contemptuously. "I should think he would! The only thing that counts with Joe Peabody in this world is money!" Betty's heart sank. To what kind of a home had she come? Her head was beginning to ache, and the glare of the sun on the white, dusty road hurt her eyes. She wished that the wagon had some kind of top, or that the board seat had a back. "Is it very much further?" she asked wearily. "I'll bet you're tired," said the boy quickly. "We've a matter of three miles to go yet. The sorrel can't make extra good time even when he has a fair show, but I aim to favor his sore foot if I do get dished out of my dinner." "I'm so hungry," declared Betty, restored to vivacity at the thought of luncheon. "All I had on the train was a cup of chocolate and a sandwich. Aren't you hungry, too?" "Considering that all I've had since breakfast at six this morning, is an apple I stole while hunting through the orchard for the turkeys, I'll say I'm starved," admitted the boy. "But I'll have to wait till six to-night, and so will you." "But I haven't had any lunch!" Betty protested vigorously. "Of course, Mrs. Peabody will let me have something--perhaps they'll wait for me." The boy pulled on the lines mechanically as the sorrel stumbled. "If that horse once goes down, he'll die in the road and that'll be the first rest he's known in seven years," he said cryptically. "No, Miss, the Peabodys won't wait for you. They wouldn't wait for their own mother, and that's a fact. Don't I remember seeing the old lady, who was childish the year before she died, crying up in her room because no one had called her to breakfast and she came down too late to get any? Mrs. Peabody puts dinner on the table at twelve sharp, and them as aren't there have to wait till the next meal. Joe Peabody counts it that much food saved, and he's got no intentions of having late-comers gobble it up." Betty Gordon's straight little chin lifted. Meekness was not one of her characteristics, and her fighting spirit rose to combat with small encouragement. "My uncle's paying my board, and I intend to eat," she announced firmly. "But maybe I'm upsetting the household by coming so late in the afternoon; only there was no other train till night. I have some chocolate and crackers in my bag--suppose we eat those now?" "Gee, that will be corking!" the fresh voice of the boy beside her was charged with fervent appreciation. "There's a spring up the road a piece, and we'll stop and get a drink. Chocolate sure will taste good." Betty was quicker to observe than most girls of her age, her sorrow having taught her to see other people's troubles. As the boy drew rein at the spring and leaped down to bring her a drink from its cool depths, she noticed how thin he was and how red and calloused were his hands. "Thank you." She smiled, giving back the cup. "That's the coldest water I ever tasted. I'm all cooled off now." He climbed up beside her again, and the wagon creaked on its journey. As Betty divided the chocolate and crackers, unobtrusively giving her driver the larger portion, she suggested that he might tell her his name. "I suppose you know I'm Betty Gordon," she said. "You've probably heard Mrs. Peabody say she went to school with my Uncle Dick. Tell me who you are, and then we'll be introduced." The mouth of the boy twisted curiously, and a sullen look came into the blue eyes. "You can do without knowing me," he said shortly. "But so long as you'll hear me yelled at from sun-up to sun-down, I might as well make you acquainted with my claims to greatness. I'm the 'poorhouse rat'--now pull your blue skirt away." "You have no right to talk like that," Betty asserted quietly. "I haven't given you the slightest reason to. And if you are really from the poorhouse, you must be an orphan like me. Can't we be good friends? Besides, I don't know your name even yet." The boy looked at the sweet girl face and his own cleared. "I'm a pig!" he muttered with youthful vehemence. "My name's Bob Henderson, Miss. I hadn't any call to flare up like that. But living with the Peabodys doesn't help a fellow when it comes to manners. And I am from the poorhouse. Joe Peabody took me when I was ten years old. I'm thirteen now." "I'm twelve," said Betty. "Don't call me Miss, it sounds so stiff. I'm Betty. Oh, dear, how dreadfully lame that horse is!" The poor beast was limping, and in evident pain. Bob Henderson explained that there was nothing they could do except to let him walk slowly and try to keep him on the soft edge of the road. "He'll have to go five miles to-morrow to Glenside to the blacksmith's," he said moodily. "I'm ashamed to drive a horse through the town in the shape this one's in." Betty thought indignantly that she would write to the S. P. C. A. They must have agents throughout the country, she knew, and surely it could not be within the law for any farmer to allow his horse to suffer as the sorrel was plainly suffering. "Is Mr. Peabody poor, Bob?" she ventured timidly. "I'm sure Uncle Dick thought Bramble Farm a fine, large place. He wanted me to learn to ride horseback this summer." "Have to be on a saw-horse," replied Bob ironically. "You bet Peabody isn't poor! Some say he's worth a hundred thousand if he's worth a penny. But close--say, that man's so close he puts every copper through the wringer. You've come to a sweet place, and no mistake, Betty. I'm kind of sorry to see a girl get caught in the Peabody maw." "I won't stay 'less I like it," declared Betty quickly. "I'll write to Uncle Dick, and you can come, too, Bob. Why are we turning in here?" "This," said Bob Henderson pointing with his whip dramatically, "is Bramble Farm." CHAPTER VII BRAMBLE FARM THE wagon was rattling down a narrow lane, for though the horse went at a snail's pace, every bolt and hinge in the wagon was loose and contributed its own measure of noise to their progress. Betty looked about her with interest. On either side of the lane lay rolling fertile fields--in the highest state of cultivation, had she known it. Bramble Farm was famed for its good crops, and whatever people said of its master, the charge of poor farming was never laid at his door. The lane turned abruptly into a neglected driveway, and this led them up to the kitchen door of the farmhouse. "Never unlocks the front door 'cept for the minister or your funeral," whispered Bob in an aside to Betty, as the kitchen door opened and a tall, thin man came out. "Took you long enough to get here," he greeted the two young people sourly. "Dinner's been over two hours and more. Hustle that trunk inside, you Bob, and put up the horse. Wapley and Lieson need you to help 'em set tomato plants." Betty had climbed down and stood helplessly beside the wagon. Mr. Peabody, for she judged the tall, thin man must be the owner of Bramble Farm, though he addressed no word directly to her and Bob was too evidently subdued to attempt any introduction, but swung on his heel and strode off in the direction of the barn. There was nothing for Betty to do but to follow Bob and her trunk into the house. The kitchen was hot and swarming with flies. There were no screens at the windows, and though the shades were drawn down, the pests easily found their way into the room. "How do you do, Betty? I hope your trip was pleasant. Dinner's all put away, but it won't be long till supper time. I'm just trying to brush some of the flies out," and to Betty's surprise a thin flaccid hand was thrust into hers. Mrs. Peabody was carrying out her idea of a handshake. Betty stared in wonder at the lifeless creature who smiled wanly at her. What would Uncle Dick say if he saw Agatha Peabody now? Where were the long yellow braids and the blue eyes he had described? This woman, thin, absolutely colorless in face, voice and manner, dressed in a faded, cheap, blue calico wrapper--was this Uncle Dick's old school friend? "Perhaps you'd like to go upstairs to your room and lie down a while," Mrs. Peabody was saying. "I'll show you where you're to sleep. How did you leave your uncle, dear?" Betty answered dully that he was well. Her mind was too taken up with new impressions to know very clearly what was said to her. "I'm sorry there aren't any screens," apologized her hostess. "But the flies aren't bad on this side of the house, and the mosquitoes only come when there's a marsh wind. You'll find water in the pitcher, and I laid out a clean towel for you. Do you want I should help you unpack your trunk?" Betty declined the offer with thanks, for she wanted to be alone. She had not noticed Mrs. Peabody's longing glance at the smart little trunk, but later she was to understand that that afternoon she had denied a real heart hunger for handling pretty clothes and the dainty accessories that women love. When the door had closed on Mrs. Peabody, Betty sat down on the bed to think. She found herself in a long, narrow room with two windows, the sashes propped up with sticks. The floor was bare and scrubbed very clean and the sheets and pillow cases on the narrow iron bed, though of coarse unbleached muslin, were immaculate. Something peculiar about the pillow case made her lean closer to examine it. It was made of flour or salt bags, overcasted finely together! "'Puts every copper through the wringer.'" The phrase Bob had used came to Betty. "There's no excuse for such things if he isn't poor," she argued indignantly. "Well, I suppose I'll have to stay a week, anyway. I might as well wash." A half hour later, the traces of travel removed and her dark frock changed to a pretty pink chambray dress, Betty descended the stairs to begin her acquaintance with Bramble Farm. She wandered through several darkened rooms on the first floor and out into the kitchen without finding Mrs. Peabody. A heavy-set, sullen-faced man was getting a drink from the tin dipper at the sink. "Want some?" he asked, indicating the pump. Betty declined, and asked if he knew where Mrs. Peabody was. "Out in the chicken yard," was the reply. "You the boarder they been talking about?" "I'm Betty Gordon," said the girl pleasantly. "Yes, they've been going on for a week about you. Old man's got it all figured out what he'll do with your board. The missis rather thought she ought to have half, but he shut her up mighty quick. Women and money don't hitch up in Peabody's mind." He laughed coarsely and went out, drawing a plug of tobacco from his hip pocket and taking a tremendous chew from it as he closed the door. Betty felt a sudden longing for fresh air, and, waiting only for the man to get out of sight, she stepped out on the back porch. A regiment of milk pans were drying in the late afternoon sun and a churn turned up to air showed that Mrs. Peabody made her own butter. Betty was still hungry, and the thought of slices of home-made bread and golden country butter smote her tantalizingly. "I wonder where the chicken yard is," she thought, going down to the limp gate that swung disconsolately on a rusty hinge. The Bramble Farm house, she discovered, looking at it critically, was apparently suffering for the minor repairs that make a home attractive. The blinds sagged in several places and in some instances were missing altogether; once white, the paint was now a dirty gray; half the pickets were gone from the garden fence; the lawn was ragged and overgrown with weeds; and the two discouraged-looking flower-beds were choked this early in the season. Betty's weeding habits moved her irresistibly to kneel down and try to free a few of the plants from the mass of tangled creepers that flourished among them. "Better not let Joe Peabody see you doing that," said Bob Henderson's voice above her bent head. "He hasn't a mite of use for a person who wastes time on flower-beds. If you want to see things in good shape, take a look at the vegetable gardens. The missis has to keep that clear, 'cause after it's once planted, she's supposed to feed us all summer from it." Betty shook back her hair from a damp forehead. "For mercy's sake," she demanded with heat, "is there one pleasant, kind thing connected with this place? Who was that awful man I met in the kitchen?" "Guess it was Lieson, one of the hired men," replied Bob. "He came down to the house to get a drink a few minutes ago. He's all right, Betty, though not much to look at." "You, Bob!" came a stentorian shout that shot Bob through the gate and in the general direction of the voice with a speed that was little less than astonishing. Betty stood up, shook the earth from her skirt, and, guided by the shrill cackle of a proud hen, picked her way through a rather cluttered barn-yard till she came to a wire-enclosed space that was the chicken yard. Mrs. Peabody, staggering under the weight of two heavy pails of water, met her at the gate. "How nice you look!" she said wistfully. "Don't come in here, dear; you might get something on your dress." "Oh, it washes," returned Betty carelessly. "Do you carry water for the chickens?" "Twice a day in summer," was the answer. "Before Joe, Mr. Peabody, had water put in the barns, it was an awful job; but he couldn't get a man to help him with the cows unless he had running water at the barn, so this system was new last year. It's a big help." Silently, and feeling in the way because she could not help, Betty watched the woman fill troughs and drinking vessels for the parched hens that had evidently spent an uncomfortable and dry afternoon in the shadeless yard. Scattering a meager ration of corn, Mrs. Peabody went into the hen house and reappeared presently with a basket filled with eggs. "They'd lay better if I could get 'em some meat scraps," she confided to Betty as they walked toward the house. "But I dunno--it's so hard to get things done, I've about given up arguing." She would not let Betty help her with the supper, and was so insistent that she should not touch a dish that Betty yielded, though reluctantly. The heat of the kitchen was intense, for Mrs. Peabody had built a fire of corn cobs in the range. Gas, of course, there was none, and she evidently had not an oil stove or a fireless cooker. Precisely at six o'clock the men came in. "They milk after supper, summers," Mrs. Peabody had explained. "The milk stays sweet longer." Betty watched in round-eyed amazement as Mr. Peabody and the two hired men washed at the sink, with much sputtering and blowing, and combed their hair before a small cracked mirror tacked over the sink. If she had not been very hungry, she was sure the sight would have taken her appetite away. Bob did not come in till they were seated. He had washed outside, he explained, and Betty cherished the idea that perhaps he had acted out of consideration for her. "What's that?" demanded Mr. Peabody, pointing his fork at a tiny pat of butter before Betty's plate. There was no other butter on the table, and only a very plain meal of bread, fried potatoes, raspberries and hot tea. "I--I had a little butter left over from the last churning," faltered Mrs. Peabody. "'Twasn't enough to make even a quarter-pound print, Joe." "Don't believe it," contradicted her husband. "I told you flat, Agatha, that there was to be no pampering. Betty can eat what we eat, or go without. Take that butter off, do you hear me?" A sallow flush rose to Mrs. Peabody's thin cheeks, and her lips moved rebelliously. Evidently her husband was practiced at reading her soundless words. "Board?" he cried belligerently. "What do I care whether she's paying board or not? Don't I have to be the judge of how the house should be run? Food was never higher than 'tis now, and you've got to watch every scrap. You take that butter off and don't let me catch you doing nothin' like that again." The men were eating stolidly, evidently too used to quarrels to pay any attention to anything but their food. Betty had listened silently, but the bread she ate seemed to choke her. Suddenly she rose to her feet, shaking with rage. "Take your old butter!" she stormed at the astonished Mr. Peabody. "I wouldn't eat it, if you begged me to. And I won't stay in your house one second longer than it takes to have Uncle Dick send for me--you--you old miserable miser!" CHAPTER VIII BETTY MAKES UP HER MIND BETTY had a confused picture of Mr. Peabody staring at her, his fork arrested half way to his mouth, before she dashed from the kitchen and fled to her room. She flung herself on the bed and burst into tears. She lay there for a long time, sobbing uncontrollably and more unhappy than she had ever been in her short life. She missed her mother and father intolerably, she longed for the kindness of the good, if querulous, Mrs. Arnold and the comfort of Uncle Dick's tenderness and protection. "He wouldn't want me to stay here, I know he wouldn't!" she whispered stormily. "He never would have let me come if he had known what kind of a place Bramble Farm is. I'll write to him to-night." A low whistle came to her. She ran to the window. "Sh! Got a piece of string?" came a sibilant whisper. Bob Henderson peered up at her from around a lilac bush. "I brought you some bread with raspberries mashed between it. Let down a cord and I'll tie it on." "I'll come down," said Betty promptly. "Can't we take a walk? It looks awfully pretty up the lane." "I have to clean two more horses and bed down a sick cow and carry slops to the pigs yet," recited Bob in a matter of fact way, as though these few little duties were commonly performed at the close of his long day. "After that, though, we might go a little way. It won't be dark." "Well, whistle when you're ready," directed Betty. "I won't come down and run the risk of having to talk to Mr. Peabody. And save me the bread!" It seemed a long time before Bob whistled, and the gray summer dusk was deepening when Betty ran down to join him. He handed her the bread, wrapped in a bit of clean paper, diffidently. "I didn't touch it with my hands," he assured her. Bob's face was shining from a vigorous scrubbing and his hair was plastered tight to his head and still wet. He had so evidently tried to make himself neat and his poor frayed overalls and ridiculous shoes made the task so hopeless that Betty was divided between pity for him and anger at the Peabodys who could treat a member of their household so shabbily. "I guess you kind of shook the old man up," commented Bob, unconscious of her thoughts. "For half a minute after you slammed the door, he sat there in a daze. Mrs. Peabody wanted to take some supper up to you, but he wouldn't let her. She's deathly afraid of him." "Did he ever hit her?" asked Betty, horrified. "No, I don't know that he ever did. He doesn't have to hit her; his talk is worse. They say she used to answer back, but I never heard her open her mouth to argue with him, and I've been here three years." "Do they pay you well?" The boy looked at Betty sharply. "I thought you were kidding," he said frankly. "Poorhouse children don't get paid. We get our board till we're eighteen. We're not supposed to do enough work to cover more'n that. Just the same, I do as much as Wapley or Leison, any day." Betty walked along eating her bread and wondering about Bob Henderson. Who, she speculated, had been his father and mother, and how had he happened to find himself in the poorhouse? And why, oh, why, should such a boy have had the bad luck to be "taken" by a man like Mr. Peabody? Betty was a courteous girl, and she could not bring herself to ask Bob these questions pointblank, however her curiosity urged her. Perhaps when they were better acquainted, she might have a chance. But that thought suggested to Betty her letter. "I'm going to write to Uncle Dick before I go to bed to-night," she announced. "He said I needn't stay if for any good reason I found I wasn't happy here. I can't stay, Bob, honestly I can't. He wouldn't want me to. Shall I ask him about a place for you? And where do I mail my letter?" Bob Henderson's face fell. He had hoped that this bright, pretty girl, with her independent and friendly manner, might spend the summer at Bramble Farm. Bob had been so long cut off from communication with a companion of his own age that it was a perfect luxury for him to have Betty to talk to. Still, he could not help admitting, the Peabody circle had nothing to offer Betty. "Don't mail your letter in the box at the end of the lane," he advised her. "Joe Peabody might see it and take it out. I'll take it to Glenside with me to-morrow--unless you want to go along? Say, that would be great, wouldn't it?" Betty liked the idea, and so before they turned back to the house they arranged to mail the letter secretly in Glenside the following morning. Immensely cheered, Betty went in to write to her uncle and Bob disappeared up the stairs to the attic, where he and the two hired men shared quarters. It was too dark to see clearly in her room, and after Betty had groped around in a vain hunt for a lamp and matches, she went down to the kitchen intending to ask for a light. Mrs. Peabody stood at the table, mixing something in a pan, and a small glass lamp gave the room all the light it had. "I'm setting my bread," the woman explained, as Betty came in. "Where have you been dear? You must be hungry." "No, I'm not hungry," answered Betty, avoiding explanations. "I've been out for a little walk. May I have a lamp Mrs. Peabody?" Her hostess glanced round to make sure that the door was shut. "You can take this one in just a minute," she said, indicating the small lamp on the table. "Mr. Peabody's gone up to bed. You see we don't use lights much in summer--we go to bed early 'cause all hands have to be up at half-past four. And lamps brings the mosquitoes." Betty sat down in a chair to wait for her lamp. She was tired from her journey and the exciting events of the day, but she had made up her mind to write to her uncle that night, and her mind made up, Betty was sure to stick to it. "Aren't you going to bed?" asked Betty, taking up the lamp when Mrs. Peabody had finished. Mrs. Peabody made no move to leave the kitchen. "I like to sit out on the back stoop awhile and get cooled off," she said. "Sometimes I go to sleep leaning against the post, and one night I didn't wake up till morning and Bob Henderson fell over me running out for wood to start the fire. I like to sit quiet. Sometimes I wish I had a dog to keep me company, but Mr. Peabody don't like dogs." Betty went back to her room and began her letter. But all the while she was writing the thought of that lonely woman "sitting quiet" on the doorstep haunted her. What a life! And she had probably looked forward to happiness with her husband and home as all girls do. The mosquitoes were singing madly about the light before the first five minutes had passed, but Betty stuck it out and sealed and addressed her letter, putting it under her pillow for safe keeping. Then she blew out the light and undressed in the dark. The bed was the hardest thing she had ever lain upon, but, being a healthy young person and very tired, she fell asleep as quickly as though the mattress had been filled with softest down and only wakened when a shaft of sunlight fell across her face. Some one was whistling softly beneath her window. Seizing her dressing gown and flinging it across her shoulders, Betty peered out. Bob Henderson, swinging a milk pail in either hand, was back of the lilac bush again. "Say, it's quarter of six," he called anxiously, as he saw Betty's face at the window. "Breakfast is at six, and if you don't hurry you'll be cheated out of that. I'm going to Glenside right after, too." "I'll hurry," promised Betty. "Thank you for telling me. Have you been up long?" "Hour and a half," came the nonchalant answer as Bob hurried on to the barn. Betty sat down on the floor to put on her shoes and stockings. At first she was angry to think that she should be made to rush like this in order to have any breakfast when her uncle was paying her board and in any other household she would have been accorded some consideration as a guest. Then the humor of the situation appealed to her and she laughed till the tears came. She, Betty Gordon, who often had to be called three times in the morning, was scrambling into her clothes at top speed in the hope of securing something to eat. "It's too funny!" she gasped as she pulled a middy blouse on over her head. "I'll bet the Peabody's never have to call any one twice to come to the table; not if they're within hearing distance. They come first call without coaxing." The breakfast table was set in the kitchen, and when Betty entered Mrs. Peabody was putting small white saucers of oatmeal at each place. Ordinarily Betty did not care for oatmeal in warm weather, but this morning she was in no mood to quarrel with anything eatable and she dispatched her portion almost as quickly as Bob did his. Mr. Peabody grunted something which she took to mean good-morning, and the two hired men simply nodded to her. After the oatmeal came fried potatoes, bread without butter, ham and coffee. There was no milk to drink and no eggs. "If I was going to stay," thought Betty to herself, "I'd get some stuff over in town and hide it in my room. I wonder if I couldn't anyway. When I leave, Bob would have it." She fell to planning what she would buy and became as silent as any of the other five at that queer table. CHAPTER IX ONE ON BOB AS soon as the men finished eating they rose silently and shuffled out. Any diffidence Betty might have felt about facing any one at the table after her dramatic exit of the night before was speedily dispelled; no one paid the slightest attention to her. Mrs. Peabody had risen and begun to wash the dishes at the sink before Betty had finished. "I want to ride over to Glenside with Bob," said the girl a trifle uncertainly as she pushed back her chair. "You don't care, do you, Mrs. Peabody? And can I do any errands for you?" "No, I dunno as I want anything," said the woman dully. "You go along and try to enjoy yourself. Bob's got to get back by eleven to whitewash the pig house." "Come, drive over with us this morning," urged Betty kindly. "I'll help you with the work when we get back. The air will do you good. You look as though you had a headache." "Oh, I have a headache 'most all the time," admitted Mrs. Peabody, apparently not thinking it worth discussion. "And I couldn't go to town, child, I haven't a straw hat. I don't know when I've been to Glenside. Joe fusses so about the collection, I gave up going to church two years ago." Betty heard the sound of wheels and ran out to join Bob, an ache in her throat. "I think it's a burning shame!" she announced hotly to that youth, as he put out a helpful hand to pull her up to the seat. "I pity Mrs. Peabody from the bottom of my heart. Why can't she have a straw hat? Doesn't she take care of the poultry and the butter and do all the work in the house? If she can't have a hat, I'd like to know why not!" "Regular pepper-pot, aren't you?" commented Bob admiringly. "Gee, I wanted to laugh when you lit into old Peabody last night. Didn't dare, though--he'd have up and pasted me one." It was a beautiful summer morning, and in spite of injustice and unlovely human traits housed under the roof they had left, in spite of the sight of the poor animal before them suffering pain at every step, the two young people managed to enjoy themselves. Betty had a hundred questions to ask about Bramble Farm, and Bob was in the seventh heaven of delight to have this friendly, cheerful companion to talk to instead of only his own thoughts for company. "I've got the letter to Uncle Dick here in my pocket," Betty was saying as they came in sight of the blacksmith's shop on the outskirts of Glenside. "I suppose I'll have to be patient about waiting for an answer. It may take a week. I don't know just where he is, but I've written to the address he gave me, and marked it 'Please forward.'" The blacksmith came out and took the horse, Bob helping him unharness and Betty improving the opportunity to see the inside of a smithy. "I guess you'll want to look around town a bit?" suggested Bob, coming up to her when the sorrel was tied in place awaiting his turn to be shod. Two other horses were before him. "I'll wait here for you." Betty looked at him in surprise. "Why, Bob Henderson!" she ejaculated, keeping her voice low so that the two or three loungers about the door could not hear. "Are you willing to let me go around by myself in a perfectly strange town? I don't even know my way to the post-office. Don't you want to go with me?" Bob was evidently embarrassed. "I--I--I don't look fit!" he blurted out. "The collar's torn off this shirt, and I get only one clean pair of overalls a week--Monday morning. I don't look good enough to go round with you." "Don't be silly!" said Betty severely. "You look all right for a work day. Come on, or we won't be back by the time the shoe is on." Between the shop and the town there was a rather deserted strip of land, very conspicuous as to concrete walks and building lots marked off, but rather lacking in actual houses. Betty seized her opportunity to do a little tactful financiering. She knew that Bob had no money of his own--indeed it was doubtful if the lad had ever handled even small change that he was not accountable for. "Uncle Dick gave me some money to spend," remarked Betty, rather hurriedly, for she did not know how Bob was going to take what she meant to say. "And before you show me the different stores, I want you to take me to the drug store. I'm going to buy Mrs. Peabody the largest bottle of violet toilet water I can find. It will do her headache heaps of good. If I give you the money, you'll buy it for me, won't you Bob?" "Sure I will," agreed the unsuspecting Bob, and he pocketed the five dollar bill she gave him readily enough. The wily Betty hoped that the drug store would be modern, for she had a plan tucked up her white sleeve. "Want to go to the drug store first or to the post-office?" asked Bob. "Oh, the post-office!" Betty was suddenly anxious to know that her letter was actually on the way. "Don't forget--get a big bottle," said Betty warningly, as she and Bob entered the drug store. Her dancing dark eyes discovered what she had hoped for the moment they were inside the screen door--a large soda fountain with a white-jacketed clerk behind it. Bob led the way to the perfume counter, and though the clerk, who evidently knew him, seemed surprised at his order, he very civilly set out several bottles of toilet water for their inspection. Betty chose a handsome large bottle, and when it was wrapped, and with it some soap, for Betty did not fancy the thin wafer of yellow kitchen soap she had found in her soapdish, Bob paid for the package and received the change quite as though he were accustomed to such proceedings. Indeed he stood straighter, and Betty knew she was right in her conclusions that he had sensitiveness and pride. The time had come to put her plan into action. "Oh, Bob!" She pulled his coat sleeve as they were passing the fountain on their way out. "Let's have a sundae!" The clerk had heard her, and he came forward at once, pushing toward them a printed card with the names of the drinks served. Bob opened his mouth, then closed it. He sat down on one of the high stools and Betty on another. "I'll have a chocolate marshmallow nut sundae," ordered Betty composedly, having selected the most expensive and fanciful concoction listed with the fervent hope that it would be plentiful and good. "I'll have the same," mumbled Bob, just as Betty had trusted he would. While the clerk was mixing the delectable dainty, Betty stole a look at Bob. His mouth was set grimly. Then he turned and caught her eye. An unwilling grin flickered across his face and he capitulated as Betty broke into a delighted giggle. "Well, I'll be jiggered!" admitted Bob, "you've certainly put it over on me." They laughed and chattered over the sundaes, and Betty, when they were gone, would not listen to reason, but insisted they must have another. She did not want a second one, but she knew Bob's longing for sweets must have gone ungratified a long time, and she was too young to worry about the ultimate effect on his surprised organs of digestion. Bob was fairly caught, and could not object without putting himself in an unfavorable light with the impressive young clerk, so two more sundaes were ordered and disposed of. Then Bob paid for them from the change in his pocket and he and Betty found themselves on the sunny sidewalk. "That's the first sundae I ever had," confessed Bob shyly. "Of course we had ice-cream at the poorhouse sometimes for a treat--Christmas and sometimes Fourth of July. But I never ate a sundae. Do you want your change back now?" "No, keep it," said Betty. "I want to go to a grocery store now. And where do they keep mosquito netting?" "Same place--Liscom's general store," answered Bob. The general store was well-named. Betty, who had never been in a place of this kind, was fascinated by the shelves and the wonderful assortment of goods they contained. Everything, she privately decided, from a pink chiffon veil to a keg of nails could be bought here, and her deductions were very near the truth. "I can't stand being chewed by the mosquitoes another night," she whispered to Bob. "So I'm going to get some netting and tack it on the window casings. I'd buy a lamp if I was going to stay." After the netting was measured off, Betty, to Bob's astonishment, began to buy groceries. She chose cans of sardines and tuna fish, several packages of fancy crackers, a bottle or two of olives, a pound of dried apricots, a box of dates and one or two other articles. These were all wrapped together in a neat bundle. "Do they make sandwiches here?" asked Betty, watching a machine shaving off a pink slice of cold boiled ham and a layer of cheese and the storekeeper's assistant butter two slabs of bread with sweet-looking butter at the order of a teamster who stood waiting. "Sure we do, Miss," the proprietor assured her. "Nice, fresh sandwiches made while you wait, and wrapped in waxed paper." "I'll have two ham and two cheese, please," responded Betty, adding in an aside to Bob: "We can eat 'em going home." She was afraid that perhaps she had spent more money than she had left from the five dollar bill. But Bob had enough to pay for her purchases, it seemed, and they left the store with their bundles, well pleased with the morning's work. CHAPTER X ROAD COURTESY "WE'LL have to hurry," said Bob, quickening his steps, "if I'm to get back at eleven. I hope Turner has the sorrel ready." "Hasn't the horse a name?" queried Betty curiously, running to keep up with Bob. "I must go out and see the cows and things. Do you like pigs, Bob?" The boy laughed a little at this confusion of ideas. "No, none of the horses are named," he answered, taking the questions in order. "Peabody has three; but we just call 'em the sorrel and the black and the bay. Nobody's got time to feed 'em lumps of sugar and make pets out of them. Guess that's what you've got in mind, Betty. Old Peabody would throw a fit if he saw any one feeding sugar to a horse." "But the cows?" urged Betty. "Do they get enough to eat? Or do they have to suffer to save money, like this poor horse we brought over to be shod?" "Cows," announced Bob sententiously, "are different A cow won't give as much milk if she's bothered, and Joe Peabody can see a butter check as far as anybody else. So the stables are screened and the cows are fed pretty well. Now, of course, they're out on pasture. They're not blood stock, though--just mixed breeds. And I hate pigs!" Betty was surprised at his vehemence, but she had no chance to ask for an explanation, for by this time they had reached the smithy, and the blacksmith led out the sorrel. After they were well started on their way toward the farm, she ventured to ask Bob why he hated pigs. "If you had to take care of 'em, you'd know why," he answered moodily. "I'd like to drown every one of 'em in the pails of slop I've carried out to 'em. And whitewashing the pig house on a hot day--whew! The pigs can go out in the orchard and root around, while I have to clean up after 'em. Besides, if you lived on ham for breakfast the year round, you'd hate the sight of a pig!" Betty laughed understandingly. "I know I should," she agreed. "Isn't it funny, I never thought so much about eating in my life as I have since I've been here. It's on my mind continually. I bought this canned stuff to keep up in my room so if I don't want to eat what the Peabodys have every meal I needn't. You can have some, too, Bob. Let's eat these sandwiches now--I'm hungry, aren't you? Why didn't you tell me you were tired of ham and I would have bought something else?" But Bob was far from despising well-cooked cold, boiled ham, and he thoroughly enjoyed his share of the sandwiches. While eating he glanced once or twice uncertainly at Betty, wishing he could find the courage to tell her how glad he was that she had come to Bramble Farm. Bob's life had had very few pleasant events in it so far. "Don't you think it was funny that Mr. Peabody let me come?" asked Betty presently, following her own train of thought. "If he's so close, I should think he'd hate to have any one come to see his wife." "He's doing it for the check your uncle sent," retorted Bob shrewdly. "Didn't you know your board was paid for two weeks in advance? That's why Peabody isn't making a fuss about your going; he figures he'll be in that much. Hello, what's this?" "This" was a buggy drawn up at one side of the road, the fat, white horse lazily cropping grass, while two slight feminine figures stood helplessly by. Bob was going to drive past, but Betty put out her hand and jerked the sorrel to a halt. "Ask 'em what the matter is," she commanded. "They've lost a wheel," said Bob in a low tone, his practiced eye having detected at once that one of the rear wheels was lying on the grass. "We can't stop, Betty; we're late now, and Joe Peabody's in a raging temper anyway this morning." "Why, Bob Henderson, how you do talk!" Betty's dark eyes began to shoot fire. "Just because you have to live with the meanest man in the world is no excuse for you to grow like him! If you drive on and don't try to help these women, I'll never speak to you again--never!" Bob looked shamefaced. His first impulse had been to stop and offer help, but he had had first-hand experience with the Peabody temper and had endured more than one beating for slight neglect of iron-clad orders. When he still hesitated, Betty spoke scornfully. "They're old ladies--so don't bother," she said bitingly. "Uncle Dick says no one should ever leave any one in trouble on the road, but I suppose he meant men who could whack you over the head if you refused to assist them. Why don't you drive on, Bob?" "You hush up!" Bob, stung into action, closed his mouth grimly and handed over the reins to his tormentor. "It's a half hour's job to put that wheel on, but I suppose there's no way out of it, so here goes." The two women were, as Betty had said, old ladies; that is, each had very white hair. And, although the day was warm, they were so muffled up in veils and shawls and gloves that the boy and the girl marveled how they could see to drive. "The wheel just came off without warning," said the taller of the two, in a high, sweet voice, as Bob asked to be allowed to help them. "Sister and I were so frightened! It might have been serious, you know, but Phyllis is such a good horse! She never even attempted to run." Bob with difficulty repressed a grin. Looking at the fat sides of Phyllis he would have said that physical handicaps, rather than an inherent sweetness of disposition, kept Phyllis where she belonged between the shafts. "You've lost a nut," announced the boy, after a brief examination. "Dear, dear!" fluttered both ladies. "Isn't that unfortunate! You haven't a--a--nut with you, Mr.----?" "I'm Bob Henderson," said the lad courteously. "I'll look around here in the dust a bit and maybe the nut will turn up. Why don't you sit down in the shade and rest awhile?" The two ladies accepted his suggestion gratefully. They retired to a crooked old apple tree growing on the bank further down the road, evincing no desire to make the acquaintance of Betty, who sat quietly in the wagon holding the reins. "I suppose they think we're backwoods country folks," thought Betty, the blood coming into her face. "Don't know that I blame them, seeing that this wagon is patched and tied together in a hundred places and the horse looks like a shadow of a skeleton." Bob continued to search in the dust of the road painstakingly. The two women clearly had shifted their trouble to him, and apparently had no further interest in the outcome. Betty longed to offer to help him, but the severity of his profile, as she glimpsed it now and then, deterred her. "I wish I could stop before I say so much," mourned the girl to herself. "I ought to know that Bob can't help being afraid of Mr. Peabody. If he had control over me, I'd probably act just as his wife and Bob do. When you can get away from an ogre, it's easy enough to say you're not afraid of him. Doesn't Bob dominate the situation, as Mrs. Arnold used to say!" Bob had found the nut, and was now fitting the wheel into place, working with a quickness and skill that fascinated Betty. She timidly called to him and asked if she should not come and hold the axle, but he refused her offer curtly. In a very few minutes the wheel was screwed on and the two ladies at liberty to resume their journey. They were insistent that Bob accept pay for his help, but the boy declined, politely but resolutely, and seemingly at no loss for diplomatic words and phrases. "Were you born in the poorhouse, Bob?" Betty asked curiously, wondering where the lad had developed his ability to meet people on their own ground. The volubly thankful ladies had driven on, and the sorrel was now trotting briskly toward Bramble Farm. "Yes, I was," said Bob shortly. "But my mother wasn't, nor my father. I've got a box buried in the garden that's mine, though the clothes on my back belong to old Peabody. And if I'm like Joe Peabody in other things, perhaps I'll learn to make money and save it. My father couldn't, or I wouldn't have been born in an alms-house!" "Oh, Bob!" Betty cried miserably, "I didn't mean you were like Mr. Peabody--you know I didn't. I'm so sorry! I always say things I don't mean when I'm mad. Uncle Dick told me to go out and chop wood when I get furious, and not talk. I am so sorry!" "We've got a wood pile," grinned Bob. "I'll show you where it is. The rest of it's all right, Betty. I'd probably have stayed awake all night if I'd driven by those women. Only I suppose Peabody will be in a towering rage. It must be noon." If Betty was not afraid of Mr. Peabody, it must be confessed that she looked forward with no more pleasure than Bob to meeting him. Still she was not prepared for the cold fury with which he greeted them when they drove into the yard. "Just as I figured," he said heavily. "Here 'tis noon, and that boy hasn't done a stroke of work since breakfast. Gallivanting all over town, I'll be bound. Going to be like his shiftless, worthless father and mother--a charge on the township all his days. You take that pail of whitewash and don't let me see you again till you get the pig house done, you miserable, sneaking poorhouse rat! You'll go without dinner to pay for wasting my time like this! Clear out, now." "How dare you!" Betty's voice was shaking, but she stood up in the wagon and looked down at Mr. Peabody bravely. "How dare you taunt a boy with what he isn't responsible for? It isn't his fault that he was born in the poorhouse, nor his fault that we're late. I made him stop and help put a buggy wheel on. Oh, how can you be so mean, and close and hateful?" Betty's eyes overflowed as she gathered up her bundles and jumped to the ground. Mrs. Peabody, standing in the doorway, was a silent witness to her outburst, and the two hired men, who had come up to the house for dinner, were watching curiously. Bob had disappeared with the bucket of whitewash. No one would say anything, thought Betty despairingly, if a murder were committed in this awful place. "Been spending your money?" sneered Mr. Peabody, eyeing the bundles with disfavor. "Never earned a cent in your life, I'll be bound, yet you'll fling what isn't yours right and left. Let me give you a word of advice, young lady; as long as you're in my house you hold your tongue if you don't want to find yourself in your room on a diet of bread and water. Understand?" Betty Gordon fled upstairs, her one thought to reach the haven of her bed. Anger and humiliation and a sense of having lowered herself to the Peabody level by quarreling when in a bad temper swept over her in a wave. She buried her head in the hard little pillow. CHAPTER XI A KEEN DISAPPOINTMENT "I'M just as bad as he is, every bit," sobbed poor little Betty. "Uncle Dick would say so. I'm in his house, much as I hate it, and I hadn't any right to call him names--only he is so hateful! Oh, dear, I wonder if I shall ever get away from here!" She cried herself into a headache, and had no heart to open the parcel of groceries or to go down to ask Mrs. Peabody for something to eat, though indeed the girl knew she stood small chance of securing as much as a cracker after the dinner hour. Suddenly some one put a soothing hand on her hot forehead, and, opening her swollen eyes, Betty saw Mrs. Peabody standing beside the bed. "You poor lamb!" said the woman compassionately. "You mustn't go on like this, dear. You'll make yourself sick. I'm going to close the blinds and shut out the sun; then I'll get a cold cloth for your head. You'd feel better if you had something to eat, though. You mustn't go without your meals, child." "I've got some crackers and bouillon cubes," replied Betty wearily. "I suppose Mr. Peabody wouldn't mind if I used a little hot water from the tea kettle?" She bit her tongue with vexation at the sarcasm, but Mrs. Peabody apparently saw no implication. "The kitchen fire's gone out, but the kettle's still hot," she answered. "I'll step down and get you a cup. I have just ninety cobs to get supper on, or I'd build up a fresh fire for you. Joe counts the cobs; he wants they should last till the first of July." "Oh, how do you stand it?" burst from Betty. "I should think you'd go crazy. Don't you ever want to scream?" Mrs. Peabody stopped in the doorway. "I used to care," she admitted apathetically. "Not any more. You can get used to anything. Besides, it's no use, Betty; you'll find that out. Flinging yourself against a stone wall only bruises you--the wall doesn't even feel you trying." "Bring up two cups," called Betty, as Mrs. Peabody started down stairs. "I'll bet she flung herself against the stone wall till all the spirit and life was crushed out of her," mused the girl, lying flat on her back, her eyes fixed on the fly-specked ceiling. "Poor soul, it must be awful to have to give up even trying." Mrs. Peabody came back with two cracked china cups and saucers, and a tea kettle half full of passably hot water. Betty forgot her throbbing head as she bustled about, spreading white paper napkins on the bed--there was no table and only one chair in the room--and arranging her crackers and a package of saltines which she deftly spread with potted ham. "We'll have a make-believe party," she declared tactfully, dropping a couple of soup cubes in each cup and adding the hot water. "I'm sure you're hungry; you jump up so much at the table, you don't half eat your meals." Mrs. Peabody raised her eyes--faded eyes but still honest. "I've no more pride left," she said quietly. "Goodness!" exclaimed Betty, "I bought you something this morning, and haven't given it to you." Mrs. Peabody was as pleased as a child with the pretty bottle of toilet water, and Betty extracted a promise from her that she would use it for her headaches, and not "save" it. "If I was going to stay," thought Betty, stowing her packages of goodies under the bed as the most convenient place presenting itself, "I might be able to make things a little pleasanter for Mrs. Peabody. I do wonder when Uncle Dick will write." She had allowed four days as the shortest time in which her uncle could possibly get an answer to her, so she was agreeably delighted when, on going out to the mailbox at the head of the lane the third morning, she found a letter addressed to her and postmarked "Philadelphia." There was no other mail in the box. The Peabodys did not even subscribe for a weekly paper. "Bob!" shouted Betty, hurdling a fence and bearing down upon that youth as he hoed corn in a near by field. "Bob, here's a letter from Uncle Dick! He's answered so soon, I'm sure he says I can come to him. Won't that be great?" Bob nodded grimly and went on with his work while Betty eagerly tore open her envelope. After she had read the first few lines the brightness went out of her face, and when she looked up at Bob she was crying. "What's the matter, is he sick?" asked the boy in alarm. "He hasn't had my letter at all!" wept Betty. "He never got it! This was written the same day I wrote him, and he says he's going out to the oil wells and won't be in touch with civilization for some weeks to come. His lawyer in Philadelphia is to hold his mail, and send the checks for my board. And he thinks I'm having a good time with his old friend Agatha and encloses a check for ten dollars for me to spend. Oh, Bob!" and the unhappy Betty flung her arms around the neck of the astonished Bob and cried as though her heart would break. "There, there!" Bob patted her awkwardly, in his excitement hitting her with the hoe handle, but neither of them knew that. "There, Betty, maybe things won't be as bad as you think. You can go to Glenside and get books from the library--they've got a right nice little library. It would be nice if you had a bicycle or something to go on, but you haven't." "Uncle's sending me a riding habit," said Betty, wiping her eyes. "And a whole bundle of books and a parcel of magazines. He says he never yet saw a farm with enough reading material on the parlor table. I will be glad to have something to read." "Sure. And Sundays I can borrow a magazine," and Bob's eyes shone with anticipated enjoyment. "Sunday's the one day I have any time to myself and there's never much to do." Betty slipped the letter into her blouse pocket. She was bitterly disappointed to think that she must stay at Bramble Farm, and she did not relish the idea of having to confess to the Peabodys that her plans for leaving them had been rather premature. "I say," Bob looked up from his hoeing, the shrewd light in his eyes that made him appear older than his thirteen years. "I say, Betty, if you're wise, you won't say anything about this letter up at the house. Old Peabody doesn't know you've written to your uncle, and he'll think you changed your mind. I half believe he thinks you were only speaking in a fit of temper, anyway. If you tell him you can't reach your uncle by letter, and have to stay here for the next few weeks whether you will or no, he'll think he has you right where he wants you. He can't help taking advantage of every one." "Doesn't any one ever come to call?" Betty asked a day or two later, following Bob out to the pasture to help him salt the sheep. It was a Sunday morning, and even Mr. Peabody so far respected the Sabbath that he exacted only half as much as usual from his help. The milking, of course, had to be done, and the stock fed, but that accomplished, after breakfast, Wapley and Lieson, the hired men, had set off to walk to Glenside to spend their week's wages as they saw fit. They had long ago, after wordy battles, learned the futility of trying to borrow a horse from Mr. Peabody. Bob had finished his usual chores, and after salting the sheep would be practically free for the day. He and Betty had planned to take their books out into the orchard and enjoy the peaceful sunniness of the lovely June weather. "Come to call?" repeated Bob, letting down the bars of the rocky pasture. "What would they come to call for? No one would be civil to 'em, and Mrs. Peabody runs when she sees any one coming. She hasn't got a decent dress; so I don't blame her much. Here, you sit down and I'll call them." Betty sat down on a flat rock and Bob spread out his salt on another. The sheep knew his voice and came slowly toward him. "Come on now, Betty, and let's have a whack at that magazine, the one about out West," said Bob at last. The promised package of books and magazines had arrived, and Betty had generously placed them at the disposal of the household. Wapley and Lieson had displayed a pathetic eagerness for "pictures," and sat up after supper as long as the light lasted, turning over the illustrated pages. Betty doubted if they could read. CHAPTER XII BETTY DEFENDS HERSELF APPARENTLY Mr. Peabody had never taken Betty's threat to ask her uncle to take her away seriously, and her presence at the farm soon came to be an accepted fact. Conditions did not improve, but Betty developed a sturdy, wholesome philosophy that helped her to make the best of everything. Uncle Dick wrote seldom, but packages from Philadelphia continued to come at intervals, and always proved to be practical and needful. "Though as to that, he couldn't have the lawyer send me anything that wouldn't be useful," said Betty to herself. "I never saw a place where there was so much _nothing_ as here at Bramble Farm." One morning when the pouring rain kept her indoors, Betty was exploring the little used parlor. Mrs. Peabody seldom entered the room save to clean it and close it up, and Betty opened a corner of the blind with something like trepidation. A large shotgun over the mantel attracted her attention at once. "Don't touch that thing--it's always kept loaded," said the voice of Lieson at the door. Betty shivered and drew away from the shelf. Lieson showed his tobacco-stained teeth in a friendly grin. "I was up attic getting my rubber boots," he explained, "and I saw the mail wagon stop at the box. Do you want I should go down and get the mail?" "Oh, would you?" Betty's tone was eager. "Perhaps there is a letter from my uncle. That would be so kind of you, Mr. Lieson, because otherwise I may have to wait till it stops raining." "I'll go," said Lieson awkwardly, and he went stumping down the hall. Wapley and Lieson were rough and untidy, but Betty found herself liking them better and feeling sorry for them as time went on. They worked hard and were never thanked and had very little pleasure after their day's work was over. Several times now they had done little kindnesses for Betty, and she had tried to show that she appreciated their efforts. Lieson came back from the mail box carrying a square package, but no letter. Though Mr. Peabody was presumably waiting in the barn for him and fuming at his delay, the man showed such a naive interest in the parcel that Betty could not resist asking him to wait while she opened it. "Why, it's a camera!" she exclaimed delightedly, as she took out the square box. "I'll take your picture, Mr. Lieson, as soon as the sun comes out, to pay you for walking through all this rain to get the mail for me." "Say, would you?" Lieson showed more animation than Betty had ever noticed in him. "Honest? I got a lady friend, and she's always at me to send her my picture. She sure would admire to have one of me." "All right, she hasn't long to wait," promised Betty gaily. "Here are two rolls of film, and luckily I know how to operate a camera. Mr. Arnold had a good one and he taught me. The first sunny day, remember, Mr. Lieson." The rain continued all that day, and at night when Betty went up to bed she heard it pattering on the tin roof of the porch which was under her window. Betty had managed to make her room more habitable, and, relieved of any fear of embarrassing her hostess, had tacked netting at the two windows and bought herself a lamp with a good burner. She scrupulously paid Mr. Peabody for the oil she used, and while he showed plainly that he considered burning a light at night in summer a wicked extravagance, he did not interfere. "Now let me see," mused Betty. "Shall I answer Mrs. Arnold's last letter or go to bed? I guess I'll go to bed. I'll have all day to write letters to-morrow." She was brushing her hair when a noise in the next room startled her. She knew that it was not occupied, for, besides herself, the Peabodys were the only ones who slept on the second floor. Bob Henderson and the hired men were housed in the attic. The Peabodys' bedroom was further down the hall, on the other side of the house. "Pshaw!" Betty put her brush back on the table and gave her head a shake. "I mustn't get nervous. We're too far out in the country for burglars; and, besides, what in the world would they come here after?" Mr. Peabody differed from the majority of his neighbors in that he banked most of his funds. Some said it was because, if he had been in the habit of keeping money in the house, his help would have murdered him cheerfully and taken the cash as a reward. Be that as it may, it was well known that Joseph Peabody seldom had actual money in his pocket or in his tin strong box, and now Betty was glad to recall this. She had braided her hair and put out the light and was just slipping into bed when she heard the noise again. This time it sounded against the wall. Betty stealthily crept out of bed and ran to her door. There was no door key, but she shot the bolt. "That's some protection," she murmured, hopping into bed again. "If there are burglars in the house, I suppose I've locked 'em out to scare Mr. and Mrs. Peabody to death. But at any rate they have each other, and I'm all alone." Closing her eyes tight, Betty began to say her prayers, but she fell asleep before she had finished. She woke in the dark to hear a noise directly under her bed! She sat up, her eyes trying to pierce the darkness, wondering why she had not taken the precaution of looking under the bed before she locked herself into a room with a burglar. "If I look now and see his legs, I'll faint away, I know I shall," she thought, her teeth chattering, though the night was warm. "I wish to goodness Uncle Dick had sent me a revolver." That reminded her of the shotgun downstairs. With Betty to think was to act, and she sprang noiselessly out of bed and ran to the door. Thank goodness, the bolt slipped without squeaking. Downstairs ran Betty and lifted the heavy shotgun from its place over the mantel. She was no longer afraid, and her eyes sparkled with excitement. She was having a grand adventure. She had shot a gun a few times under Mr. Arnold's instructions and careful supervision when he was teaching his boys how to handle one, and she thought she knew all about it. She gained her room, breathless, for the gun was heavy. At the threshold she stopped a moment to listen. Yes, there was the noise again. The burglar was unaware of her flight. Unaware herself of the absurdity of her deductions, Betty raised the heavy gun and pointed it toward the bed. As well as she could tell, she was aiming under the bed. She shut her eyes tight and fired. The gun kicked unmercifully, and Betty ejaculated a loud "Ow!" which was lost in the babble of sound that immediately followed the shot. There was the sound of breaking glass under the bed, a shrill scream from Mrs. Peabody, and the thunderous bellow of Mr. Peabody demanding: "What in Sam Hill are those varmints up to now?" Evidently he attributed the racket to Wapley and Lieson, who had been known to come home late from Glenside. In a few minutes they were all gathered at Betty's door, Bob open-mouthed and speechless, the two men sleepily curious, the Peabodys loudly demanding to know what the matter was. "Are you hurt, Betty?" asked Mrs. Peabody anxiously. "Where did you get the gun, dear? Did something frighten you?" "It's a burglar!" declared Betty. "I heard him under the bed! But I got him, I know I did!" "Light the lamp and look under the bed, Bob," commanded Mr. Peabody harshly. "I don't believe this burglar stuff, but the girl's shot off a good charge of buckshot, no doubt of that. Find out what she hit." Bob lit the lamp and stooped down to look. Then his lips twitched. "Rat!" he announced briefly. "A big one." "Haul him out," directed Lieson. "Let's have a look at him." Betty had shrunk inside the doorway when the lamp was lit, conscious of her attire, and now she managed to reach her dressing gown and fling it around her. "He's in too many pieces," said Bob doubtfully. "Guess we'll have to get a dustpan and brush." Mr. Peabody and the two men went grumbling back to bed, Peabody taking the gun for safekeeping, but Mrs. Peabody sent Bob down to the kitchen for the articles he mentioned, declaring that Betty should not have to finish the night in a room with a dead rat. "If there was another bed made up, I'd move you into it," she said. "But I haven't an extra place ready." Betty had pinned up her hair and put on her slippers before Bob came back, and had put her best pink crepe dressing gown around Mrs. Peabody, who presented an incongruous vision so attired. Bob looked at Betty in admiration. With her tumbled dark hair and pink cheeks and blue gown and slippers, the boy thought her the prettiest thing he had ever seen. "I didn't want to tell you--don't look," he whispered, getting down on his knees to sweep out the remains of the slaughtered rat, "but the buckshot hit two olive bottles, and there's some mess here under your bed. I guess the rat was after the crackers." Bob carried down the dead rat and mopped up the brine from the olives and threw out the debris, making several trips downstairs without a murmur. Finally it was all cleaned up, and they could go back to their rooms and finish the remainder of the night in probable peace. "If you hear a noise"--Bob could not resist this parting shot--"run down and grab the dinner bell. We'll hear it just as quick, and you might shoot the potted ham full of bullets next time." Betty did not sleep well, and once she woke, sure that she had heard loud talking and shouts. She thought the noise came from the attic. "Lieson had the nightmare after your shindy," announced Bob at the breakfast table. "He suddenly began shouting and got me by the throat, declaring that if I didn't pay him every cent I owed him he'd kill me. Wapley had to come and pull him away, or I don't know but he would have choked the breath out of me." "I had a bad dream," said Lieson sullenly. The rain was still coming down and all the good-nature of the day before had left Lieson. He refused to answer a remark of Mr. Peabody's, and was evidently in a bad humor. "He and the old man had a run in before breakfast," whispered Bob, pulling on his boots preparatory to carrying out food to the pigs. Betty stood at the window and they could talk without being overheard. "It was something about money. Well, Betty, are you going gunning to-day?" "You needn't tease me," replied Betty, laughing. "I feel foolish enough, without being reminded of last night. I think I'll go upstairs and sew on buttons as a penance. There's nothing I hate to do worse." "Do it well then," suggested the irrepressible Bob, slamming the door just in time to avoid the glass of water Betty tossed after him. CHAPTER XIII FOLLOWING THE PRESCRIPTION THE sound of some one chopping wood caught the alert ear of Bob Henderson as he came whistling through the yard on his way to the tool house. Some peculiar quality in the strokes seemed to suggest something to him, and he turned aside and made for the woodshed. "For the love of Mike! Betty Gordon, what do you call it you're doing now?" he inquired, standing in the frame of the woodshed, at a respectful distance from the energetic figure by the wood block. "Chopping wood!" snapped Betty, hacking a dry rail viciously. "Did you think I was cutting out paper dolls?" "My dear child, that isn't the way to chop wood," insisted Bob paternally. "Here, let me show you. You'll ruin the axe, to say nothing of chopping off your own right ear." Betty brought the axe down on the rail with unnecessary violence. "Let me alone," she said ominously. "I'm mad! This is Uncle Dick's prescription, but I can't see that it works. The more I chop, the madder I get!" Bob grinned, and then as a shout of "You, Bob!" sounded from outside, his expression changed. "Wapley is waiting for nails to fix the fence with," he said hurriedly. "I'll have to hurry. But come on down to the cornfield, can't you, Betty? We can talk there." Bob ran off, and Betty regarded the axe resentfully. "Seems to me he's hoed enough corn to reach round the earth," she said aloud. "I wonder if Bob ever gets mad? Well, I guess I will go down and talk to him, though I did mean to weed the garden for Mrs. Peabody. I can do that this afternoon." In spite of the absence of fresh eggs and milk from her diet, the weeks at Bramble Farm had benefited Betty. She was deeply tanned from days spent in the sun, and while perceptibly thinner, a close observer would have known that she was hardy and strong. She was growing taller, too. "Mr. Peabody is so mean!" she scolded, dropping down under a scrubby wild cherry tree in the field where Bob was already hard at work hoeing corn, having delivered the nails to Wapley. "You know this is the first fair day we've had since those three rainy ones, and I promised Mr. Lieson I'd take his picture. He wants it for his girl. And Mr. Peabody wouldn't let him go upstairs and put on his best clothes. Said it was his time and that foolishness could wait till after supper. You know I can't take a snapshot after supper!" Bob hoed a few minutes in silence. "Try a little diplomacy, Betty," he finally advised. "Sunday is the time to take Lieson in his glad rags. He looks fierce all dressed up, I think; it probably will break off the match if his girl is marrying him for his beauty. But Lieson the way he is now--in that soft shirt and without his hat--isn't half bad. He's got a kind of wistful, gentle face, for all he can jaw so terribly; have you noticed it? Go down in the potato field and take his picture while he's working and tell him you'll take him dressed up Sunday and he can have both pictures. He'll be so pleased, he'll offer to let you hold a pig." Betty made a little face. Lieson had already done just that. Thinking that Betty, who made such a fuss over the baby lambs, would be equally delighted with the little pigs, Lieson had told her to shut her eyes one day and hold out her hands; into them he had dropped a squirming, slippery, squealing baby pig and Bob had always declared he could not tell which made the most noise--Betty when she opened her eyes, or the pig when she dropped him. Lieson had been much disappointed. "I'll go and get the camera now," said Betty, jumping up, all traces of temper vanished. "I'll put in the film that holds a dozen and just go round taking everything. That will be fun!" She went running up the field and Bob's eyes followed her wistfully. "She's a good kid," he said to himself. "Trouble is, she's never been up against it before and she doesn't always know how to take it. It does make her so mad to see old Peabody walk all over every one; but there's no sense in letting her buck against him when you can turn her thoughts in another direction. Gee, I'm sick of this blamed corn!" Bob went up and down the endless rows, and Betty skipped about, "snapping" views of Bramble Farm to her heart's content. Lieson was delighted to learn that he might have two pictures of himself, and though it seemed to him a waste of time to be photographed in his work clothes, still he admitted that even an "ordinary" picture was preferable to none. "My lady friend," he announced proudly, as Betty clicked her bulb, "she like me anyway." Wapley, while without the excuse of a "lady friend," was nevertheless almost childishly pleased to pose for his photograph, and him, too, Betty promised to take again on Sunday. Mrs. Peabody, weeding in the large vegetable garden that was her regular care, alone refused to be taken. "Oh, no!" she shrank down among the cabbages and pulled her hideous sunbonnet further over her eyes when Betty pressed her to reconsider her refusal. "Child, don't ask me. When I look at the picture of me taken in my wedding dress and then see myself in the mirror mornings, I wonder if I'm the same person. I wouldn't have my picture taken for one hundred dollars!" Betty used up one roll of films that morning, but she decided to save the other roll for Sunday, as she was not sure she could get another in Glenside. She determined to take her pictures over that afternoon and have them developed, for she was as eager to see the results as Lieson and Wapley. Bob, too, owned up to a desire to see how he "turned out." "It's a pretty hot day," ventured Mrs. Peabody uncertainly, when Betty, at the dinner table, announced her intention of walking to Glenside that afternoon. "Maybe, dearie, if you wait till after supper, some one will be driving over." "Horses ain't going a step off this farm this week," said Mr. Peabody impressively. "They're working without shoes, as anybody with any interest in the place would know. If some folks haven't any more to do than gad around spending good money, it's none of my affair; but I don't aim to run a stage between here and Glenside for their convenience." Dinner was finished in silence after this speech, and immediately after she had helped Mrs. Peabody with the dishes, Betty went up to her room to change her dress. She did not mind the walk; indeed she had taken it several times before, and knew that one side of the road would be comparatively shady all the way. Betty took an inexplicable whim to put on her prettiest dress, a delicate pink linen with white collars and cuffs that Mrs. Arnold had taught her to embroider herself in French knots. She untied the black velvet ribbon she usually wore on her broad-brimmed hat and substituted a sash of pink mull. "You look too nice!" exclaimed Mrs. Peabody when the girl came downstairs. "Don't you think you should take an umbrella, though? Those big white clouds mean a thunder storm." Betty laughingly declined the umbrella, and, promising Mrs. Peabody "something pretty," started off on her walk. Poor Mrs. Peabody, though Betty was too inexperienced to realize it, was beginning, very slowly it is true, but still beginning, to break under the long strain of hard work and unhappiness. Betty only knew that she was pitifully pleased with the smallest gift from the town stores. "If I don't see a girl of my own age to speak to pretty soon," declared Betty to herself, walking swiftly up the lane, "I don't know what I shall do! Bob is nice, but, goodness! he isn't interested in lots of things I like. Crocheting, for instance. I never was crazy about fancy work, but now I'm kind of hungry for a crochet needle." Half way to Glenside a farmer overtook her, and after the pleasant country fashion offered her a "lift." Betty accepted gladly. He lived, as she discovered after a few minutes' conversation, on the farm next to the Peabodys, and he had heard about her and knew who she was. "When you get time," he said kindly, when she told him she was going to Glenside, "walk through the town and out toward Linden. There's quite a nursery out that way, and you'd like to see the flowers. Folks come from the city to buy their plants there." At the nearest crossroads to Glenside he turned, and Betty got out, thanking him heartily for the ride. It was a matter of only a few moments now to reach Glenside, and she found herself in the town much sooner than she had counted on. So when the drug-store clerk said he would have her pictures developed and printed within an hour if she could wait, Betty determined to wait instead of having them mailed to her. She had a sundae and bought some chocolates for Mrs. Peabody, and then remembered the farmer's remark about the nursery. "How far is it to the nursery they talk about?" she said to the woman clerk who had weighed out the candy. "Baxter's? Oh, not more than three-quarters of a mile," was the answer. "You go right up Main Street an far as the sidewalk goes. When it stops, keep right on, and pretty soon you'll see a big sign of a watering-pot; that's it." Betty followed these directions implicitly, and she had reached the end of the town sidewalk when she heard the distant mutter of thunder. "I guess I can reach the nursery and be looking at the flowers while it storms," she said to herself. Betty had no more fear of thunderstorms than of a tame cat, but she mightily disliked the idea of getting her hat wet. So she hurried conscientiously. The sun went under a heavy cloud, and a violent crash of thunder directly overhead stimulated her into a run. There was not a house in sight, and Betty began to wish she had turned and gone back to the town. At least she could have found shelter in a shop. Splash! A huge drop of rain flattened in the dust of the road. The tall trees on either side began to sway in the slowly rising wind. "I'll bet it will be a big storm, and I'll be soaked!" gasped Betty. "Where is that plaguey nursery!" She began to run, and the drops came faster and faster. Then, without warning, the long line of swaying trees stopped, and a tidy white picket fence began on the side of the road nearest Betty. Back of the pickets was a well-kept green lawn; and set in the center of a circle of glorious elm trees was a comfortable white house with green blinds and a wide porch. A woman and two girls were hastily taking in a swing and a quantity of sofa pillows to protect them from the storm. "Come in, quick!" called the woman, as Betty came in sight. "Hurry, before you're soaked. Just lift the latch and the gate swings in." "Just lift the latch." Betty thought she had never heard a more cordial or welcome invitation. CHAPTER XIV WINNING NEW FRIENDS BETTY opened the gate and ran up the path. The younger girl, who seemed about her own age, put out a friendly hand and touched her sleeve. "Not wet a bit, Mother!" she announced triumphantly. "And I don't believe her hat's spotted, either!" A jagged streak of lightning and another thundering crash sent them all scurrying indoors. The lady led the way into a pleasant room where an open piano, books, and much gay cretonne-covered wicker furniture gave an atmosphere at once homelike and modern. Betty had craved the sight of such a room since leaving Pineville and her friends. "Pull down the shades, Norma; and, Alice, light the lamp," directed the mother of the two girls. The younger girl drew the shades and Alice, who was evidently some years older than her sister, lighted the pretty wicker lamp on the center table. "I'm so glad you reached our house before the storm fairly broke," said their mother, smiling at Betty. "In another second you would have been drenched, and there isn't a house between here and Baxter's nursery." Betty explained that she had been on her way to the nursery, and thinking that her kind hostess should know her guest's name, gave it, and said that she was staying at Bramble Farm. "Oh, yes, we've heard of you," said the lady, in some surprise. "I am Mrs. Guerin, and my husband, Dr. Guerin, learns all the news, you know, on his rounds among his patients. Mrs. Keppler, I believe, was the one who told him there was a girl visiting the Peabodys." Betty wondered rather uncomfortably what had been said about her and whether she was regarded with pity because of the conditions endured by any one who had the misfortune to be a member of the Peabody household. The Kepplers, she knew, were their nearest neighbors. Norma and Alice each took a seat on the arms of their mother's chair, and regarded the guest curiously, but kindly. "Do you like the country?" asked the younger girl, feeling that something in the way of conversation was expected of her. Betty replied in the affirmative, adding that, aside from lonesomeness now and then, she had enjoyed the outdoor life immensely. "But what do you do all day long?" persisted Norma. "The Peabodys are so queer!" "Norma!" reproved her mother and Alice in one breath. "Well they are!" muttered Norma. "Miss Gordon isn't a relation of theirs, is she? So why do I have to be polite?" "I'm only twelve," said Betty, embarrassed by the "Miss Gordon," and puzzled to know how to avoid a discussion of the Peabodys. "No one ever calls me 'Miss.' My Uncle Dick went to school with Mrs. Peabody, and he thought it would be pleasant for me to board with them this summer." "When you get lonesome for girls, come over and see us," suggested Mrs. Guerin cordially. "Come whenever you are in Glenside, anyway. Norma hasn't many friends of her own age in town, and she'll probably talk you deaf, dumb and blind." "I don't get over very often," said Betty, thinking how fortunate Norma was to have such a lovely, tactful mother, "because I usually have to walk. But if your husband is a doctor, couldn't he bring you over to call some afternoon? Doctors are always on the road, I know." A curious expression swept over Mrs. Guerin's face, inexplicable to Betty. She avoided a direct answer to the invitation by sending the girls out to the kitchen for lemonade and cakes and blowing out the lamp and raising the shades herself. The brief thunderstorm was about over, and the sun soon shone brightly. Alice wheeled the tea-wagon out on the porch, and the four spent a merry half hour together. Betty felt that she had made three real friends, and the Guerins, for their part, were agreeably delighted with the young girl who was so alone in the world and who, while they knew she must have a great deal that was unpleasant to contend with, resolutely talked only of her happy times. Betty had just risen to go when a runabout stopped at the curb and a gray-haired man got out and came up the path. "There's father!" cried Norma, jumping up to meet him. "Father, the Rutans telephoned over an hour ago. I couldn't get you anywhere. It was before the storm." "Hal, this is Betty Gordon," said the doctor's wife, drawing Betty forward. "She is the girl staying with the Peabodys. Do you have to go out directly?" "Just want to get a few things, then I'm off," answered the doctor cheerily. "Miss Betty, if you don't mind waiting while I stop in at the drug store, I'm going half of your way and will be glad to give you a lift. The roads will be muddy after this rain." Betty accepted the kind offer thankfully, and Mrs. Guerin and the girls went down to the car with her. They each kissed her good-bye, and Mrs. Guerin's motherly touch as she tucked the linen robe over Betty's knees brought thoughts of another mother to the little pink-frocked figure who waved a farewell as the car coughed its sturdy way up the street. At the drug store the doctor got his medicines and Betty her pictures, which she paid for and slipped into her bag without looking at. She liked Doctor Guerin instinctively, and indeed he was the type of physician whom patients immediately trusted and in whom confidence was never misplaced. "You look like an outdoor girl," he told her as he turned the car toward the open country. "I don't believe you've had to take much in the way of pills and powders, have you?" Betty smiled and admitted that her personal acquaintance with medicine was extremely limited. "Mrs. Peabody has headaches all the time," she said anxiously. "I think she ought to see a doctor. And one day last week she fainted, but she insisted on getting supper." Doctor Guerin bit his lip. "Guess you'll have to be my ally," he said mysteriously. "Mrs. Peabody was a patient of mine, off and on, for several years--ever since I've practiced in Glenside, in fact. But--well, Mr. Peabody forbade my visits finally; said he was paying out too much for drugs. I told him that his wife had a serious trouble that might prostrate her at any time, but he refused to listen. Ordered me off the place one day when Mrs. Guerin was in the car with me, and was so violent he frightened her. That was some time ago." The doctor shook his head reminiscently. "Mrs. Peabody in the house was groaning with pain and Mrs. Guerin was imploring me to back the car before Peabody killed me. He was shouting like a mad man, and it was Bedlam let loose for sure. "I went, because there was nothing else to do, but I managed to get word to the poor soul, through that boy, Bob Henderson, that if she ever had a bad attack and would send me word, day or night, I'd come if I had to bring the constable to lock that miser up out of the way first. I suspect he is a coward as well as a bully, but fighting him wouldn't better his wife's position any; he would only take it out on her." "Yes, I think he would," agreed Betty. "I used to wonder how she stood him. But telling her what I think of him doesn't help her, and now I don't do that any more if I think in time." "Well, you may be able to help her by sending me word if she is taken ill suddenly," said the doctor. "I'm sure it is a comfort to her to have you with her this summer. Now here's the boundary line. Sorry I can not take you all the way in, but it would only mean an unpleasant row." Instead of half way, the doctor had taken her almost to the Peabody lane, and Betty jumped down and thanked him heartily. She was glad to have been saved the long muddy walk. She was turning away when a thought struck her. "How could I reach you if Mrs. Peabody were ill?" she asked. "There's no 'phone at Bramble Farm, you know." "The Kepplers have one," was the reply, Doctor Guerin cranking his car. "They'll be glad to let you use it any time for any message you want to send." Betty found no one in the house when she reached it, the men being still at work in the field and Mrs. Peabody out in the chicken yard. Betty took off her pretty frock and put on a blue and white gingham and her white shoes. She was determined not to allow herself to get what Mrs. Peabody called "slack," and she scrupulously dressed every afternoon, whether she went off the farm or not. The pictures, she discovered when she examined them, were exceptionally good. Lieson, in particular, had proved an excellent subject, and Betty privately decided that he was more attractive in his working clothes than he could ever hope to be in the stiff black and white she knew he would assume for Sunday. She took the prints and went downstairs to await an opportunity to show them. Bob Henderson was in the kitchen, doing something to his hand. Betty experienced a sinking sensation when she saw a blood-stained rag floating in the basin of water on the table. "Bob!" she gasped. "Did you hurt yourself?" Bob glanced up, managing a smile, though he was rather white around the mouth. "I cut my finger," he said jerkily. "The blame thing won't stop bleeding." "I have peroxide upstairs!" Betty flew to get the bottle. It was a nasty cut, but she set her teeth and washed it thoroughly with the antiseptic and warm water before binding it up with the clean, soft handkerchief she had brought back with her. Bob had been clumsily trying to make a bandage with his dark blue bandana handkerchief, all the lad had. "How did you do it?" asked Betty, as she tied a neat knot and tucked the ends in out of sight. "I'll fix you some more cloths to-night; you'll have to wash that cut again in the morning." Bob was putting away the basin and now he went off to get the pails of slop for the pigs. Betty thought he had not heard her question, but when Lieson came in for a drink of water and saw the pictures he unconsciously set her right. Lieson was greatly pleased with his picture, and looked so long at the other prints that Betty feared lest Mr. Peabody should come in and make an accusation of wasted time. "That's a good picture of Bob, too," commented Lieson. "He cut his hand this afternoon on the hoe. The old man come down where he was hoeing corn, and just as he got there Bob cut a stalk; you can't always help it. Peabody flew into a rage and grabbed the hoe. Bob thought he was going to strike him with it and he put up his hand to save his head, and Peabody brought the sharp edge of the hoe down so it nicked his finger. Guess he won't be able to milk to-night." Betty stood in the doorway of the kitchen and stared away into the serene green fields. "It looks so peaceful," she thought wearily. "And yet to live in such a place doesn't seem to have the slightest effect on people's dispositions. I wonder why?" CHAPTER XV NURSE AND PATIENT WHEN the next Sunday came round the shrill song of the locusts began early, foretelling a hot day. The heat and the flies and the general uninviting appearance of the breakfast table irritated Betty more than usual, and only consideration for Mrs. Peabody, who looked wretchedly ill, kept her at the table through the meal. Lieson and Mr. Peabody bickered incessantly, and Wapley, who had taken cold, coughed noisily. "Guess I'll go over and see Doc Guerin an' get him to give me something for this cold," Wapley mumbled, after a particularly violent paroxysm. "Never knew folks had colds in summer, but I got one for sure." "You take some of that horse medicine out on the barn shelf," advised Peabody. "The bottle's half full, and I'll sell it to you for a quarter. The doctor's stuff will cost you all of a dollar, and that horse medicine will warm you up fine. That's all you want, anyway, something to kind of heat up your pipes." Betty hoped fervently that the man would not follow this remarkable prescription, and it was with actual relief that she saw him come downstairs an hour later arrayed in his best clothes ready to walk to town. She had her camera ready and stood patiently in the sun for fifteen minutes till she had taken the promised pictures. Wapley was snapped alone and with Lieson, and then a photograph of Lieson alone, and then it was Bob's turn. That usually amiable youth was inclined to be sulky, but finally yielded to persuasion. Betty was anxious to send a full set of pictures to her uncle, and while Bob's "Sunday best" was exactly the same as his week-day attire, still, as she pointed out, he could wear his pleasantest expression for a "close up." The cause for Bob's crossness was revealed after Lieson and Wapley had started for Glenside. His sore finger was swollen and gave him considerable pain. "Why didn't you go with them and see the doctor?" scolded Betty. "Go now. I think the cut should be opened, Bob." "I'm not going," said Bob flatly. "Where'd I get any money to pay him?" "I have some----" Betty was beginning, but he cut her short with the curt announcement that he was not going to let her do everything for him. "Well, then, go over and let Doctor Guerin examine your finger and offer to work it out for him in some way," urged Betty. "Don't be silly about money, Bob; any doctor does his work first and then asks about his pay. Won't you go?" "No, I won't," retorted Bob ungraciously. "I'm too dog-gone tired to walk that far, anyway. Let's take books out to the orchard, and if you have any crackers or anything, we won't come back for dinner. I hate that hot kitchen!" This was very unlike Bob, and Betty noticed that his face was flushed and his eyes heavy. She was sure he had fever, but she knew it was useless to argue with him. So, like the sensible girl she was, she tried to make him comfortable without further consulting him. She had a new parcel of magazines he had not seen, and without asking Mrs. Peabody, she took a square rug from the parlor for him to lie on and the pillow from her bed. Mrs. Peabody she knew would not object to the rug being used, but Mr. Peabody was shaving in the kitchen, and if he heard the request would instantly deny it. On her last trip to the town Betty had bought a dozen lemons and a package of soda fountain straws, and when Bob complained of thirst, she surprised him with a lemonade. Fortunately the water from the spring in one of the meadows was icy cold. Bob's "Gee, that's good!" more than repaid her for her trouble and the heat headache that throbbed in her temples from her hurried journeys down to the spring. There was a faint breeze stirring fitfully in the orchard, and it was shady. Betty read aloud to Bob until he fell asleep. After he was unconscious, she looked at him pityingly, noting the sore finger held stiffly away from its fellows and the pathetic droop of the boyish mouth. "His mother would be so sorry!" she thought, folding up a paper to serve as a fan and beginning to fan him gently. "I wonder how he happened to be born in the poorhouse. He has nice hands and feet, well-proportioned, that is, and mother always said that was a mark of good breeding. Besides, I know from the way he speaks and acts that he is different from these hired men." Betty continued to fan till she saw Mrs. Peabody come out of the kitchen and go to the woodshed. Then she ran in to tell her that Bob would probably sleep through dinner and that would be one less for the noon meal. Sunday dinner was never an elaborate affair in the Peabody household, and Betty insisted on helping Mrs. Peabody to-day, since she could not induce her to go away from the kitchen and lie down. The men had said they were going to stay in town till milking time, and only Mr. and Mrs. Peabody and Betty sat down to the sorry repast at one o'clock. There was little conversation, and Mr. Peabody was the only one who made a pretense of eating what was served. "Now you go upstairs, and let me do the dishes," said Betty to Mrs. Peabody, as her husband put on his hat and went out at the conclusion of the meal. "If you'll undress and go to bed, I'll get supper and feed the chickens. You look so fagged out." "It's the heat," sighed Mrs. Peabody. "Land, child, I've crawled through a sight of summers, and won't give out awhile yet, I guess. You're the one to watch out. Keep in out of the sun, and don't run your feet off waiting on Bob. I'll show you something, though, if you won't let on." She beckoned Betty to one corner of the kitchen where a fly-specked calendar hung. "Look here," said Mrs. Peabody. "Nobody knows what these pencil marks mean but me--I made 'em. Now's the second week in July--there's seventeen days of July left. Thirty-one days in August. And most generally you can count on the first week of September being hot--that makes fifty-five days. Three meals a day to get, or one hundred and sixty-five meals in all." "Then what?" asked the hypnotized Betty. "Oh, then it begins to get a little cooler," said Mrs. Peabody listlessly. "I've counted this way for three summers now. Somehow it makes the summer go faster if you can see the days marked off and know so many meals are behind you." Inexperienced as Betty was, it seemed infinitely pathetic to her that any one should long for the summer days to be over, and she realized dimly that the loneliness and dullness of her hostess' daily life must be beginning to prey on her mind. She helped dry the dishes, went upstairs with Mrs. Peabody and bathed her forehead with cologne and closed the shutters of her room for her. Then, hoping she might sleep for a few hours as she resolutely refused to give up for the rest of the day, Betty hurried to put on her thinnest white frock and went back to the orchard. She found her patient awake and decidedly feeling aggrieved. "I've been awake for ages," he greeted her. "Gee, isn't it hot! You look kind of pippin' too. Do you know, I've been thinking about that riding habit of yours, Betty. What are you going to do with it?" "Keep it till I go somewhere else where there'll be a chance to learn to ride," answered Betty. "Why?" "Oh, I was just thinking," and Bob turned over on his back to stare up through the branches. "You'll get away from here sooner than I shall, Betty. But, believe me, the first chance I get I'm going to streak out. Peabody's got no claim on me, and I've worked out all the food and clothes he's ever given me. The county won't care--they've got more kids to look after now than they can manage, and one missing won't create any uproar. I'd like to try to walk from here to the West. They say my mother had people out there somewhere." "Tell me about her," urged Betty impulsively. "Do you remember her, Bob?" "She died the night I was born," said Bob quietly. "My father was killed in a railroad wreck they figured out. You see my mother was a little out of her head with grief and shock when they found her walking along the road, singing to herself. All she had was the clothes on her back and a little black tin box with her marriage certificate in it and some papers that no one rightly could understand. They sent her to the alms-house, and a month later I was born. The old woman who nursed her said her mind was perfectly clear the few hours she lived after that, and she said that 'David,' my father, had been bringing her East to a hospital when their train was wrecked. She couldn't remember the date nor tell how long before it had happened, and after she died no one was interested enough to trace things up. I was brought up in the baby ward and went to school along with the others. Many is the boy I've punched for calling me 'Pauper!' And then, when I was ten, Peabody came over and said he wanted a boy to help him on his farm; I could go to school in the winters, and he'd see that I had clothes and everything I needed. I've never been to school a day since, and about all I needed, according to him, was lickings. But if I ever get away from here I mean to find out a few things for myself." Bob paused for breath. His fever made him talkative, and Betty had never known him so communicative. "Where is the tin box?" she asked with interest. "Buried, in the garden. I had sense enough to do that the first night I came to Bramble Farm, and I've never dared dig it up since. Afraid old Peabody might catch me. It's safer to leave it alone." Presently Bob went off to sleep again and Betty mused silently till he woke, hungry, and then she gave him bouillon cubes dissolved in hot water, for Mrs. Peabody was getting supper and Bob refused to go to the table. The men came back and did the milking, grumbling a little, but on the whole willing to save Bob's finger. They had a rough fondness for the lad. When the heavy dew began to fall Betty had to appeal to Leison to make Bob go into the house. He declared fretfully that the attic was hot, and Betty knew it was like an oven, but it was out of the question for him to lie in the damp grass. She dressed his finger freshly for him, Mrs. Peabody looking on, but offering not a word, either of pity or curiosity. Betty wondered if she had grown into the habit of keeping still till now it was impossible for her to voice an emotion. Bob's finger dressed, Lieson bore him upstairs despite his protests, and before the others went up to their rooms, Betty had the satisfaction of hearing that Bob had already gone to sleep. Betty herself was extremely tired, for she had worked hard all day, waiting on Bob and trying to save Mrs. Peabody in many ways. She brushed out her thick hair and slipped into her nightgown, thankful for the prospect of rest even the hardest of beds offered her. She was asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. She had been asleep only a few minutes, or so it seemed, when something woke her. She sat up in bed, startled. Had some one groaned? CHAPTER XVI A MIDNIGHT CALL BETTY'S first thought was of Bob. Was he really sick? Then she remembered that the boy slept in the attic and that she probably could not have heard him if he had made the noise that woke her. Then the sound began again, deep guttural groans that sent a shudder through the girl listening in the dark, and Betty knew that Mrs. Peabody must be ill. She lit her lamp and looked at her watch. Half-past one! She had been asleep several hours. Slipping on her dressing gown and slippers, Betty opened her door, intending to go down the hall to the Peabodys' room and see what she could do. To her relief, she saw Mr. Peabody, fully dressed except for his shoes, which he carried in his hand, coming shuffling down the hall. "You're going for the doctor?" said Betty eagerly. "Is Mrs. Peabody very ill? Shall I go down and heat some water?" "I don't know how sick she is," answered the man sourly. "But I do know I ain't going for that miserable, no-account doctor I ordered off this farm once. If you're going to die, you're going to die, is the way I look at it, and all the groaning in the world ain't going to help you. And a doctor to kill you off quicker ain't necessary, either. I'm going out to the barn to get a little sleep. Here I've got a heavy day's work on to-morrow, and she's been carrying on like this for the better part of an hour." Betty stared at Mr. Peabody in horror. Something very like loathing, and an amazement not unmixed with terror, seized her. It was inconceivable that any one should talk as he did. "She must have a doctor!" she flung at him. "Send Bob--or one of the men, Bob's half sick himself. If you won't call them, I will. I won't stay here and let any one suffer like that. Listen! Oh, listen!" Betty put her hands over her ears, as a shrill scream of pain came from Mrs. Peabody's room. "Send the men on a wild goose chase at this time of night?" snarled Mr. Peabody. "Not if I know it. Morning will do just as well if she's really sick. You will, will you?" He lunged heavily before Betty, divining her intention to reach the stairway that led to the attic. A heavy door stood open for the freer circulation of air, and this Peabody slammed and locked, dropping the key triumphantly in his pocket. "You take my advice and go back to bed," he said. "One woman raising Cain at a time's enough. Go to bed and keep still before I make you." Betty scarcely heard the implied threat. She heard little but the heart-breaking groans that seemed to fill the whole house. Her mind was made up. "I'm going myself!" she blazed, wrapping her gown about her. "Don't you dare stop me! You've killed your wife, but at least the neighbors are going to know about it. I'm going to telephone to Doctor Guerin!" With a quick breath Betty blew out the lamp, which bewildered Peabody for a moment. She dashed past him as he fumbled and mumbled in the dark and slid down the banisters and jerked open the front door, which luckily for her was seldom locked at night. She ran down the steps, across the yard and into the field, her heart pounding like a trip hammer. On and on she ran, not daring to stop to look behind her. When she heard steps gaining on her, her feet dragged with despair, but her spirit flogged her on. "I won't give up, I won't give up!" she was crying aloud through clenched teeth when the voice of Bob Henderson calling, "Betty! Betty! it's all right!" sounded close to her shoulder. "You dear, darling Bob!" Betty turned radiantly to face the boy. "How did you get out? Hurry! We must hurry! Mrs. Peabody is so sick!" "Easy there!" Bob caught her elbow as she stumbled over a bit of rough ground. "The noise woke me up, and when we heard you and Peabody, Lieson lowered me out of the window by the bedsheet. We weren't sure what he'd do to you. Say, Betty, you'd better let me go in and telephone unless you're afraid to go back. If the Kepplers see you like that, they'll know there's been a row, and they'll insist on your staying with them." "Oh, I have to go back," said Betty in a panic. "Mrs. Peabody needs me. And I'm not afraid, if Doctor Guerin comes. I'll wait under this tree for you, Bob. Only please hurry." And the boy hurried off. "Doctor'll be right out," reported Bob, coming back after what seemed a long wait but was in reality a scant ten minutes. "I had a great time waking the Kepplers up and a worse time getting hold of Central. And of course Mrs. Keppler wanted all the details--just like a woman. But doc answered right away after I gave his number and said he'd be here in twenty minutes. He sure can run his car when he has a clear road at night." "Bob," whispered Betty, beginning to tremble, "I--I guess maybe I am afraid to go back to the house. Let's sit on the bank at the head of the lane and wait for Doctor Guerin. He'll take us in the car. Mr. Peabody won't dare do anything with a third person around." "Sure we will," agreed Bob. "It's fine and cool out here, isn't it? Wonder why it can't be like this in the daytime." They walked back to the lane, cross-lots, and sat down under a thorn-apple tree. Betty tucked her gown cosily around her feet and sat close to Bob, prepared to watch the stars and await quietly the doctor's coming. Then, to her astonishment as much as to Bob's consternation, she began to cry. She could not stop crying. And after she had cried a few minutes she began to laugh. She laughed and sobbed and could not stop herself, and in short, for the first time in her life, Betty had a case of hysterics. It was all very foolish, of course, and when Doctor Guerin found them there in the road at half-past two in the morning, he scolded them both soundly. "I gave you credit for more sense, Bob," said the doctor curtly, as he helped Betty into the machine. "You should have left Betty with Mrs. Keppler over night, or at least taken her straight home. If she hasn't a heavy cold to pay for this it won't be your fault. I never heard of anything quite so senseless!" "I wasn't going to stay with the Kepplers!" retorted Betty with vigor. "I don't know them at all, and I hadn't anything to wear down to breakfast! 'Sides there is Mrs. Peabody dreadfully sick with no one to help her and Bob has a festered finger. He had a high temperature this afternoon." "I'll look at the finger," promised Doctor Guerin grimly. "Don't let me have to hunt for you, either, young man; no hiding out of sight when you're wanted. And, Betty, you go to bed. I'll get Mrs. Peabody comfortable and give her something so that she'll sleep till I can send some one out from town. You can't nurse her and run the house, you know. Your Uncle Dick would come up and shoot us all. Go to bed immediately, and you'll be ready to help us in the morning." They had reached the house and Betty followed the doctor's orders. Every one obeyed Doctor Guerin. Even Mr. Peabody, summoned from the barn, though he was surly and far from pleasant, brought hot water and a teaspoon and a tumbler at his bidding. Mrs. Peabody had had these attacks before, and when she had taken the medicine was soon relieved. Doctor Guerin stayed with her till she fell asleep and then went down to the kitchen, taking the unwilling Bob with him. The cut finger was lanced and dressed and strict instructions issued that in two days Bob was to present himself at the doctor's office to have the dressing changed. "And you needn't assume that obstinate look," said the doctor, who watched him closely. "If you're so afraid you won't be able to pay me, we'll drive a bargain. You recollect that odd little wooden charm you made for Norma last summer? Well, the girls at boarding school have 'gone crazy,' to quote my daughter, over the trinket, and one of them offered her a dollar for it. Carve me a couple more, when you have time, and that will make us square. The girls were wondering the other day if you could do more." "I'll make six----" Bob was beginning radiantly, when the doctor stopped him. "You will not," he said positively. "One dollar is your price, and two of them will fully meet your obligations to me. If you can be dog-gone businesslike, so can I." Doctor Guerin drove over again in the morning, bringing a tall raw-boned red-haired Irish-woman who looked as though she were able to protect herself from any insult or injury, real or fancied. Wapley and Lieson were pitiably in awe of her, and Mr. Peabody simply shriveled before her belligerent eye. She was to stay, said the doctor, for a week at least and as much longer as Mrs. Peabody needed her. "Did you see her spreading the butter on her bread?" demanded Bob in a whisper, meeting Betty on the kitchen doorstep after the first dinner Mrs. O'Hara had prepared. "Did you see Mr. Peabody?" returned Betty, in a twitter of delight. "I was afraid to look at him, or I should have laughed. She tells me to 'run off, child, and play; young things should be outdoors all day,' and she does a barrel of work. Mrs. Peabody declares she is living like a queen, with her meals served up to her. Poor soul, she doesn't know what it means to have some one wait on her." Bob dared not stay away from Doctor Guerin's office; and indeed, after receiving the order for the wooden charms, he was willing to go. It was understood that he was to begin his carving as soon as the finger had healed, and Betty was interested in the little trinket he brought back with him to serve as a guide. "Did you really make that, Bob?" she cried in surprise. "Why, it's beautiful--such an odd shape and so beautifully stained. You must be ever so clever with your fingers. I believe, if you had some paints, you could paint designs and perhaps sell a lot of them to a city shop. Girls would just love to have them to wear on chains and cords." Bob was immediately fired with ambition to make some money, and indeed he could evolve marvelous and quaint little charms with no more elaborate tools than an old knife and a bit of sandpaper. He had an instinctive knowledge of the different grains, and the wood he picked up in the woodshed, carefully selecting smooth satiny bits. So all unknown to the Peabodys, Bob in his leisure time began to carve curious treasures, and with his carving to dream boyish dreams that lifted him out of the dreary present and carried him far away from Bramble Farm to big cities and open prairies, to freedom and opportunity. And Betty, who sometimes read aloud to him as he carved and sometimes sewed, sitting beside him, began to dream dreams too. Always of a home somewhere with Uncle Dick, a real home in which there should be a fireplace and an extra chair for Bob. For your girl dreamer always plans for her friends and for their happiness, and she seldom dreams for herself alone. So July with its heat and thunderstorms ran into August. CHAPTER XVII AN OMINOUS QUARREL MRS. O'HARA went back to Glenside at the end of ten days, leaving Mrs. Peabody well enough to be about, though the doctor had cautioned her repeatedly not to overdo. Doctor Guerin came for Mrs. O'Hara in his car, and it was to be his last visit unless he was sent for again. Bob's finger had healed, and he was hard at work at his carving in spare moments. "Norma hopes you will come over to see her soon," said Doctor Guerin to Betty, as he was leaving. "She and Alice have their heads full of boarding school. By the way, Betty, what do you intend to do about school?" "Well, I keep hoping Uncle Dick will write. It's been three weeks since I've had any kind of letter," answered Betty. She had long ago told the doctor about her uncle and the reasons that led to her coming to Bramble Farm. "When he wrote he was in a town where there were only six houses and no hotel. He must come East soon, and then he will receive my letters and send for me. I'm sure I could go to school and keep house for him, too." The car with the doctor and his convincing personality and Mrs. O'Hara and her quick tongue and heavy hand were hardly out of sight, before Mr. Peabody assumed command of his household. He had been chafing under the rule of that "red-haired female," as he designated the capable Irish-woman, and now he was bound to make the most of his restored power. "Gee, he sure is a driver," whispered the perspiring Bob, as Betty came down to the field where the boy was cultivating corn. Betty had brought a pail of water and a dipper, and Bob drank gratefully. "No, don't give the horse any," he interposed, as Betty seemed about to hold the pail out to the sorrel who looked around with patient, pleading eyes. "He'll have to wait till noon. 'Tisn't good to water a horse when he's working, anyway. Put the pail under that tree and it'll keep cool. Lieson and Wapley go over to the spring when they're thirsty, but Peabody said he'd whale me if he caught me leaving the cultivator." "The mean old thing!" Betty could hardly find a word to express her indignation. "Oh, it's all in the day's work," returned Bob philosophically. "What are you doing?" "Hanging out clothes for Mrs. Peabody. She's getting another basketful ready now. She would wash, and that's as much as she'll let me do to help her, though of course when she irons I can be useful. I don't think she ought to get up and go to washing, but you can't stop her." "Having a woman come to wash about killed the old man," chuckled Bob, starting the horse as he saw Mr. Peabody climbing stiffly over the fence. "Thanks for the water, Betty." Betty had no wish to meet her host, for whom another check had come that morning from her uncle's lawyer. Betty herself was out of money, Uncle Dick having sent no letter for three weeks and apparently having made no provision to bridge the gap. She hung out clothes till dinner time, and then helped put the boiled dinner on the table in the hot, steamy kitchen. Wapley and Lieson ate in silence, and Bob found a chance to whisper to Betty that he thought there was "something doing" between them and their employer. Whatever this something was, there were no further developments till after supper. Peabody got up from the table and lurched out to the kitchen porch to sit on the top step, as was his invariable custom. He was too mean, his men said, to smoke a pipe, though he did chew tobacco. Bob had already taken the milk pails and gone to the barn. As Mrs. Peabody and Betty finished the dishes, Wapley and Lieson came downstairs, dressed in their good clothes, and went out on the porch where Mr. Peabody sat silently. "Can you let me have a couple of dollars to-night?" asked Lieson civilly. "Jim and me's going over to town for a few hours." "You'll get no money from me," was the surly answer. "Fooling away your time and money Saturday night ought to be enough, without using the middle of the week for such extravagance. Anyway, you know well enough I never pay out in advance." There was an angry murmur from Wapley. "Who's asking you for money in advance?" he snarled. "Lieson and me's both got money coming to us, and you know it. You pay us right up to the jot to-night or we quit!" Peabody was quite unmoved. He stood up, leaning against a porch post, his hands in his pockets. "You can quit, and good riddance to you," he drawled. "But you won't get a cent out of me. You overdrew, both of you, last Saturday, and there's nothing coming to you till a week from this Saturday." The men were a little confused, neither accustomed to reckoning without the aid of pencil and paper, but Wapley held doggedly to his argument. "We quit anyway," he announced with more dignity than Betty thought he possessed. She and Mrs. Peabody were listening nervously at the window, both afraid of what the quarrel might lead to. "You go pack our suitcases, Lieson, and I will figure up what he owes us. Never again do we work for a man who cheats." Peabody leaned up against his post and chewed tobacco reflectively, while Wapley, tongue in cheek, struggled with a stub of pencil and a bit of brown wrapping paper. "There's twenty-five dollars coming to us," he announced. "Twelve and a half apiece. Pay us, and we go." "I don't know about the going, but I know there won't be any paying done," sneered Peabody, just as Lieson with the two heavy suitcases staggered through the door and Bob with his two foaming pails of milk came up the steps. Bob put down the milk pails to listen, and Wapley took a step toward Mr. Peabody, his face working convulsively. "You cheater!" he gasped. "You miserable sneak! You've held back money all season, just to keep us working through harvest. If I had a gun I'd shoot you!" The man was in a terrible rage, and Betty wondered how Mr. Peabody could face him so calmly. Suddenly she saw something glitter in his hand. "I've got my pistol right here," he said, raising his hand to wave the blunt-nosed revolver toward Wapley. "I'll give you two just three minutes to get off this place. Go on--I said go!" Wapley whirled about and saw the milk pails. He seized one in either hand, raised them high above his head and dashed the contents furiously over Bob, Mr. Peabody, the steps and the porch impartially, sprinkling himself and Lieson liberally, too. "I never knew how much milk those cows gave," Bob said later. "Seems like there must have been a regular ocean let loose." Mr. Peabody was furious and very likely would have fired, but Bob put out his foot and tripped him, though he managed to pass the matter off as an accident. Wapley and Lieson trudged slowly up the lane, carrying the heavy cheap leather suitcases. Betty watched them as far as she could see them, feeling inexpressibly sorry for the two who had worked through the long hot summer and were now leaving an unpleasant place with what she feared was only a too well-founded grievance. "Some of you women," Peabody included Betty in the magnificent gesture, "get to work out there and clean up the milk. There's several pounds of butter lost, thanks to those no-'count fools. I'm going after my gun." "Gun?" faltered Mrs. Peabody. "Yes, gun," snapped her husband. "I don't suppose it occurs to you those idiots may take it into their heads to come back and burn the barns? Bob and me will sit up all night and try to save the cattle, at least." Bob was furious at the idea of playing lookout all night, and he was in the frame of mind by early morning where he probably would have cheerfully supplied any arson-plotters with the necessary match. But nothing happened, and very cross and sleepy, he and Mr. Peabody came in to breakfast as usual. Betty, too, had not slept well, having wakened and pattered to the window many times to see if the barns were blazing. Indeed, if Lieson and Wapley had deliberately planned to upset the Peabody family, they could not have succeeded better. Bob made up his lost sleep the next night, but his appetite came in for Mr. Peabody's criticism. "You seem to be aiming to eat me out of house and home," he observed at dinner a day or two later. "You don't have to eat everything in sight, you know. There'll be another meal later." Bob blushed violently, not because of the reproof, for he was used to that, but because of the public disgrace. Betty, the cause of his distress, was as uncomfortable as he, and she experienced an un-Christianlike impulse to throw the dish of beans at the head of her host. The following day Bob did not come in to dinner, and Betty, thinking perhaps that he had not heard Mrs. Peabody call, rose from the table with the intention of calling him a second time. "Where are you going?" demanded Mr. Peabody suspiciously. "To call Bob to dinner," said Betty. "I'm afraid he didn't hear Mrs. Peabody. The meat will be all cold." "You sit down, and don't take things on yourself that are none of your concern," commanded Mr. Peabody shortly. "Bob isn't here for dinner, because I told him not to come. He's getting too big to thrash, and the only way to bring him to terms is to cut down his food. Living too high makes him difficult to handle. This morning he flatly disobeyed me, but I guess he'll learn not to do that again. Well, Miss, don't swallow your impudence. Out with it!" CHAPTER XVIII IN THE NAME OF DISCIPLINE BETTY opened her mouth to speak hotly, then closed it again. Argument was useless, and the distressed expression on Mrs. Peabody's face reminded the girl that it takes two to make a quarrel. Dinner was finished in silence, and as soon as he had finished Mr. Peabody strode off to the barn. A plan that had been forming in Betty's mind took concrete form, and as she helped clear the table she did not carry all the food down cellar to the swinging shelf, but made several trips to one of the window sills. Then, after the last dish was wiped and Mrs. Peabody had gone upstairs to lie down, for her strength was markedly slow in returning, Betty slipped out to the cellar window, reached in and got her plate, and, carefully assuring herself that Mr. Peabody was nowhere in sight, flew down the road to where she knew Bob was trimming underbrush. "Gee, but you're a good little pal, Betty," said the boy gratefully, as she came up to him. "I'm about starved to death, that's a fact." "There isn't much there--just bread and potatoes and some corn," said Betty hurriedly. "Eat it quick, Bob. I didn't dare touch the meat, because it would be noticed at supper. Seems to me we have less to eat than ever." "Can't you see it's because Wapley and Lieson are gone?" demanded Bob, his mouth full. "We're lucky to get anything at all to eat. Your cupboard all bare?" "Haven't a single can of anything, nor one box of crackers," Betty announced dolefully. "The worst of it is, I haven't a cent of money. What can be the reason Uncle Dick doesn't write?" "Oh, you'll hear before very long. Jumping around the way he does, he can't write a letter every day," returned Bob absently. He handed back the plate to Betty and picked up his scythe. "Don't let old Peabody catch you with that plate," he warned her. "He's got a fierce grouch on to-day, because the road commissioners notified him to get this trimming done. He's so mean he hates to take any time off the farm to do road work." Betty went happily back to the house, forgetting to be cautious in her satisfaction of getting food to Bob, and at the kitchen door she walked plump into Mr. Peabody. "So that's what you've been up to!" he remarked unpleasantly. "Sneaking food out to that no-'count, lazy boy! I'll teach you to be so free with what isn't yours and to upset my discipline. Set that plate on the table!" Betty obeyed, rather frightened. "Now you come along with me." And, grasping her arm by the elbow, Mr. Peabody marched her upstairs to her own room very much as though she were a rebellious prisoner he had captured. "Sit down in that chair, and don't let me hear a word out of you," said the farmer, pushing her none too gently into the single chair the room contained. From his pocket he drew a handful of nails, and, using the door weight as a hammer, he proceeded deliberately to nail up the window that opened on to the porch roof. "Now there'll be no running away," he commented grimly, when he had finished. "Give kids what's coming to 'em, and they flare up and try to wriggle out of it. You'll stay right here and do a little thinking till I'm ready to tell you different. It's time you learned who's running this house." He went out, and Betty heard him turn a key in the lock as he closed the door. "So he's carried a key all the time!" cried the girl furiously. "I thought there wasn't any for that door! And the idea of speaking to me as he did--the miserable old curmudgeon!" She supposed she would have to stay locked in till it suited Mr. Peabody to release her, and quite likely she would have nothing to eat. If he could punish Bob in that fashion, there was no reason to think he intended to be any more lenient with her. "Even bread and water would be better than nothing at all," said Betty aloud. The sound of wheels attracted her attention, and she peered through the window to see Mr. Peabody in conversation with a stranger who had driven in with a horse and buggy. Mrs. Peabody was stirring, and presently Betty heard her go downstairs, and a few minutes later she came out into the yard ready to feed her chickens. "Don't let the hens out in the morning," ordered Mr. Peabody, meeting her directly under Betty's open window. The girl knelt down to listen, angry and resentful. "Ryerson was just here, and I've sold the whole yard to him. I want to try Wyandottes next. He'll be over about ten in the morning, and it won't hurt to keep them in the henhouses till then." "Oh, Joseph!" Mrs. Peabody's voice was reproachful. "I've just got those hens ready to be good layers this fall. You don't know how I've worked over 'em, and culled the best and sprayed those dirty old houses and kept 'em clean and disinfected. I don't want to try a new breed. I want a little of the money these will earn this winter." "Well, this happens to be my farm and my livestock," replied her husband cruelly. "If I see a chance to improve the strain, I'm going to take it. You just do as I say, and don't let the hens out to-morrow morning." His wife dragged herself out to the chicken yard, her brief insistence having completely collapsed. The girl listening wondered how any woman could give in so easily to such palpable injustice. "I suppose she doesn't care," thought Betty, stumbling on the heart of the matter blindly. "If she did have her own way, that wouldn't change him; he'd still be mean and small and not very honest and she'd have to despise him just as much as ever. Things wouldn't make up to her for the kind of man her husband is." Supper time came and went, and the odor of frying potatoes came up to Betty in delicious whiffs, though she had been known to turn up her little freckled nose when this dish was passed to her. About eight o'clock Mr. Peabody unlocked the door and set inside a plate of very dry bread and a small pitcher of water, locking the door after him. Betty slid the bolt angrily and this gave her some satisfaction. She ate her bread and water and listened for a while at the window, hoping to hear Bob's whistle. But nothing disturbed the velvety silence of the night, and by half-past nine Betty was undressed and in bed, asleep. She woke early, as usual, dressed and unbolted her door, hungry enough to be humble. But no bread and water arrived. The rattle of milk pails and the sounds which indicated that breakfast was in progress ceased after a while and the house seemed unusually quiet. Then, just as Betty decided to try tying the bedclothes into a rope and lowering herself from the window, she heard Bob's familiar whistle. "Hello, Princess Golden Hair!" Bob grinned up at her from the old shelter of the lilac bush. "Let down your hair, and I'll send you up some breakfast." This was an old joke with them, because Betty's hair was dark, and while thick and smooth was not especially long. "I want you to help me get out of here!" hissed Betty furiously. "I won't stay locked in here like a naughty little child. Can't you get me a ladder or _something_, Bob, and not stand there like an idiot?" "Gee, you are hungry," said Bob with commiseration. "Dangle me down a string, Princess, and I'll send you up some bread with butter on it. I helped myself to both. We can talk while you eat." Betty managed to find a strong, long string, and she threw one end down to Bob, who tied the packet to it; then Betty hauled it up and fell upon the food ravenously. "I got you into this pickle," said Bob regretfully. "Old Peabody licked me for good measure last night, or I would have been round at this window trying to talk to you. Awfully sorry, Betty. It must be hot, too, with that other window nailed up." "Do you mean he whipped you?" gasped Betty, horrified. "Why? And what did you do yesterday?" "Oh, yesterday I wouldn't back him up in a lie he tried to tell the road commissioner," said Bob cheerfully. "And last night I sassed him when I heard what he'd done to you. So we had an old-fashioned session in the woodshed. But that's nothing for you to worry over." "Where is he now?" asked Betty fearfully. "Gone over to Kepplers to see about buying more chickens," answered Bob. "Mrs. Peabody has gone to salt the sheep, and I'm supposed to be cleaning harness in the barn." "Get me a ladder--now's my time!" planned Betty swiftly. "I could bob my hair and you might lend me a pair of overalls, Bob. For I simply won't come back here. It's too far to jump to the ground, or I should have tried it. Hurry up, and bring me a ladder." "I'll get a ladder on one condition," announced Bob stubbornly. "You must promise to go to Doctor Guerin's. Not cutting your hair and wandering around the country in boy's clothes. Promise?" Betty shook her head obstinately. "All right, you stay where you are," decreed Bob. "I have to go to Laurel Grove, anyway, and I ought to be hitching up right now." He turned away. "All right, I promise," capitulated Betty, "Hurry with the ladder before Mr. Peabody comes back and catches us." Bob ran to the barn and was back in a few minutes with a long ladder. CHAPTER XIX THE ESCAPE BETTY capered exultantly when she was on the ground. "I packed my things last night," she informed Bob. "If Mr. Peabody isn't too mean, he'll keep the trunk for me and send it when I write him to. Here, I'll help you carry back the ladder." "Take your sweater and hat," advised the practical Bob, pointing to these articles lying on a chair on the porch where Betty had left them the afternoon before. "You don't want to travel too light. I think we'll have a storm before noon." Betty helped carry the ladder back to the barn and put it in place. Then she hung around watching Bob harness up the sorrel to the dilapidated old wagon preparatory to driving to Laurel Grove, a town to the east of Glenside. "I'd kind of like to say good-bye to Mrs. Peabody," ventured Betty, trying to fix a buckle. "Well, you can't. That would get us both in trouble," returned Bob shortly. "There! you've dawdled till here comes the old man. Scoot out the side door and keep close to the hedge. If I overtake you before you get to the crossroads I'll give you a lift. Doc Guerin will know what you ought to do." Her heart quaking, Betty scuttled for the narrow side door and crept down the lane, keeping close to the osage orange hedge that made a thick screen for the fence. Evidently she was not seen, for she reached the main road safely, hearing no hue and cry behind her. "So you haven't started?" Peabody greeted the somewhat flustered Bob, entering the barn and looking, for him, almost amiable. "Well, hitch the horse, and go over to Kepplers. He wants you to help him catch a crate of chickens. The horse can wait and you can come home at twelve and go to Laurel Grove after dinner." Bob would have preferred to start on his errand at once, so that he might be at a safe distance when Betty's absence should be discovered; but he hoped that Peabody might not go near her room till afternoon, and he knew Mrs. Peabody was too thoroughly cowed to try to communicate with Betty, fond as she was of her. "I'll take a chance," thought Bob. "Anyway, the worst he can do to me is to kill me." This not especially cheerful observation had seen Bob through many a tight place in the past, and now he tied the patient horse under a shady tree and went whistling over to the Keppler farm to chase chickens for a hot morning's work. "Oh, Bob!" To his amazement, Mrs. Peabody came running to meet him when he came back at noon to get his dinner. "Oh, Bob!" Poor Bob felt a wobbling sensation in his knees. "Yes?" he asked shakily. "Yes, what is it?" "The most awful thing has happened!" Mrs. Peabody wiped the perspiration from her forehead with her apron. "The most awful thing! I never saw Joseph in such a temper, never! He swore till I thought he'd shrivel up the grass! And before Mr. Ryerson, too!" Bob's face cleared. "Did he try to cheat Ryerson?" he asked eagerly. "That is, er--I mean did he think Ryerson was trying to cheat him?" "Cheat?" repeated Mrs. Peabody, sitting down on an old tree stump to get her breath. "No one said anything about cheating. I don't know exactly how to tell you, Bob. Betty has gone and she's taken all the chickens with her!" Bob opened his eyes and mouth to their widest extent. Chickens! Betty! The words danced through his brain stupidly. "I don't wonder you look like that," said Mrs. Peabody. "I was in a daze myself." "But she couldn't have taken the chickens!" argued Bob, restraining a mad desire to laugh. "How could she? And what would she want with them?" "Well, of course, I don't mean she took them with her," admitted Mrs. Peabody. "But she was mad at Joseph, you know, for locking her in her room, and he says she's just driven the hens off to the woods to spite him." Bob walked out to the poultry yard, followed by Mrs. Peabody. The doors of the henhouses were flung wide open, and there was not a fowl in sight. "When did you find it out?" he asked. "When Mr. Ryerson drove in for the hens," answered Mrs. Peabody. "Joseph went out with him to help him bag 'em, and the minute he opened the door he gave a yell. I was making beds, but I heard him. The way he carried on, Bob, was a perfect scandal. I never heard such talk, never!" "Where is he now?" said Bob briefly. "He's gone over to the woods, hunting for the hens," replied Mrs. Peabody. "He wouldn't stop for dinner, or even to take the horse. He says you're to start for Laurel Grove, soon as you've eaten. He's going to search the woods and then follow the Glenside road, looking for Betty." Bob did not worry over the possibility of Betty being overtaken by the angry farmer. He counted on her getting a lift to Glenside, since the road was well traveled in the morning, and probably she was at this very moment sitting down to lunch with the doctor's family. He was puzzled about the loss of the chickens, and curious to know how the Peabodys had discovered Betty's escape. He and Mrs. Peabody sat down to dinner, and, partly because of her excitement and partly because in her husband's absence she dared to be more generous, Bob made an excellent meal. Over his second piece of pie he ventured to ask when they had found out that Betty was not in her room. "Oh, Joseph thought of her as soon as he missed the chickens," answered Mrs. Peabody. "I never thought she would be spiteful, but I declare it's queer, anyway you look at it. Joseph flew up to her room and unlocked the door, and she wasn't there! Do you suppose she could have jumped from the window and hurt herself?" Bob thought it quite possible. "Well, I don't," said Mrs. Peabody shrewdly. "However, I'm not asking questions, so there's no call for you to get all red. Joseph seemed to think she had jumped out, and he's furious because he didn't nail up both windows, though how he expected Betty to breathe in that case is more than I can see." Bob was relieved to learn that apparently Mr. Peabody did not connect him with Betty's disappearance. He finished his dinner and went out to do the few noon chores. Then he started on the drive to Laurel Grove. "Looks like a storm," he muttered to himself, as he noted the heavy white clouds piling up toward the south. "I wish to goodness, old Peabody would spend a few cents and get an awning for the seat of this wagon. Last time I was caught in a storm I got soaked, and my clothes didn't dry overnight. I'll be hanged if I'm going to get wet this time--I'll drive in somewhere first." Bob's predictions of a storm proved correct, and before he had gone two miles he heard distant thunder. With the first splash of rain Bob hurried the sorrel, keeping his eyes open for a mail-box that would mark the home of some farmer where he might drive into the barn and wait till the shower was over. He came within sight of some prosperous looking red barns before the rain was heavy, and drove into a narrow lane just as the first vivid streak of lightning ripped a jagged rent in the black clouds. "Come right on in," called out the farmer, who had seen him coming and thrown open the double doors. "Looks like it might be a hummer, doesn't it? There's a ring there in the wall where you can tie your horse." "He stands without hitching," grinned Bob. "Only too glad to get the chance. Gee, that wind feels good!" The farmer brought out a couple of boxes and turned them up to serve as seats. "I like to watch a storm," he observed. "The house is all locked up--women-folk gone to an all-day session of the sewing circle--or I'd take you in. We'd get soaked walking that short distance, though. You don't live around here, do you?" "Bramble Farm. I'm a poorhouse rat the Peabodys took to bring up." He had seldom used that phrase since Betty's coming, but it always irritated him to try to explain who he was and where he came from. "I was bound out myself," retorted the farmer quickly. "Knocked around a good bit, but now I own this ninety acres, free and clear. You've got just as good a chance as the boy with too much done for him. Don't you forget that, young man." They were silent for a few moments, watching the play of lightning through the wide doors. "Didn't two men named Wapley and Lieson used to work for Peabody?" asked the farmer abruptly. "I thought so," as Bob nodded. "They were around the other day asking for jobs." "Are you sure?" asked Bob. "I thought they had left the state. Lieson, I know, had folks across the line." "Well, they may have gone now," was the reply. "But I know that two days ago they wanted work. I've a couple of men, all I can use just now, but I sent them on to a neighbor. They looked strong, and good farm help is mighty scarce." Bob waited till the rain had stopped and the clouds were lifting, then drove on, thanking the friendly farmer for his cordiality. "Don't be calling yourself names, but plan what you want to make of yourself," was that individual's parting advice. "If I had a nickel," said Bob to himself, urging the sorrel to a brisk trot, for the time spent in waiting must be made up, "I'd telephone to Betty from Laurel Grove. But pshaw! I know she must be all right." CHAPTER XX STORMBOUND ON THE WAY BOB would not have dismissed his misgivings so contentedly had he been able to see Betty just at that moment. When she shook the dust of Bramble Farm from her feet, which she did literally at the boundary line on the main road, to the great delight of two curious robins and a puzzled chipmunk, she said firmly that it was forever. As she tramped along the road she kept looking back, hoping to hear the rattle of wheels and to see Bob and the sorrel coming after her. But she reached the crossroads without being overtaken. Years ago some thoughtful person had taken the trouble to build a rude little seat around the four sides of the guidepost where the road to Laurel Grove and Glenside crossed, and in a nearby field was a boarded-up spring of ice-cold water, so that travelers, on foot and in motor-cars and wagons, made it a point to rest for a few minutes and refresh themselves there. Betty was a trifle embarrassed to find a group of men loitering about the guide-post when she came up to it. They were all strangers to her, but with the ready friendliness of the country, they nodded respectfully. "Want to sit down a minute, Miss?" asked a gray-haired man civilly, standing up to make room for her. "Didn't expect to see so many idle farmers about on a clear morning, did you?" Betty shook her head, smiling. "I won't sit down, thank you," she said in her clear girlish voice. "I'll just get a drink of water and go on; I want to reach Glenside before noon." "Glenside road's closed," announced one of the younger men, shortly. "Closed!" echoed Betty. "Oh, no! I have to get there, I tell you." Her quick, frightened glance fell on the man who had first spoken to her, and she appealed to him. "The road isn't closed, is it?" she asked breathlessly. "That isn't why you're all here?" "Now, now, there's nothing to worry your head about," answered the gray-haired farmer soothingly. "Jerry, here, is always a bit abrupt with his tongue. As a matter of fact, the road is closed; but if you don't mind a longer walk, you can make a detour and get to Glenside easily enough." Betty gazed at him uncertainly. "You see," he explained, "King Charles, the prize bull at Greenfields, the big dairy farm, got out this morning, and we suppose he is roaming up and down between here and Glenside. He's worth a mint of money, so they don't want to shoot him, and the dairy has offered a good reward for his safe return. He's got a famous temper, and no one would deliberately set out to meet him unarmed; so we're posted here to warn folks. A few automobiles took a chance and went on, but the horses and wagons and foot passengers take the road to Laurel Grove. You turn off to the left at the first road and follow that and it brings you into Glenside at the north end of town. You'll be all right." "A girl shouldn't try to make it alone," objected another one of the group. "You take my advice, Sis, and wait till your father or brother can take you over in the buggy. Suppose you met a camp of Gypsies?" "Oh, I'm not afraid," Betty assured him. "That is, not of people. But I don't know what in the world I should do if I met an angry bull. I'll take the detour, and everything will be all right. I'm used to walking." The men repeated the directions again, to make sure she understood clearly. Then Betty drank a cup of the fresh, cold spring water, and bravely set off on the new road. The gray-haired man came running after her. "If it should storm," he cried, coming up with her, "don't run under a tree. Better stay out in the rain till you reach a house. You'll be safe in any farmhouse." He meant safe as far as the kind of people she would meet were concerned, but Betty, who had never in her life feared any one, thought he referred to protection from the elements. She thanked him, and trudged on. "I certainly am hungry," she said, after a half hour of tramping. "Now I know how Bob feels without a cent in his pocket. I'll have to ask Doctor Guerin for some money. I can't get along without a nickel. Uncle Dick must be awfully busy, or else he's sick. Otherwise he would surely let me hear from him." When she came to an old apple orchard where the trees drooped over a crumbling stone wall, Betty had no scruples about filling the pockets and sleeves of her sweater with the apples that lay on the ground. Bob had told her that portions of trees that grew over the roadside were public property, and she intended to explain to the farmer, if she met him, how she had come to carry off some of his fruit. But she met no one and saw no house, and presently the rumble of distant thunder put all thoughts of apples out of her mind. "My goodness!" She looked at the mountain of white clouds piling up with something like panic. "I haven't even come to the road that turns, and I just know this will be a hard thunderstorm. Mrs. Peabody said last week that the August storms are terrors. I'll run, and perhaps I'll come to a house." Holding her sweater stuffed with apples in her arms, and jamming her hat firmly on her head, Betty flew down the road, bouncing over stones, jumping over, without a shudder, a mashed black-snake flattened out in the road by some passing car, and, in defiance of all speed regulations, refusing to slow up at a sharp turn in the road ahead. She took it at top speed, and as she rounded the curve the first drops of rain splashed her nose. But her flight was rewarded. A long, low, comfortable-looking farmhouse sat back in an overgrown garden on one side of the road. "D. Smith," read Betty on the mail box at the gate. "Well, Mrs. D. Smith, I hope you're at home, and I hope you'll ask me to come in and rest till the storm's over. Shall I knock at the back or the front door?" A vivid flash of lightning sent her scurrying across the road and up the garden path. As she lifted the black iron knocker on the front door a peal of thunder rattled the loose casements of the windows. Betty lifted the knocker and let it fall three times before she decided that either Mrs. D. Smith did not welcome callers at the front of her house, or else she could not hear the knocker from where she was. But a prolonged rat-a-tat-tat on the back door produced no further results. "She may be out getting the poultry in," said Betty to herself, recalling how hard Mrs. Peabody worked every time a storm came up. "Wonder where the poultry yard is?" The rain was driving now, and the thunder irritatingly incessant. Betty walked to the end of the back porch and stood on her tiptoes trying to see the outbuildings. Then, for the first time, she noticed what she would surely have seen in one glance at a less exciting time. There were no outbuildings, only burned and blackened holes in the ground! A few loose bricks marked the site of masonry-work, and a charred beam or two fallen across the gaps showed only too plainly what had been the fate of barns and crib houses. Betty ran impulsively to a window, and, holding up her hands to shut out the light, peered in. Cobwebs, dust and dirt and a few empty tins in the sink were the only furniture of the kitchen. "It's empty!" gasped Betty. "No one lives here! Oh, gracious!" A great fork of lightning shot across the sky, followed at once by a deafening crash of thunder. Far across the field, on the other side of the road, Betty saw a tall oak split and fall. "I'm going in out of this," she decided, "if I have to break a window or a lock!" She leaned her sturdy weight against the wooden door, automatically turning the knob without thought of result. The door swung easily open--there had been nothing to hinder her walking in--and she tumbled in so suddenly that she had difficulty in keeping her feet. Betty closed the door and looked about her. The storm shut out, she immediately felt a sense of security, though a hasty survey of the three rooms on one side of the hall failed to reveal any materials for a fire or a meal, two comforts she was beginning to crave. She took an apple from her sweater pocket, and, munching that, set out to explore the rooms on the other side of the hall. A curious, yet familiar, noise drew her attention to the front room, probably in happier days the parlor of the farmhouse. Peering in through the partly open folding doors, Betty saw seven crates of chickens! "Why--how funny!" She was puzzled. "Where could they have come from? And what are they doing here? Even if they saved them from the fire, they wouldn't be left after all the furniture was moved out." She went up to the crates and examined them more closely. "That black rooster is the living image of Mrs. Peabody's," she thought, "And the White Leghorns look like hers, too. But, then, I suppose all chickens look alike. I never could see how their hen mothers told them apart." Still carrying her sweater with the apples, she wandered upstairs, trying to people the vacant, dusty rooms and wondering what had happened to those who had dwelt here and where they had gone. "I wonder if the fire was at night and whether they were terribly frightened," she mused. "I should say they were mighty lucky to save the house, though perhaps the barns are the most necessary buildings on a farm. Why didn't they build them up again, instead of moving out? I would." She was standing in one of the back rooms, and from the window she could look down and see what had once been the garden. The drenched rosebushes still showed a late blossom or two, and there was a faint outline of orderly paths and a tangle of brilliant color where flowers, self-sown, struggled to force their way through the choking weeds. The drip, drip of the rain sounded dolefully on the tin roof, and a cascade ran off at one corner of the house showing where a leader was broken. Toward the west the clouds were lifting, though the thunder still grumbled angrily. Betty went through the rather narrow hall and entered a pleasant, prettily papered room where a low white rocking chair and a pink sock on the floor spoke mutely of the baby whose kingdom had been bounded by the wide bay window. "They forgot the rocker," said Betty, drawing it up to the window and resting her elbows on the narrow window ledge. "I hope he was a fat, pretty baby," she went on, picking up the sock and holding it in her hand. "Is that some one coming down the road?" It was--two people in fact; and as they drew nearer Betty's eyes almost popped out with astonishment. The pair talking together so earnestly, completely oblivious of the rain, were Lieson and Wapley, the two men who had worked for Mr Peabody! And they were turning in at the path guarded by the mail box inscribed "D. Smith." Betty flew to the door of the room where she sat and drew the bolt. CHAPTER XXI THE CHICKEN THIEVES OVER in one corner of the bay-window room, as Betty had already named it, was a black register in the floor, designed to let the warm air from a stove in the parlor below heat the bedroom above. Toward this Betty crept cautiously, testing each floor board for creaks before she trusted her whole weight to it. She reached the register, which was open, and was startled at the view it opened up for her. She drew back hastily, afraid that she would be discovered. Lieson and Wapley stood almost squarely under the register, above the crates of chickens and looking down on the fowls. "I began to think you wasn't coming," Lieson said slowly, putting a hand on his companion's shoulder to steady himself as he lurched and swayed. "I got soaked to the skin waiting for you in those bushes." "Well, it's some jaunt to Laurel Grove," came Wapley's response. "I got a man, though. Coming at ten to-night. There's no moon, and he says he can make the run to Petria in six or seven hours, barring tire trouble." "Does he take us, too?" demanded Lieson. "I'm tired of hanging around here. What kind of a truck has he got?" Wapley was so long in answering that Betty nervously wondered if he could have discovered the register. She risked a peep and found that both men were absorbed in filling their pipes. These lighted and drawing well, Wapley consented to answer his companion's question. "Got a one-ton truck. Plenty of room under the seat for us. He's kind of leery of the constables, 'cause he's been doing a nice little night trade between Laurel Grove and Petria carrying one thing and another, but he's willing to do the job on shares." Lieson yawned noisily. "Wish we had some grub," he observed. "Guess the training we got at Peabody's will come in handy if we don't eat again till we sell the chickens. Wouldn't you like to have seen the old miser's face when he found his chickens were gone?" So, thought Betty, she had not been mistaken; the black rooster was the same one who had been the pride of Mrs. Peabody's heart. A burst of harsh laughter from Wapley startled her. Leaning forward, she could see him stretched out on the floor, his head resting on his coat, doubled up to form a pillow. "What do you know!" he gurgled, the tears standing in his eyes. "Didn't I run into Bob Henderson, of all people!" Lieson was incredulous. "You're fooling," he said sullenly. "What would Bob be doing in Laurel Grove? Unless he was playing ferret! I'd wring his neck with pleasure if I thought the old man sent him over to spy." "Don't worry," counseled Wapley, waving his pipe airily. "The lad doesn't hook us up with the missing biddies. They never knew they were stolen till ten o'clock this morning. The old man sold 'em to Ryerson, and the hen houses stayed shut up till he came to get 'em. Can you beat that for luck?" Both men went off into roars of laughter. "We needn't have spent the night lifting 'em," said Lieson when he could speak. "I hate to lose my night's rest. What did Bob say about it? Was the old man mad?" "'Bout crazy," admitted Wapley gravely. "Bob wasn't home, but the old lady told him he carried on somethin' great. Wish we could 'a' heard him rave. But, Lieson, you haven't got it all. Betty Gordon's run off, and Peabody's doped it out she ran off with the hens!" The girl in the room above clapped her hand to her mouth. She had almost cried out. So Mr. Peabody could accuse her of being a thief! But what were the men saying? "What would the girl do with hens?" propounded Lieson. "Bob think she stole 'em?" "Bob's so close-mouthed," growled Wapley. "But I guess he knows where she went all right. He says she had nothing to do with the hens disappearing, and I told him I thought he was right! But Peabody figures out she was mad and chased 'em into the woods to spite him. And he's hunting for her and his hens with fire in his eye." Lieson knocked the ashes from his pipe and yawned again. "Wonder what Peabody's got against her now?" he speculated. "For a boarder, that kid had a pretty pindling time. Well, if we're going to be bumped around in a truck all night, I'll say we ought to take a nap while we can get it." "All right," agreed Wapley. "But I ain't aiming to go on any such trip without a bite of supper. The rain's stopped, and I'm going to snooze a bit and then go down the road to that farmhouse and see how they feel about feeding a poor unfortunate who's starving. I'll milk for 'em for a square meal." Betty, shivering with excitement, crouched on the floor afraid to risk moving until they should be asleep. Her one thought was to get away from the house and find Bob. Bob would know what to do. Bob would get the chickens back to the Peabodys and herself over to the haven of Doctor Guerin's house, somehow. Bob would be sorry for Wapley and Lieson even if they had turned chicken thieves. If she could only get to Bob before he set out for home or if she might meet him on the road, everything would be all right, Bob _must_ wait for her. There were no back stairs to the house, and it required grit to go softly down the one flight of stairs and steal past the door of the parlor where the two men lay, but Betty set her teeth and did it. Once on the porch she put on her hat and sweater, for a cool wind had sprung up; and then how she ran! The road was muddy, and her skirt was splashed before she slowed down to gain her breath. Anxiously she scanned the road ahead, wondering if there was another way Bob could take to reach Bramble Farm. As usual when one is worried, a brand-new torment assailed her. Suppose he should take the road to Glenside, that he might stop in to see her! He, of course, pictured her safe at the doctor's. "Want a lift?" drawled a lazy, pleasant voice. A gawky, blue-eyed boy about Bob Henderson's age beamed at her from a dilapidated old buggy. The fat, white horse also seemed to regard her benevolently. "It's sort of muddy," said the boy diffidently. "If you don't mind the stuffing on the seat--it's worn through--I can give you a ride to Laurel Grove." Betty accepted thankfully, but she was not very good company, it must be confessed, her thoughts being divided between schemes to hasten the desultory pace of the fat white horse and wonder as to how she was to find Bob in the town. The fat white horse stopped of his own accord at a pleasant looking house on the outskirts of the town, and Betty, in a brown study, was suddenly conscious that the boy was waiting for her. "Oh!" she said in some confusion. "Is this your house? Well, you were ever so kind to give me a lift, and I truly thank you!" She smiled at him and climbed out, and the lad, who had been secretly admiring her and wondering what she could be thinking about so absorbedly, wished for the tenth time that he had a sister. Laurel Grove was a bustling country town, a bit livelier than Glenside, and Betty, when she had traversed the main street twice, began to be aware that curious glances were being cast at her. "I'd go shopping, I'd do anything, for an excuse to go into every store," she thought distractedly, "if only I had a dollar bill! Where can Bob be? I can't have missed him!" There was every reason to think she had missed him, except her determined optimism, but after she had been to the drug store and the hardware store and the post-office, all more or less public meeting places, and found no sign of Bob, Betty began to feel a trifle discouraged. Then two men on the curb gave her a clue. "I've been hanging around all day," declared one, evidently a thrifty farmer. "Came over to get some grinding done, and the blame mill machinery broke. They just started grinding an hour ago." So there was a mill, and Bob often had to go to mills for Mr. Peabody. Betty did not know why he should have to come so far, but it was quite possible that some whim of the master of Bramble Farm had sent him to the Laurel Grove mill. Betty stepped up to the farmer and addressed him quietly. "Please, will you tell me where the mill is?" she asked. CHAPTER XXII SPREADING THE NET HE was a nice, fatherly kind of person, and he insisted on walking with Betty to the corner and pointing out the low roof of the mill down a side street. "No water power, just electricity," he explained. "Give me a water mill, every time; this current stuff is mighty unreliable." Betty thanked him, and hurried down the street. She was sure she saw the sorrel tied outside the mill, and when she reached the hitching posts, sure enough, there was the familiar old wagon, with some filled bags in it, and the drooping, tired old sorrel horse that had come to meet her when she stepped from the train at Hagar's Corners. "Betty! For the love of Mike!" Bob's language was expressive, if not elegant. Betty whirled. She had not seen the boy come down the steps of the mill office, and she was totally unprepared to hear his voice. "Why, Bob!" The unmistakable relief and gladness that shone in her tired face brought a little catch to Bob's throat. To hide it, he spoke gruffly. "What are you doing here? It's after four o'clock, and I'll get Hail Columbia when I get back. Mill's been out of order all day, and I had to wait. Haven't you been to Doctor Guerin's?" "No, not yet." Betty pulled at his sleeve nervously. "Oh, Bob, there's so much I must tell you! And after ten o'clock it will be too late. To think he thought I stole his old chickens! And where is Petria?" Bob gazed at her in amazement. This incoherent stream of words meant nothing to him. "Petria?" he repeated, catching at a straw. "Why, Petria's a big city, sort of a center for farm products. All the commission houses have home offices there. Why?" "That's where Mr. Peabody's chickens are going," Betty informed him, "unless you can think of a way to stop 'em." "Mr. Peabody's chickens? Have you got 'em?" asked Bob in wonder. Betty stamped her foot. "Bob Henderson, how can you be so stupid!" she stormed. "What would I be doing with stolen chickens--unless you think I stole them?" "Now don't go off into a temper," said Bob placidly. "I see where I have to drive you to Glenside, anyway. Might as well go the whole show and be half a day late while I'm about it. Hop in, Betty, and you can tell me this wonderful tale while we're traveling." Betty was tired out from excitement, fear, insufficient food and the long distance she had walked. Her nerves protested loudly, and to Bob's astonishment and dismay she burst into violent weeping. "Oh, I say!" he felt vainly in his pocket for a handkerchief. "Betty, don't cry like that! What did I say wrong? Don't you want to go to Glenside? What do you want me to do?" "I want you to listen," sobbed Betty. "I'm trying to tell you as fast as I can that Wapley and Lieson stole Mr. Peabody's chickens. They've got 'em all crated, and an automobile truck is coming at ten o'clock to-night to take them to Petria. So there!" Bob asked a few direct questions that soon put him in possession of all the facts. When he had heard the full story he took out the hitching rope he had put under the seat and tied the sorrel to the railing again. "Come on," he said briefly. "Where--where are we going?" quavered Betty, a little in awe of this stern new Bob with the resolute chin. "To the police recorder's," was the uncompromising reply. The recorder was young and possessed of plenty of what Bob termed "pep," and when he heard what Bob had to tell him, for Betty was stricken with sudden dumbness, he immediately mapped out a plan that should catch all the wrong-doers in one net. "The fellow we want to get hold of is this truck driver," he explained. "You didn't hear his name?" Betty shook her head. "Well, to get him, our men will have to wait till he comes for the crates," said the recorder. "I'll send a couple of 'em out to this farm--they know the old D. Smith place well enough--and they can hang around till the truck comes and then take 'em all in. I'm sorry, but I'll have to hold the girl here as a witness. My wife will look after her, and she'll be all right." "I'll stay, too, Betty," Bob promised her hastily, noting the plea in her eyes. "All right, so much the better," said the recorder heartily. "We'll put you both up for the night. It won't be necessary for you to see the prisoners to-night, and to-morrow you'll both be mighty good witnesses for this Mr. Peabody. I'll send for him in the morning." Bob's sense of humor was tickled at the thought of stabling the sorrel in a livery stable and charging the bill to his employer. A vision of what would be said to him caused his eyes to dance as he gave orders to the stableman to see that the horse had an extra good measure of oats. But when he came back to the recorder's for supper he found Betty sitting close beside the recorder's wife, crying as though her heart would break. "Why, Betty!" he protested. "You don't usually act like this. What does ail you--are you sick?" "It isn't fair!" protested Betty passionately. "Wapley and Lieson worked so hard and Mr. Peabody was mean to 'em! I don't want to save his old chickens for him! I'd much rather the hired men got the money. And I won't be a witness for him and get them into prison!" Bob looked shocked at this outburst, but Mrs. Bender only continued to soothe the girl, and presently Betty's sobs grew less violent, and by and by ceased. After supper Mrs. Bender played for them and sang a little, and then, declaring that Betty looked tired to death, took her upstairs to the blue and white guest-room, where, after she had helped her to undress and loaned her one of her own pretty nightgowns, she turned off the lights and sat beside her till she fell asleep. For the first time in months, Betty was encouraged to talk about her mother, and she told this new friend of her great loss, her life with the Arnolds, and about her Uncle Dick. It both rested and refreshed her to give this confidence, and her sleep that night was unbroken and dreamless. Long after Betty was asleep, Bob and the recorder played checkers, Mrs. Bender sitting near with her sewing. Bob was starved for companionship, and something about the lad, his eager eyes, perhaps, or his evident need of interested guidance, appealed to Recorder Bender. "You say you were born in the poorhouse?" he asked, between games. "Was your mother born in this township?" Bob explained, and the Benders were both interested in the mention of the box of papers. Encouraged by friendly auditors, Bob told his meager story, unfolding in its recital a very fair picture of conditions as they existed at Bramble Farm. Betty lay in dreamless sleep, but Bob, in a room across the hall, tossed and turned restlessly. At half-past ten he heard the recorder go out, and knew he was going to see if the chicken thieves and motor truck driver had been brought in by his men. Bob wondered how it seemed to be arrested, and he fervently resolved never to court the experience. He was asleep before the recorder returned, but woke once during the night. A heavy truck was lumbering through the street, the driver singing in a high sweet tenor voice, probably to keep himself awake, Bob's swift thoughts flew to Wapley and Lieson, and he wondered if they were asleep. How could they sleep in jail? Breakfast in the Bender household was just as pleasant and cheerful and unhurried as supper had been. Mrs. Bender in a white and green morning frock beamed upon Bob and Betty and urged delicious viands upon them till they begged for mercy. It was, she said, so nice to have "four at the table." Mr. Bender pushed back his chair at last, glancing at his watch. "The hearing is set for ten o'clock," he announced quietly. "Mr. Peabody has been notified and should be here any minute. I think we had better walk down to the office. Catherine, if you're ready----" Mrs. Bender smiled at Betty. She had promised to see her through. CHAPTER XXIII IN AMIABLE CONFERENCE BETTY'S sole idea of a court had been gained from a scene or two in the once-a-week Pineville motion picture theater, and Bob had even less knowledge. They both thought there might be a crowd, a judge in a black gown, and some noise and excitement. Instead Recorder Bender unlocked the door of a little one-story building and ushered them into a small room furnished simply with a long table, a few chairs, and a case of law books. Presently two men came in, nodded to Mrs. Bender, and conferred in whispers with Mr. Bender. There was a scuffling step outside the door and Mr. Peabody entered. "Huh, there you are!" he greeted Bob. "For all of you, I might have been hunting my horse and wagon all night. Mighty afraid to let any one know where you are." "Mr. Peabody?" asked the recorder crisply, and suddenly all his quiet friendliness was gone and an able official with a clear, direct gaze and a rather stern chin faced the farmer. "Sit down, please, until we're all ready." Mr. Peabody subsided into a chair, and the two men went away. They were back in a few moments, and with them they brought Wapley and Lieson and a lad, little more than a boy, who was evidently the truck driver. "Close the door," directed the recorder. "Now, Mr. Peabody, if you'll just sit here--" he indicated a chair at one side of the table. With a clever shifting of the group he soon had them arranged so that Wapley, Lieson, the truck driver, and the two men who had brought them in were sitting on one side of the table, and Betty, Bob, Mrs. Bender and Mr. Peabody on the other. He himself took a seat between Betty and Mr. Peabody. "Now you all understand," he said pleasantly, "that this is merely an informal hearing. We want to learn what both sides have to say." Mr. Peabody gave a short laugh. "I don't see what the other side can have to say!" he exclaimed contemptuously. "They've been caught red-handed, stealing my chickens." The recorder ignored this, and turned to Lieson. "You've worked for farmers about here in other seasons," he said. "And, from all I can hear, your record was all right. What made you put yourself in line for a workhouse term?" Lieson cleared his throat, glancing at Wapley. "It can't be proved we was stealing," he argued sullenly. "Them chickens was going to be sold on commission." "Taking 'em off at ten o'clock at night to save 'em from sunburn, wasn't you?" demanded Mr. Peabody sarcastically. "You never was a quick thinker, Lieson." "Now, Lieson," struck in Mr. Bender patiently, "that's no sort of use. Miss Gordon here overheard your plans. We know those chickens came from the Peabody farm, and that you and Wapley had a bargain with Tubbs to sell them in Petria. What I want to hear is your excuse. It's been my experience that every one who takes what doesn't belong to him has an excuse, good or bad. What's yours?" At the mention of Betty's name, Lieson and Wapley had shot her a quick look. She made a little gesture of helplessness, infinitely appealing. "I'm so sorry," the expressive brown eyes told them, "I just have to tell what I heard, if I'm asked, but I wouldn't willingly do you harm." Lieson threw back his head and struck the table a sounding blow. "I'll tell you why we took those blamed chickens!" he cried. "You can believe it or not, but we were going to sell 'em in Petria, and all over and above twenty-five dollars they brought, Peabody would have got back. He owes us that amount. Ask him." "It's a lie!" shouted Peabody, rising, his face crimson. "A lie, I tell you! A lie cooked up by a sneaking, crooked, chicken-thief to save himself!" Lieson and Wapley were on their feet, and Betty saw the glint of something shiny in Peabody's hand. "Sit down, and keep quiet!" said the recorder levelly. "That will be about all the shouting, please, this morning. And, Mr. Peabody, I'll trouble you for that automatic!" The men dropped into their chairs, and Peabody pushed his pistol across the table. The recorder opened a drawer and dropped the evil little thing into it. "Can you prove that wages are owed you by Mr. Peabody?" he asked, as if nothing had happened. Wapley, who had been silent all along, pulled a dirty scrap of paper from his pocket. "There's when we came to Bramble Farm and when we left, and the money we've had," he said harshly. "And when we left, it was 'cause he wouldn't give us what was coming to us--not just a dollar or two of it to spend in Glenside, Miss Betty can tell you that." "Yes," said Betty eagerly. "That was what they quarreled about." The recorder, who had been studying the bit of paper, asked a question without raising his eyes. "What's this thirty-four cents subtracted from this two dollars for--June twenty-fourth, it seems to be?" "Oh, that was when we had the machinist who came to fix the binder stay to supper," explained Wapley simply. "Lieson and me paid Peabody for butter on the table that night, 'cause Edgeworth's mighty particular about what he gets to eat. He'd come ten miles to fix the machine, and we wanted him to have a good meal." Mr. Peabody turned a vivid scarlet. He did not relish these disclosures of his domestic economy. "What in tarnation has that got to do with stealing my chickens?" he demanded testily, "Ain't you going to commit these varmints?" The truck driver, who had been studying Mr. Peabody with disconcerting steadiness, suddenly announced the result of his scrutiny, apparently not in the last in awe of the jail sentence shadow under which he stood. "Well, you poor, little, mean-livered, low-down, pesky, slithering snake-in-the-grass," he said slowly and distinctly, addressing himself to Mr. Peabody with unflattering directness, "now I know where I've seen your homely mug before. You're the skunk that scattered ground glass on that stretch of road between the crossroads and Miller's Pond, and then laughed when I ruined four of my good tires. I knew I'd seen you somewhere, but I couldn't place you. "Why, do you know, Mr. Bender," he turned excitedly to the recorder, "that low-down coward wouldn't put ground glass on his own road--might get him into trouble with the authorities. No, he goes and scatters the stuff on some other farmer's highway, and when I lodge a complaint against the man whose name was on the mail box and face him in Glenside, he isn't the man I saw laughing at all! I made a complete fool of myself. I suppose this guy had a grudge against some neighbor and took that way of paying it out; and getting some motorist in Dutch, too. These rubes hates automobiles, anyway." "It's a lie!" retorted Mr. Peabody, but his tone did not carry conviction. "I never scattered any ground glass." The recorder fluttered a batch of papers impressively. "Well, I've two complaints that may be filed against you," he announced decisively. "One for uncollected wages due James Wapley and Enos Lieson, and one charging that you willfully made a public highway dangerous for automobile traffic. Also, I believe, this boy, Bob Henderson, has not been sent to school regularly." This was a surprise to Bob, who had long ago accepted the fact that school for him was over. But Mr. Peabody was plainly worried. "What you want me to do?" he whined. "I'm willing to be fair. No man can say I'm not just." The recorder leaned back in his chair, and his good wife, watching, knew that he had gained his point. "Litigation and law-squabble," he said tranquilly, "waste money, time, and too often defeat the ends. Why, in this instance, don't we effect a compromise? You, Mr. Peabody, pay these men the money you owe them and drop the charge of stealing; you will have your chickens back and the knowledge that their enmity toward you is removed. Tubbs, I'm sure, will agree to forget the broken glass, and the schooling charge may lapse, provided something along that line is done for Bob this winter." Mr. Peabody was shrewd enough to see that he could not hope for better terms. As long as he had the chickens to sell to Ryerson, he had no grounds for complaint. He hated "like sin" as Bob said, to pay the money to Wapley and Lieson, but under the recorder's unwavering eye, he counted out twenty-five dollars--twelve dollars and fifty cents apiece--which the men pocketed smilingly. A word or two of friendly admonition from Mr. Bender, and the men were dismissed. "I'm so glad," sighed Betty as they left the room, "that I didn't have to say anything against them." "Well, are you coming along with me?" asked Peabody, almost graciously for him. "There's a letter there for you, Betty. From your uncle, I calculate, since the postmark is Washington. And my word, Bob, you don't seem in any great hurry to get back to your chores; the sorrel must be eating his head off in Haverford's stable." The recorder exchanged a look with his wife. "Mr. Peabody," he said, "I shall be detained here an hour or so, and I don't want these young folks to leave until I have a word with them. Mrs. Bender will be only too glad to have you stay for lunch with us, and I'll meet you up at the house. My wife, Mr. Peabody." "Pleased to meet you, Ma'am," stammered Mr. Peabody awkwardly. "I ought to be getting on toward home. But I suppose, if the chickens were fed this morning, they can wait." "I'm sure you're hungry yourself," answered Mrs. Bender, slipping an arm about Betty. "Suppose we walk up to the house now, Mr. Peabody, and I'll have lunch ready by the time Mr. Bender is free." Betty looked back as they were leaving the room and saw the truck driver slouched disconsolately in a chair opposite the recorder. "Is--is he arrested?" she whispered half-fearfully to Mrs. Bender. Mr. Peabody and Bob were walking on ahead. "No, dear," was the answer. "But Mr. Bender will doubtless give him a good raking over the coals, which is just what he needs. Fred Tubbs is a Laurel Grove boy, and his mother is one of the sweetest women in town. He's always been a little wild, and lately he's been in with all kinds of riff-raff. Harry heard rumors that he was trucking in shady transactions, but he never could get hold of proof. Now he has him just where he wants him. He'll tell Fred a few truths and maybe knock some sense into him before he does something that will send him to state's prison." CHAPTER XXIV A NEW ACQUAINTANCE MRS. BENDER insisted that Mr. Peabody should sit down on her shady front porch while she set the table and got luncheon. Betty followed her like a shadow, and while they were laying the silver together the woman smiled at the downcast face. "What is it, dear?" she asked gently. "You don't want to go back to Bramble Farm; is that it?" Betty nodded miserably. "Why do I have to?" she argued. "Can't I go and stay with the Guerins? They'd like to have me, I'm sure they would." "Well, we'll see what Mr. Bender has to say," answered Mrs. Bender diplomatically. "Here he comes now. You call Bob and Mr. Peabody, and mind, not a word while we're at the table. Mr. Bender hates to have an argument while he's eating." The luncheon was delicious, and Mr. Peabody thoroughly enjoyed it, if the service was rather confusing. He thought the Benders were very foolish to live as they did instead of saving up money for their old age, but since they did, he was glad they did not retrench when they had company. That, by the way, was Mr. Peabody's original conception of hospitality--to save on his guests by serving smaller portions of food. "We'll go into the living-room and have a little talk now," proposed the recorder, leading the way into the pleasant front room where a big divan fairly invited three to sit upon it. "Betty and Bob on either side of me," said Mr. Bender cordially, pointing to the sofa, "and, Mr. Peabody, just roll up that big chair." Mrs. Bender sat down in a rocking chair, and the recorder seated himself between the two young folks. "Betty doesn't want to come back with me," said Mr. Peabody resentfully. "I can tell by the way she acts. But her uncle sent her up to us, and there she should stay, I say, till he sends for her again. It doesn't look right for a girl to be gallivanting all over the township." "I could stay with the Guerins," declared Betty stubbornly. "Mrs. Guerin is lovely to me." "I should think you'd have a little pride about asking 'em to take you in, when they've got two daughters of their own and he as hard up as most country doctors are," said the astute Mr. Peabody. "Your uncle pays me for your board and I certainly don't intend to turn over any checks to Doc Guerin." Betty flushed. She had not thought at all about the monetary side of the question. She knew that Doctor Guerin's practice was largely among the farmers, who paid him in produce as often as in cash, and, as Mr. Peabody said, he could not be expected to take a guest for an indefinite time. "You know you could stay with me, Betty," Mrs. Bender broke in quickly, "but we're going away for a month next week, and there isn't time to change the plans. Mr. Bender has his vacation." "Gee, Betty," came from Bob, "if you're not coming back, what'll I do?" "Work," said Mr. Peabody grimly. Betty's quick temper flared up suddenly. "I won't go back!" she declared passionately. "I'll do housework, I'll scrub or wash dishes, anything! I hate Bramble Farm!" "Now, now, sister," said the recorder in his even, pleasant voice. "Keep cool, and we'll find a way. There's this letter Mr. Peabody speaks about. Perhaps that will bring you good news." "I suppose it's from Uncle Dick," admitted Betty, wiping her eyes. "Maybe he will want me to come where he is." "Well now, Betty," Mr. Peabody spoke persuasively, "you come along home with me and maybe things will be more to your liking. Perhaps I haven't always done just as you'd like. But then, you recollect, I ain't used to girls and their notions. Your uncle won't think you're fit to be trusted to travel alone if I write him and tell him you run away from the farm." Betty looked dumbly at Mr. Bender. "I think you had better go with Mr. Peabody," he said kindly, answering her unspoken question. "You see, Betty, it isn't very easy to explain, but when you want to leave a place, any place, always go openly and as far as possible avoid the significance of running away. You do not have to stay for one moment where any one is actively unkind to you, but since your uncle placed you in the care of Mr. and Mrs. Peabody, if you can, it is wiser to wait till you hear from him before making any change." "Make him be nicer to Bob," urged Betty obstinately. "I aim to send him to school this winter," said Mr. Peabody, rushing to his own defense. "And I can get a man now to help out with the chores. He's lame, but a good milker. Can get him right away, too--this afternoon. Came by asking for work and I guess he'll stay all winter. Bob can take it easy for a day or two." "Then he can drive over with Betty Saturday afternoon and spend Sunday with us." Mrs. Bender was quick to seize this advantage. "That will be fine. We'll see you, Betty, before we go away. And, dear, you must write to me often." So it was settled that Betty was to return to Bramble Farm. The Benders were warmly interested in both young folks, and they were not the sort of people to lose sight of any one for whom they cared. Mr. Peabody knew that Bob and Betty had gained friends who would be actively concerned for their welfare, and he was entirely sincere in promising to make it easier for them in the future. He and Bob and Betty and the crated chickens drove into the lane leading to Bramble Farm about half-past four. Betty's first thought was for her letter. The moment she saw the hand-writing, she knew it was from her uncle. "Bob, Bob! Where are you?" she called, running out to the barn, waving the letter wildly after the first reading. "Oh, Bob, why aren't you ever where I want you?" Mr. Peabody and his wife were still busy over the chickens. Bob, it seemed, was engaged in the unlovely task of cleaning the cow stables, after having, on Mr. Peabody's orders, gone after the lame man to engage him for the fall and winter work. But Betty was so eager to share her news with him that she stood just outside the stable and read him bits of the letter through the open window. "Uncle Dick's in Washington!" she announced blithely. "He's been there a week, and he hopes he can send for me before the month is up. Won't that be fine, Bob? I'm not going to unpack my trunk, because I want to be able to go the minute he sends me word. And, oh, yes, he sends me another check. Now we can have some more goodies from the grocery store, next time you go to Glenside." "You cash that check and put the money away where you and no one else can find it," advised Bob seriously. "Don't let yourself get out of funds again, Betty. It may be another long wait before you hear from your uncle." "Oh, no, that won't happen again," said Betty carelessly. "He's in Washington, so everything must be all right. But, Bob, isn't it funny? he hasn't had one of my letters! He says he supposes there's a pile of mail for him at the lawyer's office, but he hasn't had time to run up there, and, anyway, the lawyer is ill and his office is in great confusion. Uncle Dick writes he is glad to think of me enjoying the delights of Bramble Farm instead of the city's heat--Washington is hot in summer, I know daddy used to say so. And he sends the kindest messages to Mr. and Mrs. Peabody--I wish he knew that old miser! I've written him all about you, but of course he hasn't read the letters." All through supper and the brief evening that followed Betty was light-hearted and gay. She re-read her Uncle Dick's letter twenty times, and because of the relief it promised her found it easy to be gracious to Mr. Peabody. That man was put out because his new hired hand refused to sleep in the attic, declaring that the barn was cooler, as in fact it was. "If I catch you smoking in there, I'll wring your neck," was the farmer's amiable good-night to the lame man as he limped out toward his selected sleeping place. CHAPTER XXV THEIR MUTUAL SECRETS BETTY woke to find her room almost as light as day. She had been dreaming of breakfasting with her uncle in a blue and gold dining-room of her own furnishing, and for the moment she thought it was morning. But the light flickered too much for sunlight, and as she became more fully awake, she realized it was a red glare. Fire! "Fire!" Bob's voice vocalized her cry for her, and he came tumbling down the uncarpeted attic stairs with a wild clatter of shoes. She called to him to wait; but he did not hear, and raced on out to the barn. The inarticulate bellow of Mr. Peabody sounded next as, yelling loudly, he rushed down the stairs and out through the kitchen. "Betty!" Mrs. Peabody ran in as Betty struggled hastily to dress. "Betty! the barn's on fire! No one knows how long it's been burning. If we only had a dog, he might have barked! Or a telephone!" Betty stifled a hysterical desire to laugh as she followed the moaning Mrs. Peabody downstairs. It was not the main barn, she saw with a little throb of relief as they ran through the yard. Instead it was the corncrib and wagon house which stood a little apart from the rest of the buildings. The cribs were practically empty of corn, for of course the new crop had not yet matured, and the only loss would be the two shabby old wagons and a quantity of more or less worn machinery stored in the loft overhead. A huge rat, driven from his home under the corncrib, ran past Betty in the dark. "It's all insured," said Mr. Peabody complacently, watching Bob dash buckets of water on the tool shed, which was beginning to blister from the heat. "Well, Keppler, see the blaze from your place? Nice little bonfire, ain't it?" Mr. Keppler and his two half-grown sons had run all the way and were too out of breath to reply immediately. They were not on especially good terms with Mr. Peabody, but as his nearest neighbor they could not let his buildings burn down without making an effort to help him. They had left the mother of the family at the telephone with instructions to call the surrounding neighbors if Mr. Keppler signaled her to do so with the pistol he carried. "Guess you won't need any more help," said Mr. Keppler, regaining his breath. "How'd she start?" "Why, when I thought it was the barn, I said to myself that lazy good-for-nothing lame Phil's been smoking," replied Mr. Peabody. "But I don't know how he could set the corncribs afire." "Where is he now?" cried Betty, remembering the man's affliction. "He couldn't run--perhaps he tried to sleep in the wagon and is burned." "No, he isn't," said Phil behind her. He had been watching the fire from the safe vantage point of a boulder in the apple orchard, he admitted when cross-questioned. Yes, the flames had awakened him in the barn where he slept. No, he couldn't guess how they had started unless it could have been spontaneous combustion from the oiled rags he had noticed packed tightly in a corner of the wagon shed that afternoon. "Spontaneous combustion!" ejaculated Mr. Peabody angrily. "If you know that much, why couldn't you drop me a word, or take away the rags?" The lame man looked at him with irritating intentness. "I thought you might wring my neck if I did," he said. "I don't know whether Phil's a fool or not," confided Bob to Betty the next morning; "but he has old Peabody guessing, that's sure. He was quoting Shakespeare to him at the pump this morning." Betty lost little time in speculation concerning Phil, for another worry claimed her attention. "How can we go to see the Benders Saturday?" she asked Bob. "Both wagons are burned up." "Well, we still have the horse," Bob reminded her cheerfully. "A wagon without a horse isn't much good, but a horse without a wagon is far from hopeless. You leave it to me." Betty was willing. She was dreaming day dreams about Washington and Uncle Dick, dreams in which she generously included Bob and the Benders and Norma Guerin. It was fortunate for her that she could not see ahead, or know how slowly the weeks were to drag by without another letter. How Betty waited and waited and finally went to the Capitol City to find her uncle herself will be told in the next volume of this series, to be called, "Betty Gordon in Washington; or, Strange Adventures in a Great City." High-spirited, headstrong, pretty Betty finds adventures aplenty, not unmixed with a spice of danger, in the beautiful city of Washington, and quite unexpectedly she again meets Bob Henderson, who has left Bramble Farm to seek his fortune. That Bob was planning a surprise in connection with their visit to the Benders, she was well aware, but she would not spoil his enjoyment by trying to force him to divulge his secret. Betty had a secret of her own, saved up for the eventful day, which she had no idea of disclosing till the proper time should arrive. Saturday morning dawned warm and fair, and Bob tore into his morning's work, determined to leave Mr. Peabody no loophole for criticism and, possibly, detention, though he had promised Bob the afternoon off. Phil was with them no more, having ambled off one night without warning and taken his peculiarities to a possibly more appreciative circle. Bob was hungry at noon, but he hardly touched his dinner, so eager was he to get away from the table and wash and dress ready for the trip to Laurel Grove. Poor Bob had no best clothes, but he resolutely refused to wear overalls to the Benders, and he had coaxed Mrs. Peabody to get his heavy winter trousers out of the mothballs and newspapers in which she had packed them away. She had washed and ironed a faded shirt for him, and at least he would be whole and clean. "Bob," drawled Mr. Peabody, as that youth declined dessert and prepared to rise from the table, "before you go, I want to see the wood box filled, some fresh litter in the pig pens and some fodder in all the cow mangers. If I'm to do the milking, I don't want to have to pitch all the fodder, too." Bob scowled angrily. "I haven't time," he muttered. "That'll take me till two or half-past. You said I could have the afternoon." "And I also told you to fill the wood box yesterday," retorted Mr. Peabody. "You'll do as I say, or stay home altogether. Take your choice." "He's the meanest man who ever lived!" scolded Betty, following Bob out to the woodshed. "I'll fill up that old box, Bob, and you go do the other chores. I'd like to throw this stick at his head." Bob laughed, for he had a naturally sweet temper and seldom brooded over his wrongs. "He did tell me to fill the box yesterday and I forgot," he confessed. "Take your time, Betty, and don't get all hot. And don't scratch your hands--they looked as pretty as Mrs. Bender's; I noticed 'em at the table." Betty stared after him as he went whistling to the barn, her apron sagging with the wood she had piled into it. She glanced scrutinizingly at her strong, shapely tanned little hands. Did Bob think they were pretty? Betty herself admired very white hands with slim pointed fingers like Norma Guerin's. She worked to such good purpose that she had the wood box filled and was brushing her hair when she heard Bob go thumping past her door on his way to his room. She was dressed and downstairs when he came down, and he caught hold of her impulsively and whirled her around the porch. "Betty, you're a wonder!" he cried in admiration. "How did you ever guess the size? And when did you buy it? You could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw it spread out there on the bed." "I'm glad it fits you so well," answered Betty demurely, surveying the neat blue and white shirt she had bought for him. "I took one of your old ones over to Glenside. Oh, it didn't cost much!" she hastened to assure him, interpreting the look he gave her. "I'm saving the money Uncle Dick sent, honestly I am." Bob insisted that she sit down on the porch and let him drive round for her, and now it was Betty's turn to be surprised. The sorrel was harnessed to a smart rubber-tired runabout. "Bob Henderson! where did you get it? Whose is it? Does Mr. Peabody know? Let's go through Glenside and show 'em we look right sometimes," suggested the astonished Betty. Bob, beaming with pride, helped her in and Mrs. Peabody waved them a friendly good-bye. She betrayed no surprise at the sight of the runabout and was evidently in the secret. "She knows about it," explained Bob, as they drove off. "I borrowed it from the Kepplers. Tried to get a horse, too, but they're going driving Sunday and need the team. This is their single harness. Nifty buckles, aren't they?" Betty praised the runabout to his heart's content, and they actually did drive through Glenside, though it was a longer way around, and had the satisfaction of meeting the Guerins. Recorder Bender and his wife were delighted to see them again, and they had a happy time all planned for them. Saturday night there was a moving picture show in Laurel Grove, and the Benders took their guests. Betty had not been to motion pictures since leaving Pineville and it was Bob's second experience with the films. Sunday morning they all went to church, and the long, delightful summer Sunday afternoon they spent on the cool, shady porch, exchanging confidences and making plans for the future. "I'm saving the money I get for the carvings," said Bob, "and when I get enough I'll dig up the little black tin box and off I'll go. I've got to get some education and amount to something, and if I stay with the Peabody's till I'm eighteen, my chance will be gone." "Promise us one thing, Bob," urged Mrs. Bender earnestly. "That you won't go without consulting us, or at least leaving some word for us. And that, wherever you go, you'll write." "I promise," said Bob gratefully. "I haven't so many friends that I can afford to lose one. You and Mr. Bender have been awfully good to me." "We like you!" returned the recorder, with one of his rare whimsical flashes. "I want to exact the same promise from Betty--to write to us wherever she may go." "Of course I will!" promised Betty. "I don't seem to have much luck running away; but when I do go, I'll surely write and let you know where I am. And I'll probably be writing to you very soon from Washington!" THE END * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 41, "Aronld" changed to "Arnold" (morning Betty and Mrs. Arnold) Page 66, "Leisen" changed to "Leison" (as Wapley or Leison) Page 172, "her's" changed to "hers" (look like hers, too) 
46358	----	MAX FARGUS _By_ OWEN JOHNSON _Author of_ "Arrows of the Almighty" and "In the Name of Liberty." [Illustration: Decoration] New York THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY UNION SQUARE NORTH _Copyright, 1906, by_ THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY Published, September, 1906 _The Plimpton Press Norwood Mass. U.S.A._ [Illustration: "ANY ONE UP THERE?" _Frontispiece_] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THE HOUSE OF THE TIN SAILOR 9 II. IN THE EYES OF THE LAW 25 III. THE FIRM OF GROLL AND BOFINGER 36 IV. THE LITTLE MAN OF THE SHOVEL HAT 61 V. BOFINGER LOSES HOPE 71 VI. MISS MORISSEY IS MISS VAUGHN 82 VII. THE COMPACT 97 VIII. THE DISCOVERER OF THE OYSTER 109 IX. THE MISANTHROPE IN LOVE 122 X. BOFINGER REPORTS 134 XI. MARRIAGE AS A BATTLEFIELD 145 XII. BOFINGER IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING 160 XIII. SHEILA RETREATS 172 XIV. AS A FLASH IN THE DARK 189 XV. THE IRONICAL MOMENT 203 XVI. CASTLES IN THE AIR 220 XVII. THE SEVEN YEARS 231 XVIII. FARGUS IS DEAD 251 XIX. ROUT AT EVERY POINT 262 XX. BOFINGER IN DESPAIR 278 XXI. SAMMAMON ACTS 293 EPILOGUE 302 ILLUSTRATIONS "ANY ONE UP THERE?" _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE "NO, NO, I WON'T SIGN!" 104 "AND HOW'S YOUR MAN, NELL?" 136 FOR MILE AFTER MILE HE SCURRIED THUS 196 "KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF!" 298 MAX FARGUS CHAPTER I THE HOUSE OF THE TIN SAILOR In a street, uniform and dedicated it would seem to commonplace existences, there was taking place, on a certain evening in March, 187-, a chapter in one of the most perplexing and mysterious of dramas which the scramble for wealth has known; whose denouement, unsuspected by neighbors and hidden from the press, holds the secret of the rise of one of the most forceful and brutal individualities that have dominated the city. Near Stuyvesant Square, which then presented in the waste of New York, a charming oasis, serene and calm with the quiet of Colonial dignity; in one of the side streets east of Second Avenue there extended an unbroken march of red brick houses, uniform as though homes were fashioned wholesale. The block was clear of the skirts of fashion which gathered about the square, yet rescued from the squalor into which the street suddenly sank as it passed east under the brutal yoke of the Elevated. It belonged to mediocre life, to those who earned two thousand a year, who paid a third of their income in rent, went rarely to the theater and always to church, where occasionally the children fetched the family beer in pail and pitcher; a street of one servant or none at all; one of those indistinct half-way stations of the city where fortune and misfortune, ascending and descending, pass; where one finds the small shopkeeper, the clerk who is rising next to the doctor whose patients have left him, or the lawyer who has missed his leap. Towards the east a saloon made the corner, while a few doors nearer a brothel displayed its red ensign, before which, in the daytime, the children romped without distinction. Already several doorways invited board and lodging, signs of the invasion which sooner or later would claim the street. A third of the way down the block, on the north side, there projected above a doorway the figure of a tin sailor, balancing two paddles which the breeze caused to revolve. Some one in whom the instinct of home was strong had placed it there in protest against the tyranny of uniformity, while succeeding tenants, grateful for the indication, had left it undisturbed. By eleven o'clock of the night on which this story opens, beside the distant red lantern of the brothel and a few top-story lights there was only the parlor window, under the odd weather-vane, whose bright edge cut into the blackness of the street. The shade, contrary to custom, was lowered, but at each approaching step the silhouette of a woman crossed it hurriedly in the direction of the door. Shortly after the bells of a dozen churches had cried the hour, a man coming from the west passed under the lamp-post, carrying a satchel and striding with that nervous intensity which the tumult of New York injects into the legs. As he perceived the lighted window his advance suddenly relaxed, until opposite the door, in default of a number, he began to seek in the shadow the presence of the creaking boatman. Then, noticing the silhouette on the shade, as though assured of his destination he sprang up the steps. Before he could seize the bell the door was thrown open and he passed into the house. A woman in the thirties, pretty, dressed in white, closed the door after him and remained weakly leaning against the wall, awaiting in agitation his first word. He gave her a nod, took a step, turned and looked at her sharply, then busied himself with his coat. Suddenly the woman stretched out her hand and cried, with the hopelessness of one for whom the question can bring but one answer: "Bofinger, what is it? Tell me!" "Oh, it's good news," he said laconically, placing his bag on the floor, "good enough." "He's alive--my husband is alive!" she stammered, her eyes filling with nervous, incredulous tears. "Alive!" he exclaimed, rising his voice to a shout, while his head jerked about. But in a moment the amazement gave way to unbelief and he continued, with the irony of one impatient with feminine hypocrisy, "Max Fargus, my dear Sheila, is dead; done for by bandits, accommodating little greasers, bless their souls!" He turned his back on her scornfully, busying himself with finding a hook in the dark hallway. The woman had received the news like a blow in the face. She swayed back against the door, her hands went to her lips, then to her throat as though to stifle a cry, and for a moment she seemed about to fall. Then suddenly her eyes returned in fear to the contemptuous back of the lawyer and she controlled herself by a violent effort, passing before him into the parlor to hide the agitation on her face. "Shed a few tears for the public, my dear," he called out, following her with the impertinence of a man who has a right to dispense with civilities. "You can afford them; for eventually you'll come into as tidy a fortune as was ever won in six months' time. But before we get down to business, Sheila my dear, I am starving; could you get me a bite." Seizing further opportunity to prepare herself for the encounter she passed into the dining-room, after bidding him be seated with a conventionality as marked as his affectation of intimacy. As he was settling in a chair he suddenly remembered his bag and returned to the vestibule. The parlor breathed an air of imitation and a striving for luxury, which after the first impression of ridicule had a certain note of pathos. Everything was of the factory, with the odor of the bargain-counter. One saw the decoration before the body, overwhelmed by a confused sense of plush and gilt, of reds and greens, of false cherubs and artificial flowers, of airy, bejeweled furniture for which, in the department stores, one imagines in vain a purchaser. In the medallion carpet all the colors fought, in the portieres the Byzantine wrestled with the Gothic, the Roman with the Greek. Before selecting a comfortable chair, Bofinger peeled off a pair of yellow gloves, looked about in indecision and placed them gingerly on an étagère. Next, whisking out a lilac handkerchief, he slapped vigorously the dust from his shoes. Then bringing forth a number of documents from the bag he smoothed them nervously on his knee, replaced them, and suddenly raised his head to follow the movements of the woman with a perplexed intensity, in which there was both irritation and anxiety. On the body of a dandy was set the head of a comedian. One and the other produced a like impression of sham. He was too solicitous of his clothes, too conscious of his manner. His collar was worn with discomfort, his checked tweed cutaway was too tight, his shoes too new; while, on establishing himself in his chair, he had thrown open his coat on a buckskin vest, heavily sealed, and a purple tie, held in four-in-hand by a fat horseshoe, with the ill-at-ease of the man who never quite familiarizes himself with his own audacity. The head had the prominent bones of the Yankee with a suggestion of the Italian in the sallowness of the complexion and the limpidity of the eyes, which when most gracious had a warning of treachery. He smiled much, but the smile was as constrained as his dress. Though not far in the thirties, his face was sown with lines, while at each thought flurries showed on the forehead and the cheeks, which from constant conscription had come to never remaining still. His ears were so small that they seemed almost a deformity. The nose, which was impressive and slightly pointed, told more of cunning than of sagacity; the mouth, open and pliant, was the mouth of the demagogue and the orator, which lets escape the torrent of phrases. One divined the man who played at will the tyrant or the servitor, who browbeat the timid and flattered the strong, who bellowed in a police court, but who tiptoed for a favor and could on occasion listen obsequiously. Finally his jet hair, which he enforced into parting in the middle and plastered to his scalp, in the back rose like the comb of a cockatoo. This rebellious movement to the repression of the front was significant of the whole man. When Mrs. Fargus returned with a tray all traces of emotion had vanished. Watching her, the lawyer voiced the amazement that had been in his mind from the first. "Sheila, you are astonishingly pretty to-night." "Really!" she said, and despite her alarm she sent a glance to the mirror. Over the loose white muslin, free at the throat and at the elbows, she wore a filmy scarf of red chiffon, subtle as a mist, which, encircling her shoulders, came to a loose knot and fell to her feet in a sanguine line. It was a striking effect which perplexed the eye, and threw in bold relief the waves of her black hair and the rather high color of her complexion; but emphasized in the general voluptuousness the surprising contrast of the eyes which, gray with a slight blue tinge, were cold, without passion or enticement. Intrigued at the contrast of her indifference with her first agitation, Bofinger was careful not to open the conversation, knowing that it is easier to penetrate the hypocrisy of an enforced question than to discover truth in a guarded answer. Mrs. Fargus, seeing at last that the situation compelled her to speak, rested her chin on her palm and said as though to herself: "So Fargus is dead!" "Eh, eh!" the lawyer cried instantly, shooting a sharp look, "a moment ago that overwhelmed you. But you are reconciled already, I suppose." She showed some confusion, but returned immediately: "Sure I'm shocked; poor fellow, after all he did love me." Displeased to find her self-possessed, the lawyer, not to waken her mistrust, seemed to accept her attitude by launching into a diatribe. "Yes, yes, cling to your respectability. You women are all the same. Virtue always! Do you do it to fool us or yourselves? Come now, you know that old Fargus's death is a stroke of luck! Why the deuce, then, don't you admit it?" "You don't understand," she said coldly. He searched her face with aroused curiosity, saying to himself, "No, my lady, you bet I don't." Then continuing his plan of battle he occupied himself with his plate. "You brought him, the body, back," she asked presently. "No," he answered irritably, and pushed back his plate with impatience. "Why not?" she asked, noticing his annoyance. "That is a long story and goes with the rest," he said rising. "Now, my dear, we'll get down to it." In the parlor, as he was taking a chair, he recollected himself and demanded with a jerk of his head: "Any one up there?" "I sent the girl away," she answered, "as you said." "Nevertheless," he replied slowly, "I guess I'll satisfy myself of that." "Yes, I supposed you would," she said with a shrug, "I left the gas on." The unlooked-for reply halted him. He vacillated a moment suspiciously, wondering whether to accept the situation, but, the shyster prevailing, he turned on his heel and went up the stairs. The woman smiled with the consciousness of a first advantage. But no sooner did the steps creak than she abandoned herself to a paroxysm of despair, twisting and turning the scarf in her hands until it cut them, as though to fight with the physical sting the agony of the mind. Yet in this violent return to her first agitation there was nothing to suggest grief for another; rather she seemed a prey to the torments of the gambler who, by a sudden upset, sees a fortune elude his fingers, dissipating in the air. She was, at the first glance, of that gay and fragile class who comprehend nothing but pleasure and see pleasure bounded only by the narrow limits of youth, into which they wish to compress all emotions, all desires, and all sensations; who pursue their ideals, palpitating and with bandaged eyes, and are consumed alike by their gratification and their hunger. On them weigh perhaps the heaviest the inequalities of society. Mixtures of desires and scruples, peculiarly American, swayed by conflicting ideals and prejudices, they wish to taste of the glittering world at any price except at the price of outward respectability. A young man attracted to Sheila Fargus by her facile beauty would have mistaken her for an adventuress or a saint. A man of the world, knowing her weakness and her fetishes, would have recognized that she might become either. As soon as the step of Bofinger was heard returning, she drew herself hastily together, but the lawyer, to further satisfy himself, passed into the kitchen. She rose, inhaled a long breath, extended her arms as though to shake off the rigidity of her emotion, and finding herself pale, pinched her cheeks. The lawyer returned too conscious of his tactical disadvantage to notice the traces of her agitation. "So you feel at rest now," she said maliciously. "My dear, take it as a tribute to you," he answered. "You had the air of truth but you might have been--" "More clever?" "Exactly," he said. "You can't be sure with a woman." To shut off further reference he cast himself back in his chair, brought his fingers to a cage, and demanded, as though from impulse, "Sheila, answer this--and carefully, for it is vital. Before Fargus left for Mexico did he show any suspicion?" "Why, no," she answered, too visibly surprised not to be telling the truth; "sure he didn't." "What, not the slightest suspicion of our relations?" he persisted. "Think well,--Fargus who was suspicion itself! And he didn't at some time suspect either you or me!" She reflected a moment, started to answer, and then shook her head. "No, no, not once." The hesitation was not lost on the lawyer, who continued: "But did he seem much in love?" "Why, he adored me!" she cried. She examined him curiously, noting again his restrained irritation, and asked, "What funny questions! Why do you ask them?" "On account of a number of suspicious circumstances," he answered irritably. "Well, you know Fargus; he was not an ordinary man. However--" He took up his documents, sifting them to count them. Then, at the moment when Sheila, preparing to listen, was off her guard, he launched the question he had held in reserve. "Did he tell you why he went to Mexico?" "Why," she said, "I suppose, on business." "He told you what business." "No." The two looked in each other's eyes. "She lies," thought the lawyer. "He knows I lie," she said to herself, palpitating, but she did not dare avert her glance. CHAPTER II IN THE EYES OF THE LAW To Sheila's surprise, instead of the browbeating she had learned to expect, she saw that for some incomprehensible reason it suited him to accept the denial. "He went to investigate a silver mine," he said after a moment. "A mine!" she exclaimed; and the knowledge that he had not challenged the lie gave to the exclamation a vehemence so well simulated that it left him somewhat shaken in his first impression. "That at least is my conviction," he said. "Now for the story." He spoke rapidly, recounting in trivial detail the various steps by which he had traced Fargus to Mexico and into the dangerous mining region of Durango. From time to time Sheila, who suffered under these numerous details, interrupted, saying: "Leave that." "Be more brief." "But tell me, tell me first of his death!" "Here we are," Bofinger said finally, after completing without deviation his methodical recital. "On the twenty-fifth day of January, the last day of his life, he quarreled with his attendants and dismissed them. Despite all warnings he then pushed on in the sole company of an Indian breed and arrived at two o'clock at the ranch of a Mexican, Manuel Stroba. Here is his affidavit, the importance of which you'll see later." As he prepared to read it, she snatched it from his hand, crying: "Afterward! Go on; oh, do go on!" "At three o'clock, Fargus left the ranch, intending to make a mission five miles away. The next morning Stroba, in passing through a defile six miles on, the scene of a dozen hold-ups, found the bodies of the two horses. The packs were scattered on the ground alongside of the coat and hat of Fargus stained with blood, in fact everything to indicate a violent conflict, except--except not the slightest trace of Fargus or the half-breed." She sprang up. "But then," she cried all in one breath, "he could be alive!" He looked at her, astonished again at her emotion. "If it happened yesterday--perhaps," he admitted; adding quickly, with the emphasis a man gives to a statement of which he is determined to be convinced, "but this happened on the twenty-sixth of January and we are now the end of March. If he was taken by bandits, it was for ransom, and if he lived they would have served notice immediately. No, Fargus is dead--dead without a doubt. For me, I suspect the half-breed. He could have murdered him, buried the body, shot the horses, and arranged things to make it seem as though he had shared the same fate. Unfortunately," he added moodily, "unfortunately there is no conceivable way of proving that most necessary fact!" The ominous significance of his last remark was lost on her. The flash of hope which had so mystified the lawyer disappeared in the dejection caused by his logic. There passed through her an immense breath, which like a tumultuous burst of wind seemed to whirl away a multitude of longings and desires. She remained silent, overwhelmed and convinced. "But you said there were suspicious circumstances," she said at last. "What circumstances?" "First," he replied, watching her, "why should he have taken such a journey, at such a risk?" She shook her head. "And the next?" "This. No one in the mines, not a soul, knew of his coming;--in fact, no one had ever heard of the existence of Max Fargus." This time she could not repress an exclamation. "So, that does surprise you," he said quickly. "Why, yes--of course," she admitted grudgingly. She rose, took a step, and reseated herself. "Still, if he were thinking of buying a mine, wouldn't it be like him to look it over first without being known. That might be it." Bofinger understood that she wished thus to convey to him her knowledge, but without appearing to notice the contradiction, he suddenly broke out: "What luck, what damnable luck! And I did everything, scoured the country, offered a dozen rewards for the body! No use, not a trace, not a single clew!" Sheila, who had expected to find him triumphant, recognized again with growing anxiety the note of disaster in his voice. "Something is wrong?" she said, leaning forward suddenly. He rose, gave her a glance as though to estimate the probabilities of her attitude, then, oblivious to her presence, suddenly allowed all his anger and defeat to appear. "It is inconceivable, monstrous, absurd! It is enough to make me superstitious! But that's the way it goes in this world! I surmount everything. I put to sleep the suspicions of a crazy man, play him till he marries you. Good! Everything succeeds like magic. He goes to Mexico on some tantrum and is killed. So far magnificent! Fargus out of the way, the property ours. Nothing could be better. One would say heaven had ordained it. And then--there comes an impossible, an absurd turn,--a preposterous, idiotic bit of luck, and we are stranded high and dry!" He flung himself down and, jarring the table with his fists, cried: "It is enough to make me believe in Providence!" "But what, what has happened?" she cried, now thoroughly alarmed. "Is there a will?" "True, you don't see it. You're not a lawyer," he said, stopping short. "Ah, the law is a beautiful thing, a marvelously beautiful thing, my dear! You are satisfied he is dead, aren't you?" She hesitated, looking at him, wondering if there might be a doubt. "Of course you are!" he said savagely. "So am I, so would any one,--not the shadow of a doubt. Well, my dear, under the beautiful and equitable system of common-law from which we receive justice, nothing of the sort is allowed. Fargus cannot die for seven years!" "I don't understand," she said helplessly. "Because there is no eye-witness of his death nor discovery of the body, the law, my dear, will not admit he is dead for seven years." "Ah!" She followed him anxiously, perceiving there was more than she comprehended. "My dear girl, don't you see what that means?" "No, not quite." "It means Fargus being alive, in the eye of the law,--for seven years you can neither marry nor touch"--he paused to give the full blow to his next words--"nor touch one cent of the property." "But that is terrible! That is not just!" she protested mechanically, still incapable of estimating the sentence. The blow was too crushing, and, before they overwhelm, the great misfortunes demand time. "And that is what you call justice!" "I, I call it law!" he said with a laugh. "Well--what can we do?" she asked, turning to him in frightened appeal. "Nothing--wait." "But I am his wife--do you mean that I--" "Cannot touch one cent!" "But I am his wife!" "Wedded to a corpse," he said with a shrug of his shoulders. "And I can neither marry nor inherit the property?" "Just that." "For seven years?" "Correct." "Seven years," she repeated, drawing her hand across her eyes. "It is hard." "Seven years!" she burst out, rising with a cry of despair that thrilled the lawyer. "But that is a lifetime!" "Eh, its long enough." "A lifetime!" she repeated more quietly, staring at him with blank eyes. "It's hard on me too," he said roughly. "On you!" she cried with a laugh such as despair alone can render horrible. "Oh, on you!" All at once he understood that the cry had been torn from her by the vision of the youth she saw expiring. "There now--" he said desperately. "After all, seven years are soon over, and half a million is something to wait for." "What good will it do me then!" she said, sinking into a chair and covering her face with her hands. Then seized with a convulsive sobbing, she cried, "No, no, it is too cruel. I won't do it, I won't, I can't!" "Come, don't be a fool," he said angrily, taking her by the shoulder. "Seven years, seven years!" she cried hysterically. "What good will it do me then, what do I care for money then! Oh, my youth, my youth! And this is the end of it. I knew it, I knew it! Fargus, you were not human! Fargus, you did this to punish me!" All at once she rose, shaken and frantic as a prophetess, and seizing her hair in her hands cried: "Oh, those years, I see them, those seven terrible years!" She began to wander about the room avoiding the lawyer, invoking always the youth which she seemed to see expiring before her, in the inexorable limits of nature. Bofinger, after a vain attempt to check her, remained helpless in the presence of such hysteria. A moment later he stole from the room, took his satchel and went to the door. There he stopped, waited, saw her convulsed with sobbing, frowned, raised his shoulders and slipped out. On the sidewalk the gods of suspicion, which ruled him, made him cry suddenly: "Hell! I am a fool to be so tender-hearted. She's been lyin' to me to hide some mystery. That was the time to put the screws on!" He hesitated, scanning the shade. From time to time a silhouette passed, frantic and suffering. This shadow, without life or body, representing nothing but an agony, horrified him. He turned and hastened away. CHAPTER III THE FIRM OF GROLL AND BOFINGER Six months previous to the events of the last chapter, four men were awaiting the opening of the afternoon session of the police court, in an office whose glass front displayed to the travel of Tenth Street the legend, HYMAN GROLL & ALONZO BOFINGER _Counselors-at-Law._ Opposite, the Jefferson Market Court loomed from the triangular island which is formed by the junction of Sixth and Greenwich Avenues, whose muddy torrents descend, roaring, to shake it from its foundation. The court is one of seven similar mouths, down which one may look aghast, into the cauldron at the depths of society. Vice nowhere has a more horrid aspect, for nowhere is it more mean and repulsive with the inequalities of suffering. Journalism, to strip the novice of all his illusions, sends him to this rude school, where he shortly learns not only that evil as well as good is inevitable and eternal, but that justice, in common with eternity, must be accepted in faith, for to explore its depths is to recoil in horror. To him, who knows the misery which bears the weight of the social superstructure, justice has the aspect of a seal over a living tomb, and the present building is a mockery. Where there should stand a waste of gray is a meaningless mass of red brick. In place of a stern, ponderous block of granite, unsoftened by ledge or cornice, crude with the crudity of man's justice to man, there rises in architectural legerdemain a jumble of turret and tower, as though variety and gaiety could be sought in this saddest and dreariest of the manifestations of society. Confronting the barred windows of the prison annex, from Sixth to Seventh Avenues, runs a short row of clingy, undersized houses, given over to the lawyers of the army of "Shysters," who, much as a ragpicker rakes a garbage heap, scrape from the petty crimes of the court a miserable income. The lawyer who succeeds has his runners whipping up the gutters and the alleys, his alliances suspected or open with the criminal and the police, while the miserable fee which results from this elaborate system must often be divided into three parts. The city, which does nothing in character and wantonly mingles loveliness and evil, the ridiculous and the tragic, has not marked the spot for avoidance but has forced the lawyers to dispute their foothold with half a dozen small shops. The marketers, who come to the grocery, basket on arm, share the sidewalk with the prostitute and the dive-keeper. At four o'clock each afternoon the street is momentarily flushed by the influx of children from a neighboring school, who also witness the reluctant entrances into these mysterious offices, where despair dominates beyond what the court itself can inflict. In this row, the offices of Groll & Bofinger were the most pretentious and immaculate. The glass front sparkled. The gilt announcement arrested the eye afar, while a green shade, raised half-way from the bottom, effectually screened the occupants and suggested a little of the mystery of the pawn-shop, which offers obscurity to the despair of its clients. An office boy, prematurely gone into long trousers, lolled in the doorway, finishing by means of a hat pin the butt of a cigar and searching the passers-by with something of the restlessness of the pointer, alert to flush a new client. Within the office the dwarfed ceiling and the frown of the opposite prison left a dim area by the window and sunk the rest into shadow. In the rear two dull glass doors threw a foggy interruption which filled with foreboding the imagination of the client who entered these confidential cabinets. Otherwise, the office was matter-of-fact and characterless; where one expected dust, confusion, and slouch, everything was clean, ordered and new, seeking an atmosphere of respectable mediocrity. This decent surface, nevertheless, after the first introduction never failed to impress the initiated with the treachery of an ambuscade. By the window Bofinger, with a leg over the table, was chatting with a reporter, Joseph LeBeau, who from nervousness was perched on the back of a chair, feet on the seat, gulping down frankfurter sandwiches from a paper bag. On the bench near by his comrade Ganzler, from a news agency, was stretched on his fat back, a law book under his shaved head, hat over his eyes, pretending to snatch the sleep he had squandered during the night. In the rear the figure of Groll, withdrawn from the conversation, presented nothing but an indistinct bulk. Ganzler was one of those rats of journalism which are as necessary to the press as the criminal confederate to the police, a bohemian to whom reporting was a destiny rather than a profession. He touched all men on the worst side, knew blackmailer and sharper by name, enjoyed their company and fell into their ways, did them favors when they turned up in the Police Court, was their intermediary with the force and, in return, ran without fear streets where a detective would not venture alone. He knew each subtle channel of graft about the court and won the confidence of all by dipping into the same ugly mess. He was coarse, acute, with a memory which never let slip a fact, made of iron, tricky, but too immersed in the life he reported to lend to the bare facts that inspiration which needs a far perspective. He was rated sure and indispensable. In journalism that is at once a guarantee and an epitaph. Joseph LeBeau had not been in the service long enough to disguise either his curiosity or his horror. He was a blonde young man remarkable for that height of forehead which the image of Walter Scott has impressed upon the memory, and which, while invariably betokening great imagination and intellectuality, appears alike in poets and casuists. In the brown eyes were perception and wit fed by an untiring curiosity of life. At twenty-five, unless dissipation has scarred it, the face of a man is a record yet to be written and the first marks are significant. From the nostrils to the corners of the mouth two furrows had already set, which when he smiled recalled that statue of Voltaire which, above the fret of the Boulevard St. Germain, mocks those who cannot see life is but a jest. Though rich, he dressed carelessly. The felt hat askew on his head was weather-worn. The blue tie straggled from its knot. The trousers sustained by a belt bagged from the hips to the boots which showed the white seam of a crack. Nevertheless, beside him, Bofinger in his immaculate trousers, stiff white vest, and planked shirt had the air of a countryman who dresses once a year for a wedding or a funeral, while there was about LeBeau an atmosphere of aristocratic certainty which gave the impression that his bohemianism was a mood into which, as into all things, he had ventured to sample the sensation. He had been listening vacantly to Bofinger, intent more on pursuing some train of thought of his own. At length he crumpled up the bag and asked with that impertinence which reporters use to arrive more directly to their ends: "Alonzo, did you ever in the course of your distinguished services happen to defend an honest man?" Bofinger feigned an air of reflection, then with a superior smile answered: "How many do you know?" The paper bag hurled at the waste basket fell back, spilling its crumbs. LeBeau without attention to the accident drew out a cigar, crossed his legs and began gravely: "How many do I know? You don't believe in the animal then? That phrase, my poor Bo, condemns you to mediocrity. Man, honesty is not a fixed virtue! Any one may become honest, at times, and for a variety of reasons." "Joseph, you alarm me," said Ganzler, stirring under his hat. "Alarm me and disturb my slumbers." "Honesty as a variety is an absolute necessity to man," continued LeBeau, half in raillery, half in conviction. "It stimulates our imagination and resuscitates our powers for sinning. We reserve it as a sort of moral bath; when we feel ourselves getting too black, why, we seek out an honest action and cleanse ourselves. It is a moral bath and a very slight application removes the stains. Blessed be our human nature!" "Joe, your view of human nature is horrible," interjected Ganzler. "Say, can't we trust any man to remain dishonest?" "Not even you, you old grafter," LeBeau said with a complimentary oath. "I pass that. But Bo?" continued Ganzler. Then answering his own question he added: "Bo, though, isn't to be relied on, he's not a steady character. Say Groll then--now go slow, you ain't going to tell us Groll's in any danger? I'd hate to think that." The impudence of journalists is unbounded. All is permitted them if only they say it with an air of insincerity. On their side they abuse their prerogative, as women avail themselves of banter to leave the sting of truth. As LeBeau remained silent and thoughtful, Bofinger rose and examined the street, while Ganzler turning to the wall grunted: "That was a poser." "If I am right," LeBeau said with deliberation. "Of the four of us, Groll is the surest to end honest and respectable." He added: "He's a conservative--the present is but a ladder." Ganzler and Bofinger, who saw in his gravity an exquisite irony, went off into riotous laughter, but LeBeau had the satisfaction of seeing, in the shadow, Groll abruptly raise his head. "A man is neither good nor bad, honest or dishonest," he continued, "but a sensitive organism that under different conditions responds to different impulses." "Hello, here's Flora," said Ganzler. A woman entered, young and with a memory of good looks. Bofinger rose and the two disappeared through one of the glass doors. "The man who succeeds," said LeBeau, speaking to Groll, "is he who studies the conditions that may turn an honest man to dishonesty, and those that bring a rascal to repentance. The important thing is not to fix the price of each man. Not at all. The thing is to use rogues not as rogues, but as rogues in whom is the fatal impulse to honesty." "Hello, that's an idea," said Ganzler. The door of the cabinet creaked and Bofinger, sticking out his head, said with an oath: "Same story--she wants more time!" Groll without a word let fall his fist; Bofinger, interpreting the refusal, disappeared. A cry was heard. The door shut, LeBeau resumed. "That's what Bofinger doesn't see, and yet it is the obstacle he ought always to be dreading. Nothing more dangerous than honesty. Why, it is often nothing but an obstinate revulsion of pride in a man who for a whim or a moment resents being counted on as a rascal. That is temperamental honesty, liable at any moment to trip up a case. Then, a man can become honest by terror, or anger, or superstition, or sheer caprice. The truth is, in these days, you can count on no man's dishonesty. So confident am I of this beautiful truth that I prophesy Bo will end a shyster lawyer in a shyster court." The woman reappeared, trailed by Bofinger, who shrugged his shoulders at her sullen departure. "No use, Flora," broke in Ganzler, impudently, "you dress too well for that game. Pay and be protected. The system is better than another one we know." The girl stopped for a furious retort, in one of those passions which shake the existence of the outcast and bring a hundred times into their lives the lust of murder. Then compressing her lips she wheeled and bolted out. Ganzler laughed uneasily; LeBeau, forgetting his theme, watched her retreat. From behind, she showed a pleasing figure and the movements of a young girl. "Take the other side," Bofinger said, returning to his perch. "Every man is more or less dishonest. Admit that proposition." "It is debatable," said LeBeau, whose eyes still followed the woman. "We graft or allow grafting--and what's the difference?" Bofinger pursued contemptuously. "A man who touches society the way we do has got no illusions I can tell you. Do you know how I could live if I wanted to--without its costing me a cent? Talk to me of your honesty! For lodging I could put up at a dozen hotels who want protection. For meals there are restaurants by the hundred who don't want to be looked into too closely. Stand in with the force and anything is yours." "You said clothes?" inquired Ganzler with particular interest. "Well, it ain't so hard to find a sweat shop that's breaking the law, is it?" Bofinger replied with a smile. "Liquor and tobacco are too easy. Theaters that break the rule of the fire department will keep you amused. Pawnshops on the queer will give you a fine assortment of jewelry, and you can get a hack when you want it from any night hawk who expects to get into court." "Correct," said Ganzler, with an approving nod, "and convincing." "Fact is, there is pretty nearly nothing you couldn't get served up to you," Bofinger ended, with too much pride for either to misunderstand it. "Nothing--because you can always find some one who is grafting in a large or small way. Hell, how absurd justice is! Take this case just now. If adultery is a crime, why don't they prosecute a woman of the world in a divorce scandal instead of some miserable brute who lives by selling herself for a few little dollars!" Ganzler admired the fine flush of indignation and nodded wisely. LeBeau, remembering the scene with Flora, smiled ironically. "A poor man calls in a lawyer to defend him," continued Bofinger, whom the thought of injustice aroused. "A rich man's lawyer plans for him how to escape arrest. What's the difference? A million, that's all! With a million anything is respectable." "It is," took up LeBeau, in haste to air his opinions on that topic. "Why? With a million direct responsibility ceases. You no longer need to steal in person, you break laws by proxy. Justice does not yet recognize indirect responsibility. A million--there's our standard! Make it anyway. So long as the track is masked society will judge you only by the way you use it. At the bottom of all is this," he summed up, pulling out his watch: "The world abhors petty sinning. Take a ten-dollar bribe, you are despicable. Distribute on election day one hundred thousand dollars for bribery and you are a leader of men. Take one life--murder! Sacrifice a thousand lives for a commercial advantage, you are a captain of industry! Crime is in the motive and the scale. When a man steals from hunger or kills for revenge the motive is evident and the guilt apparent. But for ambition, for fame, for supremacy--the motive is human and grandiose. The grand scale precludes the crime! You are right, Bo, you are right there. The million's everything!" "Yes," Bofinger said pensively, whistling on his fingers, "but to get that first essential million you've got to run some risks." "Otherwise life would be too easy," LeBeau said with a smile. "The only difficulty to-day is, as you say, to get the first million." "It is all luck," Bofinger said moodily, and he remained silent, his gaze plunged into the street. LeBeau scrutinized him, smiling at the appetite he had awakened, seeing the man in the bare, and wondering if there were any crime before which such a nature would retreat, were it once a question of the opportunity he coveted. He woke his companion, who jumped up rubbing his eyes, asking: "Well, are you through with your honest man?" "True, we had forgotten him," LeBeau said, glancing at Bofinger. "Bo, good news!" Ganzler cried, looking through the window. "I see a client." Across the street a little man, clad in black from a shovel hat to a cloak which he carried slung over his shoulder, was examining undecidedly the row of lawyers' offices. The shoulders, which were unusually broad, so diminished his size that they gave him the look of a dwarf. It was an odd figure, incongruous in the street, with an air of belonging to the traditions of the stage. The two reporters, amusing themselves at his expense, decided successively that he was a bandit, a barber, an actor, a magician, a poet, and an engraver of tombstones. "There he goes," cried Ganzler. "He's frightened off. He's guilty!" "Maybe it was the honest man after all," said LeBeau, laughing. "Only honesty looks guilty nowadays. Too bad, that was your chance. Beware the honest man, though!" The two reporters departed for the court after helping themselves to cigars. Immediately from the back of the room a voice cried peremptorily: "Alonzo, you talk too damn much!" "What of it?" Bofinger said, wincing under his chief's reproof. "I only told them what they knew." "Say nothing and you risk nothing." Extricating himself from his seat Groll moved into the light, discovering the shoulders of a hunchback, a massive bust on legs which were weak, ill-matched, and pitiful. The heavy head fell from the high cheekbones and the yellowish eyes, which bulged like marbles, along the bold and fleshy nose to a lengthened jaw where the folded lips adhered to each other as though to repress all indiscreet speech. It was an unusual face, vacuous and immobile, that seemed to contain instead of blood some fishy fluid, which left it incapable of emotion. On settling into his seat his arms sprawled over the desk, bracing the weight of the head and shoulders on the elbows, while from the mass the eyes, vacant and magnetic, conveyed to Bofinger for the thousandth time the impression of an immense spider in the center of its web. Physical deformity has an extreme effect on human nature. Either it produces an heroic and resigned optimism, or it forms, by divesting them of the passions which shackle men, characters of implacable selfishness, who are strong because they were born weak and know no pity because nature has shown them none. Calculating and self-absorbed, Groll was yet not of those gamblers who, staking all at each leap, infrequently arrive through desire and infatuated confidence to heights seemingly beyond their force. He moved slowly to his end, with that unhuman oriental patience which, allied to the imagination of the American, forms in its rare conjunction characters that death alone can thwart. He knew how to bide his time without, as commonly occurs, the waiting consuming him. At thirty-eight, age when the American reckons his life a success or a failure, he had not lost a whit of his complacency. He had never known youth, he had not therefore been disturbed by its pangs for instant preeminence. With all that he was approaching forty a shyster lawyer, living on the blackmail he shared with the police. The future did not seem to hold anything further. Nevertheless, he had forced a career even out of this slough of petty misery. He had begun by examining carefully the problem of vice and the law, asking himself anxiously if the system of blackmail was transitory. He soon became convinced that so long as public sentiment would not admit that vice exists and legalize it, vice must exist through corruption. He then conceived an audacious plan, which was no less than to unite under one system, with himself as the head, all the traffic in blackmail which then filtered through a thousand intersecting channels. The man who could achieve such an organization, he saw would dominate the city so long as he was content to remain obscure. Towards this end he had moved irresistibly, picking his associates and his agents, biding only the moment when his fortune would permit him to launch the system on a grand scale. So well had he locked up in his own breast the secret of this gigantic plan that Bofinger himself did not suspect it. In character he was frugal, temperate, and peaceful, without vices or distractions, qualities which in another man would have been virtues, so strangely does the controlling motive determine betwixt virtue and vice. Born three centuries ago he might have been a bigot, pursuing religion with the same fanaticism which he brought to the conquest of his present design. Bofinger continuing to defend himself, Groll interrupted decisively: "One is never strong enough to be confident. Only a fool feels secure. Talk to Ganzler who is one of us--but not to LeBeau, who for a sensation might write us up and bring everything tumbling about our ears! Also don't show your hand! Play close to your chest." He stopped, considered his associate, and perceiving the reproof was felt, added: "Now for business. What did they say at that new joint in Eighteenth Street?" Bofinger, who had taken his scolding like a guilty schoolboy, hastened gratefully to the opening, saying: "They won't give up a cent." "Did you make clear our pull?" "Yes." "What, do they think they can operate in this district for nothing?" "That seems to be it." "We'll have it raided to-night," Groll said thoughtfully but without irritation. "We must make an example. It will have a good effect. Besides Flaherty tells me he's got to pull off something quick." He drummed on the desk, while Bofinger, seeing he had something in mind, waited. "Alonzo, we've been working on a wrong principle," he said suddenly. "This idea of being lenient with the women will bring us in trouble. We must be paid promptly and cut out the excuses. That's what gets them excited, and when they get worked up they are liable to do anything. When they understand they must pay up they'll take it as a matter of course. Putting it off gets them to brooding over their wrongs. After this, no more putting off. Otherwise run them in the next day and send them up to the Island. Two or three examples will straighten things out. Make it easier for us and easier for them." "Shall I warn them?" Bofinger asked. "No," he said after a moment. "The example will be better if you don't. Send a couple up." For a few minutes he gave directions in the same mild, unvarying voice, and then departed, each step paid by an effort. Bofinger with a remainder of his irritation threw himself into a chair. The discussion with LeBeau had touched him too closely to be soon dismissed. The reporter had not been mistaken in his estimate. Bofinger was a man constantly in revolt against his condition, ready to risk anything for the opportunity to rise. But he wanted fortune, as the gambler seeks it, in a day, on some marvelous cast. This conversation with LeBeau, who had all he coveted and seemed to disdain it, left him in a fury. He recapitulated in his mind a dozen schemes of blackmail and sharp practise, rejecting each as inadequate and petty. "It's all luck," he said almost aloud. "I'd like to be a woman. It's only a woman can jump from anywhere. If I only had their chance!" In the midst of this reverie, the door was suddenly thrown open without the ceremony of a knock, and a curt voice demanded: "Be this Mr. Groll?" The lawyer, shocked out of his dreaming, looked up and recognized the singular figure of the little man in the shovel hat. CHAPTER IV THE LITTLE MAN OF THE SHOVEL HAT The newcomer stood rigidly. In the dimness of the office he had the look of a musty portrait where the artist has allowed the body from the shoulders to sink into obscurity, the better to emphasize the chalkiness of the face. "I am Mr. Bofinger," the lawyer said. "What can I do for you?" The client, without answer, remained blinking at the lawyer. The clothes were shabby, of a style unfamiliar. The trousers bulged and wrinkled like sails in the wind. In the coat the elbows were polished and the cuffs eaten away. The narrow, ill-revealed eyes had all the cunning of the valet, spying the details that escape another, but with the insolence of the man who is accustomed to give command. The cast of countenance was Eastern, dominated about the thick lips by a set scowl of mistrust, which struck the lawyer at once, as well as the almost fanatic intensity of his gaze. The feet, the knuckles, and the nostrils, as in abnormal or extreme natures, were pronounced. He remained at the doorway with undisguised interest, examining the unfamiliar surroundings with the defiance of one prejudiced against the profession. Bofinger, who divided humanity into those who could pay and those who could not, satisfied on this score despite the poverty of the habiliment, rose and said: "Come in, take a seat." The visitor with a start removed his hat, discovering a fleeing forehead matted with coarse dark hair, and sliding forward ten feet fell into a chair. Standing his hands had obtruded, seated he sought to conceal his feet. Then suddenly, speaking from the corner of his mouth, he said: "You're rather young." "I have been fortunate," Bofinger said modestly, concealing his astonishment at this opening, by pretending to discover a tribute. "Close-mouthed?" "As an undertaker." "Honest?" "What, sir!" "And honest?" the little man repeated, seizing a knee in either hand and looking him stubbornly in countenance. With unfeigned astonishment, Bofinger shot to his feet, glared down a moment at the cynical, unrelenting scrutiny; then, with a bob of his head, wheeled, returned to his desk and said softly as he took up his paper: "Kindly close the door--after you!" There was a moment's interval, while each watched the other, the lawyer fearing the success of his manoeuver, the client weighing its sincerity as he balanced on his chair and blinked in indecision. All at once he jerked upright, flung aside his shock of hair and blurted: "Mr. Bofinger--" "No, sir, I beg you," the lawyer cut in, elevating two fingers. "Such questions cannot be addressed to reputable members of my profession--" "I want to say--" "No sir, it is useless. If I don't produce in you the necessary impression of confidence, then there ain't no use in prolonging--there ain't no use, I say--" "Say, I take that back," the other interrupted decisively. Convinced that the question had been designed to test him, Bofinger allowed a requisite interval to salve his dignity, before replying: "You are, I see, unfamiliar with the etiquette of attorney and client. For that reason and because I see your business is of a kind to alarm you I'll pass over what you have just said. But I insist that without further delay" (here he consulted his watch) "you come to the matter in point, Mr. ----" The little man shook his head nervously. "You don't wish to give your name?" "I don't." "That ain't unusual," Bofinger said graciously. "Well, how can I help you?" Thus faced, the client said carefully: "It is a delicate matter." At this trite introduction, Bofinger could not restrain a certain disappointed loosening of his body. He crossed his legs, caged his fingers and, meditating on the ceiling, volunteered: "A woman?" "Yes." The visitor shifted in his seat, pulling at the knees of his trousers. Bofinger repressed a smile and a yawn. "You couldn't have gotten into better hands," he said in sing-song. "Are there any letters? Does she hold documentary evidence?" "No--no!" "Good. Divorce or breach of promise?" "What are you talking about?" his client said angrily. "I want information." "I see," Bofinger said, resuming the scent, "and very stupid of me. Information preparatory to marriage, ain't it?" "Certainly not!" Bofinger, nettled at his insuccess, said grandly: "If you will elucidate." "It is an adoption." The manner and the answer revived all the lawyer's curiosity. "You said--" "Adoption!" snapped the little man with evident ill humor. "Very good. The case now is clear. With a view to adoption, I am to investigate the past life and present surroundings of the child." "Yes." "It is a girl?" "A woman--a young woman." At this answer the lawyer experienced an extraordinary quickening of interest that finally dispelled any fear of a commonplace case. This time he did not force a repetition of the essential statement, but adopting a matter-of-fact tone, poised a pencil and asked: "What is the name?" "Vaughn--Sheila Vaughn." "And the address?" "I don't know." Bofinger raised his head in astonishment. "But you know her--have met her." His client, with a nod, suddenly abandoned his reticence and as though now he had come head high into the matter, there was nothing for it but to strike out boldly, began imperiously: "I'm to meet her at four o'clock in Washington Square, northeast corner. You be there, follow her after I go, and get her address. Find out everything about her, where she comes from, where she lives, what she does." "One moment," Bofinger said suddenly. "How long have you known her?" The little man frowned, looked at him in disapproval of the question, and finally replied: "Four months." "Good." "Look here, Mr. Bofinger, I want to know everything, complete. You know what that means?" "Certainly." The chair grated, the little man snapped to his feet, clapping down his hat. "And see here. I forbid--that is, I want you to see that she don't suspect what's going on, not for a second. You hear--she's not to know I'm looking her up." "That goes without saying. Now can I have a few days? Say--three from now. Where do you want me to report, Mr. ----" "Mr. Bofinger," he cried angrily, "you ain't going to catch me with your lawyer's tricks. You thought you'd worm out of me where I lived, didn't you?" He stopped, glared at Bofinger and then cried: "Do you know what I think? I think you're nothing but a pettifogging lawyer--that there ain't no partner, and I'm no better'n a fool to talk to you. What do you say to that?" "That I'm dealing with a lunatic!" Bofinger said brusquely. "I've had enough of you. Take your case somewhere else!" "No, no," he answered chuckling. He remained shifting from foot to foot, swinging his big hands and blinking at the lawyer, who, from long contact with rascals, presented an offended innocence on the most honest countenance imaginable. At the end of a moment, reassured or not, the little man ground on his heel, squared his shoulders, and without so much as a word shuffled away. Bofinger, with a few rapid steps, flung out the back passage into a sort of blind alley, choked with a damp display of mounting wash, hailed Toby the office boy from a knot of young gamblers, and returning showed him through the window the retreating figure of his late client. "Name and address. Be quick and be damned careful." He spun a half dollar in the air, adding, "Waiting for you, Toby, if you're back within an hour." "I'm on," Toby answered. He drew in a whistle, blinked one eye affectionately at the silver and disappeared like a shadow, calling back, "Put it on the ice, boss!" Bofinger stood a moment, rubbing his chin. Then with a grin he dropped into his chair, saying contemptuously: "An adoption!" CHAPTER V BOFINGER LOSES HOPE Bofinger, with his instinct for blackmail, already saw clearly into the case. A misanthrope in love, who, to conceal his purpose, hid his identity and feigned to be considering an adoption; and a woman who, on her side, refused to reveal her address presented to him the familiar conjunction of senility and the adventuress. When he had asked his client how long he had known Sheila Vaughn he had had a motive. To him, the vital issue was to learn whether this shabby, odd client had means. Confident that the woman must have already secured that information, when he learned that the intimacy had already existed four months he felt certain that if she had played so carefully it was for no mean stake. To his keen sense of his own opportunities the eccentric character of his client, all suspicion and mistrustful cunning, provoked a professional eagerness to meet and dupe so unusual an antagonist. He did not formulate a plan yet, but he had that strange, excited premonition of success, which, though it deceive a hundred times, gains always with the temperament of the gambler an easy credence. He went to the court-room, where he transacted some business, and towards four o'clock hastened back to the office. To his great irritation Toby was nowhere to be seen, but on going to his desk he discovered a note on which was scrawled: MAX FARGUS _The Oyster House Man._ Bofinger pounced upon it with a cry of exultation. Max Fargus, proprietor of half a dozen oyster houses, was a character known to the city by a score of anecdotes of eccentricity and greed. He crushed the paper in his hand and swung out triumphantly. "Fargus is worth half a million, if a cent," he said joyfully. "What luck, eh! The woman is playing for marriage of course. Bo, I begin to see where you come in!" As he hastened towards the Square, dodging amid the filth of Sixth Avenue, he amused himself by sketching the portrait of the woman as he imagined her. "Yes, sure, its a question of marriage," he thought. "It must be if she has played as close as that for four months. She's a clever one, I bet, an old hand. I wonder if I know her." The Square suddenly discovered itself, that smiling barrier which interposes between the horrors of Third Street, a locality so foul that a conflagration alone could cleanse it, and the thoughtless royal avenue which digs its roots here and stretches upward to flower like a royal palm in the luxuriance of Central Park. At this period Washington Square had not fallen before the vandal march of business, though already the invaders showed their menacing front above the roofs. To-day nothing remains of that glory save the north side, which, in its red and white uniforms, makes face with solid front to the enemy from whom it expects nothing but obliteration. "Now for it," thought Bofinger as he entered the grateful shades which the foliage, nowhere more generous, lavished there. On a bench at the foot of a sycamore he had perceived the somber note of his odd client and the green flush of a dress. Slackening he came towards them, his eyes eagerly on the woman. He had expected a young girl, he found a woman in the thirties, but fresh and defying an exact estimate. A simple bonnet, with border of lace, which drooped like petals, effectually concealed her face. The dress of a peculiar shade of May-green silk showed a neck as modest as that of a young girl, and draped itself demurely and indefinitely. She was busy over some embroidery, but at the moment of his passing the needle was idle, and with her eyes on the ground she was pondering on some remark of her companion. Everything spoke of the natural--the innocence and prudery of her pose, the gradual motion of her body, the artless quiet of her attention; of the coquette or the actress--not a sign. Bofinger caught this rapid impression as one seizes the flight of a star. He passed, his hopes sank. His anger rose and he cried with an oath: "Hell, what luck--she's honest!" It was the one obstacle that never failed to upset his temper. To be defeated by rascality, by a clever turn of chicanery, never disturbed him--that was legitimate. But honesty, in his philosophy, was such a colossal absurdity that before it he never could control his impatience. So it was with a sense of having been defrauded that he repeated: "Damn the luck, she _seems_ honest." He sat down at some distance, yet near enough to wait anxiously a better look. In a moment the woman lifted her head and he saw her face as she nodded deferentially to her companion. The black hair was divided in the middle and fell over the temples in the fashion of a thousand madonnas. He thought that she had even a look of stupidity. She put the embroidery into a bag and the movements of her arm was stiff, lacking grace, the gestures of a woman without coquetry. "Sold again!" Bofinger murmured, overcome by such evidence. "Perhaps after all I jumped too soon. The old boy is crazy enough to adopt her." With an abrupt leave-taking, Fargus arose and departed eastward. The woman without lightness or geniality had accepted his bow, bobbing her head and, betraying her inexperience by a slight diffident start, reseated herself with embarrassment. Presently she stood up, smoothed her skirt, tucked her bag under her arm and moved off, clutching her parasol by the waist. "Oh, a woman who walks like that," Bofinger said to himself as he followed her up Fifth Avenue, "must be virtuous. She's the honest working girl supporting an invalid mother and all that. It's true, such things do happen. Ah, we turn east now." She had disappeared around the corner of Twelfth Street. Without distrust, Bofinger followed so negligently that on rounding the corner he ran full upon her waiting in ambush. The surprise made him lose his self-possession; he passed hurriedly, without daring to meet her glance. But to his immense relief he saw she had not even noticed him and divined that it was for Fargus alone that she took such precautions. "Eh, eh! What does that mean?" he said joyfully to himself. But this new hope gradually flickered out, as he considered logically: "After all, she has a right to hide where she lives. Besides, if she were an adventuress, she would have suspected me. That's true, that proves nothing." He continued eastward and turned north up Irving Place, perceiving to his satisfaction that she would do the same. At Fourteenth Street he covered himself in the crowd, while the woman taking the other side went west to Seventh Avenue, again starting north. Seeing that she no longer feared pursuit Bofinger approached nearer. At one crossing, to avoid a puddle she caught up her skirts in either hand, the parasol projecting awkwardly. "She walks like a country school ma'am, going to school in rubber boots!" he thought savagely, finding relief, as his irritation grew, in ridiculing the woman. "How long is she going to keep me trotting after her, I wonder?" As though in answer to his question she turned west and suddenly mounted the steps of a brown stone front close to the southern corner. "Respectable, of course!" Bofinger ejaculated, passing and marking the number. He went to Eighth Avenue, descended a block and returned eastward. The respectability of the house completed his dejection, which showed itself in the listless drag of his feet. All at once as he neared Seventh Avenue again his indifferent glance, wandering along the street, was stopped by the peculiar actions of a woman in a light duster, who was holding the door across her and spying the street with caution. The veil which fell from a saucy toque of light blue straw was thick enough to hide her features. With only a languid amusement Bofinger was watching her when, in stepping from the vestibule, the woman caught her duster on the door. The next moment she snatched it around her, but in the second's interval Bofinger beheld a flash of green, of that peculiar May-green silk which a half an hour before had first attracted his eye to the companion of Max Fargus. Her alarm, the dress so carefully concealed, the position of the house back to back with the one she had entered, revealed the whole stratagem. A great thankfulness welled up in him, and like all men whom a flip of fortune redeems, he received the turn exultingly, as an evidence that he might count on illimitable favors. He laughed with an easy heart at the simplicity of the trick which had deceived him, and as he followed her he laughed anew at the transformation of the woman. Everything was changed. The skirts hidden under the duster were yet gathered about her in a way to suggest the slender lines of the body. She walked daintily, placing her feet with care. Even to the alert poise of the head and the rapid grace of her movement, everything breathed an air of coquetry and art. Bofinger, lost in this analysis, continued to laugh, sharing emotion between railing at his stupidity and admiration for the actress who had not neglected a single detail. He thought of the awkward start she had made when Fargus had left, and of the way she had reminded him of the country woman stalking in rubber boots, and recalling such details he followed joyously, scenting success with such an ally. After a few blocks she went west and entered a house, letting herself in with a key. "Hello, I know that place," Bofinger said to himself, recognizing the boarding-house as a haven of improvident actors. "So Miss Vaughn is of the stage. I can believe it." Then he added with decision: "What a treasure, eh! She's clever enough to hoodwink a dozen Farguses!" The exact meaning of this sentiment was, no doubt, that a woman who could deceive him must be capable of great things. CHAPTER VI MISS MORISSEY IS MISS VAUGHN At the end of half an hour, which he gave to a careful consideration of his plans, Bofinger returned to the boarding-house. A plot of burned and scrawny grass served as a front lawn. A cast-iron nymph, relic of prosperity, stained and chipped, its head-dress holding the straws of an old nest, gave the note to the place and prophesied the interior. At his pull, the loose knob, as though unaccustomed to use, came forth so far that he feared he had wrenched it bodily out, before a faint twinkle from within persisted to his ears. Three times he repeated this operation, before a shadow on the glass announced a slow relief. A frail old woman, moving tediously, ushered him into the hall, shading her weak eyes while she awaited his errand. Bofinger, drawing forth his pocketbook, selected a business card, discarded that for one that bore his name alone, and finally, after a moment's consideration, replaced the pocketbook and said: "Just tell the lady who came in a half an hour ago that a gentleman wants to speak to her." "Ain't ye goin' to send no name?" the woman asked in dull astonishment. "It is not necessary." "And ye don't know her well?" "I don't." "I guess, then, I've got to climb up," she answered wearily. "I was hopin' you might go up. What did ye say her name was?" "The lady who came in a while ago; she wore a light duster." "Oh, Miss Morissey--ye want to see her, do ye?" "That's it, Miss Morissey--please." "She wouldn't hear if I called. She's on the third," she answered, with a sigh and a look of reproach. "Ye can sit down there--" She took a step but turned with a sudden solicitude. "Don't bear too hard." Mindful of the caution Bofinger balanced gingerly on the shaky chair, watching the landlady laboring up the stairs, a step at a time, childish fashion. An air of dinginess and neglect pervaded the hall and the distant dining-room. In the carpets were frayed shallows, on the banisters two spindles diverged from the line. The blistered plaster was dropping from the ceiling, while on the wall the grimy, green paper had regions of musky yellow. Curtains and shutters rigidly excluded the daylight, while everywhere the carpeted silence spread the feeling of a cemetery of abandoned hopes. From the second floor the thin complaint of the landlady came down. "Miss Morissey! oh, Miss Morissey!" So persuaded was Bofinger by the all prevailing famine that he rose and cautiously regained his hat from the loose rack. The landlady, climbing on, kept calling from time to time, fruitlessly, "Miss Morissey! Miss Morissey!" A door whined, and in the dusk of the landing above a vague head came to peer down at the lawyer. The landlady returned, descending with the same efforts, and announced: "Ye can go up, top floor back, feel to the right as far as ye can go, and knock." Seized with the general decadence he toiled upward with slow, lifeless steps. An odor of stale tobacco hung in the air. At the first floor a door left purposely open showed a man in shirt sleeves, shaving, while a woman in a wrapper arrived in time to study his passing. Through the darkness into which he now ascended came an atmosphere of musk and the scraping of a violin. Groping down the blind passage with outstretched fingers, his hands finally struck against the wall. He felt to the right, found a door, and knocked. A voice replied, uncertainly: "Yes--come in." He stepped out of the blackness, blinking a moment at the sudden light. The woman he saw was indeed Sheila Vaughn. "Miss Morissey?" he asked, shutting the door carefully. "Yes." He bowed and, indifferent to her questioning, remained sweeping the room with precise scrutiny. In the walls the same decrepitude was manifest, in the furniture the same infirmity. A patch of brown paper replaced a pane in the window, the globe on the gas-jet was bitten and smoked. On the rakish bed was laid out the green silk dress, a clothes brush on top. In its place she wore a soiled muslin, raveled at the cuffs and the neck, while the neat boots had given way to frayed red slippers. A wrapper, a musty dress or two, in impoverished contrast to the elegance on the bed, hung from a row of pegs. The eye of the lawyer, after noting each evidence of unusual poverty, rested on the table where a few photographs were displayed. He advanced and picking up each in turn said pleasantly: "Ah, Miss Morissey, you have had a career?" The woman, who had followed him with amazement and alarm, said stiffly: "What do you want with me?" "Miss Morissey," Bofinger said, replacing the photographs with a nod, "I want to see you on business--particular business. Can I sit down?" "Sit down." Reassured by the matter-of-fact method of his address, she motioned him to a chair, drawing one for herself. "If you please, I'll sit here," he said, placing himself so that the light would fall on her face. He drew his glasses, peered at her earnestly, and began: "My dear Miss Morissey, you are certainly a most interesting person--pardon me if I am too curious." "What's your name?" she said quickly. "Mr. Bofinger--Mr. Alonzo Bofinger." "You are a lawyer?" she asked slowly. "Yes, Miss _Vaughn_, I am." "Ah!" The interjection escaped her. Immediately she rallied, rose and shifted her chair, that the light might be equally shared. Her eyes showed anxiety but more interest, as she asked with false calm: "Then what do you want with--Miss Vaughn?" "Sheila Vaughn," Bofinger said loudly, thinking the time right to overwhelm her, "I represent Mr. Max Fargus." He paused for evidence of disconcertion, but whatever her emotions she replied evenly: "Yes, I know him." "Mr. Fargus has commissioned me to make the most exact inquiries about you." "Why?" she asked, studying his face intently. "My client is thinking of an adoption." "Indeed!" she said, really astonished; but the smile that succeeded showed him she was not the dupe of the subterfuge. "That was the reason he gave me. I suspect, though, that it is rather a question of marriage." "Very probably," she said, nodding. In measure, as she studied the sly countenance, her assurance had returned. "And what'll you do?" "Madam," Bofinger said impressively, "I must report what I have discovered." "And that's what?" "That I followed Miss Vaughn to a house where she disappeared and Miss Morissey emerged--by a back passage. That Miss Morissey is quite a different character from Miss Vaughn, especially in style," he added, smiling reminiscently. "That Miss Morissey is evidently of the stage, living in a boarding-house, which I happen to know is a resort of actors on their uppers. I shall be forced to describe the contrast in your dress and the destitution of your wardrobe; pardon me, if I am forced to use the word,--deception. This, I say it frankly, is but the beginning of my investigation." "It's already a good deal, isn't it?" she said thoughtfully. "You must judge of that, Miss Vaughn." "Are you sure" she asked with a smile, "quite sure that you'll tell all that?" He turned in astonishment and saw that she had taken his measure. Realizing that he could no longer count on the advantage of terrifying her, he acknowledged the turn by abandoning his magisterial attitude, and discarding his glasses. "Sheila," he said genially, "I don't intend to do anything of the kind." She frowned, laughed, rose, rearranged her skirts and, with a return of coquetry, asked maliciously: "Will you please tell me how my extraordinary friend came to employ you?" He did not like it that she should have read him so easily, but this pique yielding to the humor of the question, he said with a grin: "I guess Fargus thinks all lawyers a set of scoundrels. Anyhow he picked me at random, thinking he would stand as good a chance that way as any other. To which I'll add, since perfect confidence is necessary between us, he was wrong in his theory and unlucky in its application. However, his misfortune is our gain." At the word "our," calmly spoken, Sheila turned anxiously. "You have some plan then?" she said abruptly. "And what do you expect out of it?" "One moment," Bofinger said with a deprecating smile; "before we discuss such vulgar details there must be, I repeat, absolute confidence. Miss Vaughn, you have sized up quickly the fact that your future lies solely in my hands. I ain't going to deceive you--my interests depend on you. Let's begin at the start. What's your side of the affair?" He threw himself back into a listening attitude and looked at her encouragingly. The daylight had begun to weaken. Across the sordid back lots an occasional gas-jet flared upon a room too miserable to be hidden. Before the direct avowal Sheila hesitated, incapable of his brutal frankness, woman-like considering some justifying motive. The lawyer with a cynical smile comprehended the dumb play and waited until she broke out lamely: "My side--you know it already. He wants to marry me--and I--I am willing. That's all. How could it be anything else?" She put out her hand as though calling on her surroundings to explain. "What have you told him?" Bofinger asked, seeing that he must prompt the recital. "I am living with an aunt, whom I support by needlework," she admitted reluctantly. "Come, my dear," Bofinger said encouragingly. "If you don't want to tell me how you managed it--you're clever enough, you fooled me for a moment--tell me where you are." "I don't know," she said frankly. "He's half crazy, you know. I'm never sure of him." "Well, has he spoken?" "Of marriage? No--that is, not outright." "Well, where are you?" "Why, I am waiting," she said with a shrug. "He makes love to me all the time." "And I suppose, my clever dear," Bofinger said, taking the opportunity to promote familiarity. "You've made him think you're pining away?" "I'm no such fool," she answered with an indefinable smile. "Indeed I tell him that I don't care the least bit for him. That if he wants to win my affection he's going to have a hard time, but--" she added with a laugh, "I let him believe that's not entirely impossible." "You're right," Bofinger said appreciatively. "Of course you're right." A weak knock sounded on the door. Bofinger, who did not wish to be seen, rose, looking anxiously at Sheila. "It's only dinner," she explained, going to the door. "Nevertheless," he said hurriedly, showing his back and going to the window, "don't let any one in." Obedient to his request, she received the meal from the child who brought it, paying out the pennies and barring the door. "Let's see," he said, returning to the table, "what you call a dinner." On the table were arranged half a sausage, half a loaf of bread, and a pint of milk. He looked at them a moment and then with a contemptuous motion tossed the loaf and the sausage out of the window. Sheila, with a cry, sprang forward. "No more of that stuff," he said with a sneer. He drew his pocketbook and laid on the table a fifty-dollar note. "There's ready money, pay your debts and be ready for me at half-past seven." "Why, what do you mean?" she blurted out, fastening greedily on the money. "Is that for me? Why?" Bofinger, who watched anxiously the effect, was exultant at the hunger in her eyes. "I hold her there," he thought. Then aloud he said cheerily, "I'm going to take you to your aunt's, my dear, and respectable quarters where you need not be afraid of being found. And we'll do that right away, for old Fargus is suspicious enough to have me watched as well as you. We'll take no risks. Now if you'll light the gas." As she complied, he pulled his note-book and, tearing out a page, was proceeding to write, when he stopped and considered the woman as though to measure her cunning. Suddenly he asked: "Sheila, are you educated?" "Yes." "You can write--like a lady?" "Of course." "Let's see," he insisted, passing her the paper and pencil. She wrote her name and his in a free, regular hand. "Very good," he nodded, scanning her signature. "Now just a moment." He wrote with pains, while she waited in perplexity, until at length, with a glance of satisfaction, he returned the page to his pocket, stiffened in his chair and said drily: "Now, if you please, we'll talk business!" CHAPTER VII THE COMPACT Sheila looked at him in astonishment. A world intervened between the two attitudes. The man she had fathomed and did not fear had given place to something hard, impassive, and mechanical. She saw she had marched into a trap and the perspiration rose cold between her shoulders as she moved uneasily, seeking with a smile to regain the man from the lawyer. "Come, it isn't so bad as that!" she said with a moue. "You see how I am fixed. What do you ask?" "Half!" She looked at him open-mouthed. A moment intervened before she asked in perplexity: "What? Half of what?" "Half!" he answered, raising his voice. "Share and share alike!" "Do you think I'm a fool?" she cried angrily, springing up. "A fool?" "Half!" he insisted, pressing the point of his pencil obstinately into the table. "Of all he gives you--one half to me!" "Oh, that's too absurd!" she cried with a clap of laughter. "My dear Miss Morissey, sit down, sit down and listen," he said acridly. "We are to be partners, share alike or the game's off. Whatever you get, whatever money passes from his hands to yours, for whatever reason, for expenses or for pleasure, for carfare even, one half comes to me--to my account. Accept and I take all expenses. You leave here to-night and marry Fargus in two months. Otherwise I break you with a word, as easily as this." He took a glass from the table, placed it without anger under his foot, and crushed it. She came suddenly to him, tears of fear in her eyes, and placing her hand on his shoulder said: "You're not going to be as hard as that--I am starving, in rags--have a little pity on me. Or is it the way of you lawyers," she said, forcing an anxious smile, "to ask for more than you expect? If so, you are wrong. I will be generous. Help me to marry Fargus and I'll give you one thousand dollars." "One thousand dollars!" he cried uproariously. "You fool, do you know what the old miser is worth? A quarter of a million! Half, half I say!" She still sought the man in the lawyer and, throwing herself on her knees, cried: "But that would make me a slave! You can't mean that--you are too young to be so merciless. Make your own terms, say anything reasonable, and it's yours." "Miss Morissey," he said pompously, "you are mistaken in the person you're addressing. Mr. Bofinger has left the room. You're dealing now with the lawyer. Let me tell you right now, as a lawyer, I don't set one price to get another. I always get what I ask. When I have once made up my mind what's coming to me, I never relent. I am not twenty-one," he added with a smile. "I do not throw away thousands, either for caresses or tears. Get up!" She regained her feet, affrighted, perceiving that this obsession of the lawyer was the more implacable that it was set in vanity and pride. "Don't drive me to despair!" she said with an ugly flash of anger. He began to laugh. "You are wrong," she said sullenly, "to squeeze such a bargain. I will refuse." "Come," he said, rising, and with a brutal movement laying his hand over the bank-note. "Is it for you to make conditions? I know your kind, a fine dress outside, rags to your skin--rags, that's the story, rags and crumbs, beggary and starvation. And you bargain with me! Come, that's too good. Suppose I offer _you_ a thousand and take the rest? I could do it. I hold the whip hand. I make the terms. Enough of this. Come, choose." He held the bill loosely in his fingers, withdrawing it gradually. She followed its retreat with haggard looks, until, when he was on the point of replacing it in his pocket, she shot forth her hand, and said sullenly: "Give me it--I am starving!" "There, my dear, that's sensible," he said with a burst of good humor. "You can have the best dinner to-night New York can give! What! Are you hankering after cold bread and sausage? Is poverty so lovely that you regret it? And, Sheila, do you think that boiled ham is any more satisfying than a crust? Look at me. I swear I suffer as much on a pittance as you do on nothing. I also, my dear, am hungry for a little bit of the cream. No, you are not one bit more miserable, here in this room, than I; I, who if I had had ten thousand dollars to start with would be worth a million to-day. Do you think a man like me--with my talents, don't suffer too? Come, we're more than partners--comrades! We each want the same thing, don't we? So lets play the game together and square now! There's no limit to what we can do!" She felt the wolfish sincerity in his avowal and perceived that it was useless to struggle, but, disliking his new mood, she said coldly: "I'd rather talk to the lawyer." "Which reminds me," he said, driving into his pocket. "Kindly sign this paper. It is an acknowledgment of a common-law marriage between us." "Between _us_!" she exclaimed, utterly bewildered. "Purely technical, my dear," he said with a reassuring smile. "My affections ain't enlisted. The document is simply for my protection and is, as you will see, the only one that can guarantee me you'll live up to your agreement." "So that means I am to be absolutely in your power?" she said slowly. "Absolutely." "And if I don't do as I agree--" "I'd produce the contract and prove your marriage to Fargus void. You see how it protects me?" "And suppose Fargus dies?" she persisted. "You see I want to know all." "In that case," he said cheerily, "We should probably--after a decent period--get married ourselves." "That's what I wanted to know!" she cried, hurling the contract angrily away. "Very well. I will never, never sign such a paper, never!" She began to whip up and down the room like a panther, her lips moving, repeating incessantly, "Never, never!" Bofinger, without shifting, allowed her passion to run its limit. Then when, from its very violence, exhaustion compelled her at last to fall into a chair, he said softly: "So, so. Then, my dear, you had no idea of holding to the agreement, had you? Come now, why are you so furious? Because you find that I am not to be tricked? Take the pen and sign." She shook her head weakly and put it away with her hand, as a child refusing medicine. "I shan't give you time to repent," he said, pursuing his advantage. "If you refuse, I take a cab from here to Max Fargus. I don't propose that you shall see him first. It's hard luck, of course it is, that you can't get it all, but luck has given me a chance to divide the pie--and what are you going to do about it? Come, come," he said, again advancing the contract to the yielding woman. "Sign and get through with this wretchedness. What holds you? Do you love squalor? Do you prefer this to luxury and riding in your own carriage--for play your cards well and that's what you can get. There, sign this and learn what it is to live." The devil could not have persuaded her more eloquently. She allowed him to slip the paper under her unresisting fingers. "Sign, my dear," he repeated softly, moderating his impatience. "There now, we are sensible. Don't try to disguise your handwriting. I have your signature, you know." She dropped the paper and pen with a cry of fear and recoiling exclaimed: "No, no, I won't sign. I am afraid of you--afraid of what you may make me do. You would stop at nothing!" [Illustration: "NO, NO, I WON'T SIGN!"] "Yes, Sheila," he said, trying to give to his words an air of conviction, for he realized that he had been too clever. "I stop at a good many things and always on the windy side of the law. I am not a fool. As for the rest, I am not close. Play square and you will find me a good fellow." From his pocketbook he added two bills of fifty dollars to the first, and with a smile offered them to her. "In return for your signature, of course." He again placed the document before her, laid the three bills at its side and, giving her a little tap on the shoulder, said: "Come, Sheila, this place gives me the horrors. Let's get through and out of here." She gazed at the three bills, then took the pen, looking moodily up into his face. There, despite the smile with which he sought to reassure her, she saw such avidity in his eye that suddenly there rose to her mind the scene where Faust sells his immortal soul to the devil, and, turning from Bofinger to the covenant, she shuddered. Then half averting her face she pressed the pen to the paper and signed. He pounced upon it, without concealing his joy, compared the signatures and thrust both papers into his pocket. She had the three bank notes twisting in her fingers. "Pack up, pay up, and be ready in an hour," he said, no longer delaying for fair speeches. "I'll have the marriage witnessed to-night. In an hour, Sheila." "Yes." She opened the door, followed him to the stairs, and leaned over the banister to watch his descent. Below, a faint blurred light marked the drop of the stairs. His steps were hushed on the carpeted flight, only the white of his hand, slipping down the railing, showed the winding retreat. All at once she was shaken with a loathing and a dread of this unseen man, and leaning over, she whispered, "Stop. Come back!" On the banisters the white spot paused, then slid rapidly down, and a shadow, like the passage of a bat, obscured the glow in the hall. The door shivered noisily. She waited and then went slowly to her room. The three bank-notes were on the table, waiting. At the foot, the pen had rolled on the floor. She flung down into a chair and snatched up the bills as though to tear them into shreds. A moment later they slipped from her fingers into her lap. "No, I won't do it!" she said aloud, staring with horror at the green notes, stained and bruised by the clutch of battling hands. But though she had renounced them, she could not withdraw her eyes. When the hour was three quarters gone, with a cry she jumped up, crumpled the bills into her breast, and began feverishly to make ready. CHAPTER VIII THE DISCOVERER OF THE OYSTER Max Fargus, on leaving Sheila to be shadowed by the lawyer, departed in such a fever of amorous suspense that it became absolutely essential to his intense nature to inflict some cruelty on his fellow beings. The nearer he approached to the realization of his infatuation the more imperative became these sudden revulsions to savagery. With this temperamental debauch in mind, he hastened to Broadway, purposing to surprise his principal establishment and find food for his spleen. By a back entrance he glided into the kitchens, where he passed like a storm among the scullions, who feared him like the Evil One. But this time, to pour out the floods of his wrath on oyster openers and dish washers no longer satisfied him. The crisis in his affections was too vital for him to find relief in petty browbeating. Realizing that only a master stroke could satisfy him to-day, he climbed the stairs and passed moodily through the restaurant, where the waiters watched him from the corners of their eyes. Then passing into his office he shut himself up and waited angrily for an inspiration. All at once he struck the bell and shouted joyfully: "Send Bastien here!" At the end of a brief moment a portly, florid Frenchman slipped through the door and glided to attention, waiting blandly the moment it pleased his employer to speak. Fargus, enjoying the surprise his announcement would bring, feasted his eyes interminably on the victim a flash of genius had suggested to him. The head waiter, who by a miracle had for three years avoided the suspicions of his master, without troubling himself at this savage inspection, shifted his balance, coughed faintly, and fell to studying the clouded tops of his employer's shoes. "Bastien," Fargus began softly, "do you know why I want you?" "No, sir, I don't, sir." "Can't guess?" "Why, no, sir," Bastien said, beginning to show some perplexity. "I sent for you," Fargus said, hanging on each word, "to tell you, Bastien, that I don't need your services any more." "Me?" exclaimed the head waiter, who could not have been more astonished had a bomb exploded under his legs. "You, Bastien." "Beg pardon, sir, you said--" "Discharged!" "Me--me?" "You, Bastien." "What for, sir?" he cried all in a gulp. "Haven't I served you three years without your finding a word of fault?" "Exactly!" said Fargus, whose black eyes under the frowning eyebrows, like threatening muzzles, had been holding in their pent-up rage. "Exactly. For all that time I have never found fault--found--Bastien. There's the trouble. There's where you started my suspicions. You're clever, my man, but there you overreached yourself." Before the impossibility of such a charge, Bastien for the first time in his life lost his self-possession and remained, desperately fastening his hope on the chances of a joke. Fargus, shaking with malicious, dumb laughter ran on: "Too sharp, my man, too clever: You forget I know the business from A to Z. If you'd stolen a little I should have said nothing. Don't tell me you don't steal. You steal--all steal--and if I haven't caught you it's because you stole too well, or, OR," he cried, raising his finger theatrically, to confound him with the shrewdness of his guess, "OR, because you thought you'd wait until you were put where you could touch the keys of the safe! Aha, have I hit it--you scoundrel!" "Before God, Mr. Fargus--" the frightened waiter started to protest, but Fargus, with a contemptuous laugh, waved him off, crying: "Discharged, discharged!" "What, you turn me out," Bastien said sullenly, "because you haven't found fault with me?" "Yes! It is impossible, I say, to be so virtuous without some evil purpose." "But not for good, sir--I can come back?" "No!" Fargus shouted with a crash of his fist. "No you don't! You gave yourself away that time! If you were innocent you wouldn't take it so meekly. I only suspected before, now I KNOW!" Bastien, helpless before such madness, remained a moment staring stupidly at him. Then suddenly, convinced of the hopelessness of appeasing such an obsession, he forgot the waiter, and as a man, outraged and indignant, raised his fists and cursed him. At the uproar the clerks and the waiters ran in, while Fargus, rubbing his hands with delight, shouted above the din of oaths: "So, at last you rage! Now you show your true character! And for three years you have tried to put me to sleep with your meek face! You villain, I'll tell you what I'll do--I'll have your accounts investigated, before you get a cent!" Bastien, purple in the face, screamed that he would have a lawyer. "You will, will you!" Fargus cried, bounding up. "And I'll have a judge on you! Oscar, Peter, put him out! Throw him out! Joseph, call a policeman!" The waiters, who had suffered the usual indignities from the fallen chief, without waiting a second urging seized the struggling Bastien and propelled him from the office. Fargus, with lips still trembling from his excitation, listened with clenched fists to the dwindling tumult that announced the progress of the eviction. Then gradually his breathing grew quieter, the anger passed from his eyes, he reseated himself, held his head a moment in his hands, then, stretching back, threw out his arms and smiled a smile of vast contentment. Peace had returned to his soul. His history, from the age of nineteen, had been the record of a ledger, of the hour of rising, eating, working, and returning to sleep. He spent not one cent more one day than another. He woke invariably at half past four he was in bed by one o'clock. He spent five cents on carfare each morning, and saved five by walking home each night. He lunched and dined at his restaurants. His one extravagance was to breakfast at a coffee stall, kept by a woman who thirty years before had jilted him for a longshoreman, where for six cents he might remind her each day of the fortune she had flung aside. So much for the history of the man. Before nineteen his youth had been one of storm. Three great disillusionments had marked the period, the greatest which can befall a man, in the loyalty of a friend, in the virtue of his mother, and in the love of a woman. The friend was a newsboy, the mother a pedler, and the woman a waitress in a restaurant on the wharves. Society, which regards honor, virtue, and faith, and the capability of sorrow, peculiar to itself, can see nothing but the ridiculous in such tragedies. To the frail boy, however, with his misanthropic bent, these three trials changed the complexion of the sky and brought a rage against humanity, and with it an abiding, vindictive purpose to treat it always as an enemy. His worldly progress had been the journey of the mole. Burrowing through his youth, obscure and undivined, he had broken ground one day and emerged, to the surprise of his associates, rich and successful. Starting as a chore boy, rising to a waiter in a small oyster house near the docks, he had progressed to the proprietorship of one lunch counter, to the ownership of a restaurant, of an oyster house, of three; until the city knew him at last as the owner of half a dozen resorts, Fargus's West Side Oyster Rooms, Fargus's Bowery Oyster Parlors, Fargus's Broadway Oyster & Chop House, etc. He had but one vanity, a weakness pardonable in self-made men, he had come to regard himself as the discoverer of the oyster. On the night of the interview with Bofinger, to the upsetting of all routine he left his office an hour earlier. The hat boy, hastily summoned, arrived trembling, but to the amazement of every one Fargus departed without a word of reproof. The violence which had eased his craving for cruelty had departed and left him timid and infatuated, with the elusive figure of Sheila running before him and mocking his desires. Instead of following his invariable course down Broadway, he turned into the quieter side streets seeking an opportunity for reflection. He did not walk like the generality of men, who propel themselves from the back foot, but like the animals who draw themselves forward by their claws. This peculiarity, which was not so noticeable when he was in a hurry, sprang into notice the moment his gait relaxed, when he appeared, as to-night, to be prowling over the ground, alert as a panther to bound forward a dozen feet. So immersed was he in the perplexities of his passion that he failed to notice the sudden swooping down of three soldiers of the night, until a hand fell on his shoulder and an angry voice commanded: "Stop short, damn ye!" Fargus, thus threatened, answered without disconcertion: "Well, my friend, what can I do for you?" At this moment, the third of the party, coming up, broke in with a shout: "Bill--you fool, what'cher stopping him for? It's the old screw!" "It is, eh?" the other cried with an oath. "And what if it is?" "Go through him, then, if you're so green!" continued the first, "and if you pull more than a nickel I'll double what you get." "Quite right," Fargus said cheerfully. "I've been here forty-nine years and no one's ever found any more on me than the next day's car fare." He drew from his pocket five pennies which he displayed for confirmation. "And what's more, you can't find another cent in my room!" "Ah, come on. Don't waste time over that guy," said the third. "We've turned him inside out a dozen times." "The hell you have!" the other cried in disgust, and struck up his hand, causing the pennies to scatter into the street. The three footpads lurched into the darkness. Fargus, fondling his chin, stood a moment chuckling at their discomfiture before striking a match and betaking himself to the task of recovering his pennies. The fifth having been secured on his hands and knees he started rapidly home, penetrated a squalid, heated street, filled with children slumbering on the steps, and halting at a flight of tenements stumbled up a dark stairway and found his door. Lighting the butt of a candle, which he had drawn from his pocket, he entered a room with one window, murky and pinched, which he called his home, and whose horror can only be appreciated when it is realized that three families had shared the room before him. In the further corner stood a cot, without covering, and a pine washstand. By the window was a small leather trunk. In the whole room there was not another object. Placing the flickering stump on the washstand, Fargus secured the door. Then going to the trunk he unlocked it, drew out the bedding and made the bed. Once undressed he went in his nightgown to the window and, resting his chin in his palm, gazed up a moment at the black rim of the opposite tenement. Forty-nine years before, in the little room under the heated roof opposite, he had opened his eyes to the struggle of life. From there, as a child, he had a thousand times gazed down on the room he now occupied as a region of unattainable felicity. To possess such a paradise, all to himself, seemed then the zenith of earthly ambition. It was his earliest conception of the possibilities of wealth, it had never changed. He had remained in his present home twenty-one years, without a larger desire. To-night he stayed but a short time at the window, the contemplation of his progress did not bring him its accustomed satisfaction. He was conscious of a great unrest, of having suddenly laid his way along unfamiliar and perilous paths, where everything was problematical and uncertain. "If the lawyer finds everything all right," he said to himself, turning away, "I'll marry her. But if he don't--" He blew out the candle with the breath of his irritation and flung down on the bed, saying to himself querulously: "Am I going to sleep to-night, I wonder? Well, supposing he don't--what then?" CHAPTER IX THE MISANTHROPE IN LOVE It was now a little over four months since Sheila Vaughn had intruded upon the well-ordered and sufficient existence of the misanthrope. On that memorable day in June Fargus, for the first time, had broken his prison-like routine and taken in the middle of the afternoon an hour's relaxation. Three bits of good fortune, arriving together, had inclined him to such an unusual vacation: the monthly contract for clams, thanks to his shrewdness was ten per cent below the market; second, he had concluded a deal by which he took over the establishment of his chief competitor for the theater trade, at terms offered only by a bankrupt; third, he had discovered that his monthly personal expenses had fallen thirty-five cents below the average. For the first time in his life, then, he felt the imperative need of drawing breath for a moment's gratified contemplation. He sauntered over to Washington Square where, yielding to the pleasure of the spring and his own good humor, he installed himself on a shady bench, buying a newspaper in an automatic seeking for some reason to be idling there. The foliage was complete, yet with the zest of its youth still on it. The fountain in the center flung its spray against the rich green background. Gardeners were setting out the flower beds. The chirp of sparrows and the glee of children blended together in the stirring of the leaves. The air was fragrant and gentle, good to breathe. Fargus, contemplating the scene, forgot his paper, and remained contented and idle, with something that approached a smile. By one of the thousand and one chances which determine our mortal journey, call it fate or call it coincidence, it presently happened that his eye was arrested by the figure of a woman, advancing towards him. The green silk dress she wore, as though alive to the breeze, was in a continual flutter, the edges billowing as though served by the playful hand of cherubs. In the poise of her figure there was a slight, pleasant consciousness, but the face was given to abstraction and a dreamy, wistful contemplation of the park. A parasol swung languidly from her wrist, occasionally resting lightly on the ground. She seemed so a part of the gentle prospect that Fargus nodded approvingly, without realizing that it was not nature, but a woman, who had thus drawn his admiring glance. Arrived near him, she cast about for a vacant seat, and presently, with a glance, came and sat beside him. His first impulse was to recoil, all a-bristle and scowling, but as his companion continued oblivious to his displeasure he relaxed and from the tail of his eye stole a glance at the slender hands crossed on the top of her parasol. Suddenly he heard a soft voice say: "I beg your pardon, could you give me the time?" He withdrew gruffly, glaring at the woman, on whose face appeared first surprise and then a restrained amusement. "I beg your pardon, have you the time?" At this gentle reminder he became confused and, fumbling for his watch, with a jerk extended it to her on his palm, without vouchsafing a word. "Thank you," she said, nodding. "You don't speak English?" "What do you mean?" he said, startled into speech. "Oh, I see," she said with a malicious smile. "I was wrong. You do look foreign, though. It's pleasant here, isn't it?" Insensibly, resenting the ingenuity that drew him on, he was led into conversation and then all too soon abandoned by her rising and departing with an inclination of her head, sent to him over her shoulder as she swept up the shimmering green dress. Fargus jumped up and glanced guiltily at his watch. Then, with a scowl, brushing aside a bevy of children, he rushed back to his office. The following day, at the same hour, before he had quite understood what had guided his steps, he found himself straying again into the Square. She was already there, in the same green dress, on the bench where they had sat, her arms resting languidly, her head a little back, yielding to the charm of the sky. He faltered as he approached, went on, and then making a sudden turn came and sat beside her. Two months passed, and in the soul of the misanthrope an infatuation took root and grew, tumultuous and struggling with the stubborn forces of his hatred, without his being able, from word or look, to determine that the woman was leading him on. His first advances, awkward and innocent, to his surprise were abruptly rejected, nor was he able once to transgress the strict limits of acquaintanceship. Despite such austerity, he would not have been Fargus had he been without suspicions. He apprehended a deep purpose and set himself to preparing his retreat in the belief that some day she would attempt to discover his identity. The precaution was unproductive and, without his suspecting it, arrived too late. When in turn he sought to follow her he was surprised by the same ambush which had nearly entrapped Bofinger, and obtained his pardon only by a solemn promise to refrain from further attempts. The repulse and her steady indifference heaped fuel on the rising flame of his infatuation. He arrived at the stage where he no longer could see the ridicule of his own actions. He asked her to the theater, with the palpitations of a schoolboy blundering through his first escapade, and her constant refusals left him helpless and miserable. Finally, he sought by discreet questions to discover her existence. "Why do you always wear the same dress?" he began abruptly. "I am poor," she answered so naturally that Fargus was left abashed. "You work for a living then?" he persisted. "I do embroidery and fancy sewing." "You are alone?" "I live with my aunt." "You support her, I suppose?" he said with almost a sneer. "I help." He left her brusquely, enraged at her story, convinced of its insincerity. What infuriated him was that all he had to do was not to return. But that was an experiment he had no desire to try. Finally he obtained from her a promise to spend a Sunday afternoon with him in Central Park. The concession once laboriously won, he feigned to see the second stage of her campaign. He ran precipitately, full of joyous madness, to a jeweler's, whence, for the enormous price of ten dollars and a half he bore away a horseshoe of pearls, after lingering romantically over a lover's heart to offer her which he finally lacked the daring. The next afternoon the mischievous package in his vest pocket left him no peace. He blew hot and he blew cold. He said to himself that he would never have the audacity to offer it, and the next moment imagined impassioned speeches which never reached the tip of his tongue. Finally, when they had paused to rest, in one of the unfrequented bypaths which wind about the lakes, he plunged his hand into his pocket, and bringing forth the box said in a fit of desperation: "For you. For luck." He did not dare to look at her. He had a sinking feeling of having thrown away all by his folly--and he did not know that he was in love. Sheila turned, saw him trembling like a frightened bird under the hand, took the box and held up the pin. Fargus, scarce believing his fortune, dared to steal a look. She counterfeited admirably a flush of pleasure and regret. "Oh, how wonderful!" she exclaimed, holding it at arm's length and allowing her eyes to show the longing for its possession. "But it is too valuable, I could not take it--no." She looked at it again regretfully, then turning to him added: "You are very kind--but I mustn't, I can't take that!" Then, by quick movement, she averted her head, as though she wished to conceal from him her tears. The fire mounted into his temples. He caught her hand, drawing her to him and crying: "Sheila, Sheila, my darling!" "Oh! OH!" She sprang up, wrenching free her hand. Fargus, swept away by his infatuation, followed her, seizing her by her arm. With a rapid movement of anger she threw him off and, dashing a stinging hand across his face, cried: "All or nothing!" Then flinging the pin into the dust she stamped on it, covered her face with her hands and, bursting into sobs, ran away; leaving Fargus so thoroughly undone that he could neither speak or move. "Ah, she wants to marry me, does she?" he cried with a clap of rage, when he had recovered a little from his amazement. He picked up the twisted brooch, dusted it off and cried again, overcome by the enormity of her crime: "She wants to marry me! That's her game, then! Marry me! Huh!" With a roar he made off, swaying between incredulity and rage, contempt vying with derisive laughter. Full of fury and tempest he passed the night, eating out the slow hours until the next afternoon when he descended like a lion upon the Square, to force an understanding. She was not there. "What, she won't come!" he cried, thunderstruck at such a solution. He sunk on the bench, waiting desperately for some glimpse of the woman. His rage departed like a puff of wind, leaving him beaten, lonely, and blank. "She will come to-morrow," he said, as he trudged wearily home. She came neither that day nor the succeeding days. Then in Fargus the last seeds of resistance died and left nothing but a barren, disheartened surrender. He had no longer any doubts as to his true state, her absence taught him what he could suffer. A week passed before a chance meeting on the street brought them together again. He sought her forgiveness abjectly and without shame. For a while she refused to give ear to his protestations, his explanations and his promises. At last she inclined her head and replied seriously: "Very well. But I shall reserve my opinion, for the future." With this resumption of their daily meetings, his suspicion started up anew, without his still being able to find a hook whereon to hang them. She remained cold and uninterested, refusing always to believe in his vows of affection. It is true, he had not spoken of marriage. "Sheila, you don't care for me," he said once to her in unreasoning anger. "I don't," she said with a nod. "And it won't make any difference to you if you never see me again." "Yes, it would. You have been kind, and my life is lonely," she said reflectively. "I will miss you." "You say that as if you were going away," he said irritably. "True. I haven't told you. We go next week to Chicago." "And why should you go to Chicago?" he cried furiously. "My aunt must go--she's had a legacy left her, a small one but it'll mean a good deal. Of course, I have to go with her," she added, a little regretfully. The next morning, in a panic, Fargus had sought out Bofinger. CHAPTER X BOFINGER REPORTS Fargus, who slept as badly as a bridegroom on the wedding eve, was up before five o'clock. After replacing the bedding in the trunk he departed for his morning's breakfast. Three blocks to the west near the river front, in a frame building which occupied a corner, a flaring yellow sign, over a sunken basement, announced, NELLIE THE COFFEE-WOMAN _Ladies & Gents Parlors._ Three wooden steps, rotted by the weather, descended past the food bulletins into a sanded room. It was in this underground resort, with its rough clients, that Fargus had served his apprenticeship, faithfully his master and his master's daughter, pretty Nell O'Hara, who had jilted him for the privilege of maintaining the present Mr. Biggs in idleness among his bottles. Fargus descended the familiar steps and entered. Never once did he return to the presence of his first love without a pang of mortification that all the triumphs of his changed fortune could not obliterate. A ponderous woman on whose expanding trunk time had recorded each successive year was behind the counter. Of the charm that once was Nell's nothing remained but a certain reminiscent prettiness of the face. Fargus, who entered as a conqueror, took his seat at the counter, asking maliciously, as he never failed to do: "And how's your man, Nell?" [Illustration: "AND HOW'S YOUR MAN, NELL?"] "The same," she answered, as though the simple statement required no explanation. "And are you doin' well, Mr. Fargus?" "I bought another restaurant, Nell," he said. "Yes, I'm doin' well. It's a little larger than the old place." He saw she understood the malice of his last remark and enjoyed the new opening of the old wound. To-day his vindictiveness was tempered by a feeling of wonder. With Sheila in mind he looked at this woman, mottled and worn with toil, and asked himself how it was possible that she could still have the power to make him suffer. The thought recalled Sheila and abruptly he arose and departed. But, not wishing to lose an opportunity for vengeance, he returned and said wisely: "Nell, perhaps I'll have something to tell you before long, a bit of news that may interest you. My love to your man." He departed for the oyster markets for his purchases, but without the zest that gave to these excursions the exhilaration of the battle-field. "I'm a fool," he said to himself angrily, "to let a woman upset me so. How the devil, though, am I going to wait two days more to hear from that lawyer!" Bofinger had resolved to conceal his relations with Fargus from Groll, taking the risk of an inopportune visit of his client. He knew well the consequences of such treachery once discovered, but the avidity of great stakes gave him the daring to play with fire. He was in the office, chatting with Groll and LeBeau, when towards one o'clock he perceived from his sentry by the window the incongruous figure of Fargus, advancing from the direction of Sixth Avenue. He yielded to a moment's panic, then rapidly, with a hasty excuse, stepped out of the door and departed, not too quickly, towards the west. "They may notice him again," he thought, "but it's not so risky as going to meet him." He slackened his gait at the corner, bought a newspaper and, perusing it, went slowly northward. A moment later Fargus shuffled up, all out of breath. "Oh, it's you," Bofinger exclaimed in surprise. "That's lucky; you want to see me? Shall we go back to the office?" "There's some one there," Fargus said nervously. "Yes, there's my partner and a reporter," Bofinger replied with an air of reflection. "Perhaps you'd rather--" "Let's walk on," Fargus interrupted. Then, no longer holding back his anxiety, he blurted out, "Well, what? Have you found out anything?" "I think I've made a good beginning," the lawyer said in his professional manner. "Of course in one day--" "I was passing," Fargus said, avoiding his eye, "I thought--" "Well, sir," Bofinger broke in tactfully, "I have investigated enough, I guess, to satisfy you. To begin, Miss Sheila Vaughn is an orphan living with an aunt whom she supports by her needlework." At this confirmation of Sheila's story the misanthrope gave a sigh of relief, which showed the lawyer what pangs a contrary answer would have cost him. Immediately, seizing the arm of the lawyer, he stammered: "Are you sure? Can you be sure? How are you sure?" "My dear sir," Bofinger objected, "I ain't goin' to make a statement on insufficient evidence. I followed Miss Vaughn without any difficulty. She lives in a respectable boarding-house on the West side. Here is the address, for your information," he added, passing him a slip. "I marked the house and went back pretending to seek a room. Two circumstances, fortunately, helped me to gather a great deal of information. In the first place, the servant who showed me around asked nothing better than to talk." "Well, well?" Fargus broke in irritably. "A little patience," Bofinger said with a smile. "Things have got to be told in their order. I learned from the servant that Miss Vaughn and her aunt Miss Morissey have lived in the same rooms for over six years. The aunt is a retired school-teacher, having perhaps a very small income. Miss Vaughn, evidently, is the mainstay, doing fancy embroidery and needlework. The servant told me that she was very devout. Now for the second circumstance, but this won't be to your liking." "What do you mean?" Fargus demanded, instantly alarmed. "I learned that Miss Vaughn and her aunt are going to leave." "You are sure?" Fargus cried in despair. He had only half believed the announcement from the lips of the woman. "I am. With an inspiration, I instantly asked to see their room. What do you think of that? On this pretext I saw not only the room but Miss Vaughn and her aunt. Well, they impressed me very favorably, quiet and devoted--" "But when is she going, and where?" Fargus broke in impatiently. "They go to Chicago in a few days--a very few." "And did you find out why?" "I did," Bofinger said with a nod, and began again. "Of course I did not try to pump them, but when I left I said to the maid--" "Never mind that, tell me now why they are going." "Miss Morissey, the aunt," Bofinger said, stopping short, "has had a small legacy left her and is going to settle her affairs." "Then what she told me was true after all!" Fargus exclaimed, without perceiving how clearly he portrayed his real sentiments. "Now, of course," Bofinger said glibly, stealing a glance at his dejected client. "I shall at once take up the threads and push my investigation rapidly." "Mr. Bofinger," Fargus said, coming out of his abstraction, "that's enough. Don't do anything more. I've got now all I wanted to know." "Then you are satisfied?" Bofinger replied in feigned astonishment. "Yes." He walked a while, studying the sidewalk, and then asked slowly: "Mr. Bofinger, you see all kinds of people--you ought to be a judge. I'm going to put a question to you. Would you, if you were me, in my position, adopt Miss Vaughn?" "Really, my dear sir," Bofinger said carefully. "I can't take the responsibility of answering that." "Is she the right sort--steady and dependable?" "Oh, if you mean is she worthy of being adopted--certainly yes! But," he added with a show of frankness, "if you do want my opinion, I think the young lady is too independent a character to permit it." Fargus hesitated a moment, with an impulse to confidences, then, retreating awkwardly, he began to draw out his pocketbook, saying: "Thanks, you've done well." "Then you want nothing further?" Bofinger said, smiling at the way his hand fumbled in his coat. "No, no," Fargus said hastily. "You've done enough. That's what I wanted. You've done fine." He turned his back on the lawyer and examined the pocketbook, close to his nose, for he was short-sighted. After long weighing of reasons, he plucked forth two bills as one might draw out a thorn, and spinning about hastily he thrust them into the lawyer's hand, as though mistrusting his second thoughts. Bofinger saw that each was for twenty dollars. With a flash, he stiffened and said sternly: "My dear sir, I would like you to know that, in my profession, we fix the remuneration." Fargus, believing himself entrapped, looked with repressed rage at the money he had surrendered. Bofinger allowed him this moment of torture, before continuing on the same key: "My fee, sir, for these services is twenty dollars." And with a gesture that was sultanesque he returned the other bank-note. Fargus received one of the shocks of his life. The idea that any one could refuse money so confounded him that he did not have wit enough to extend his hand. But only for a moment; then, with a grunt of joy, he snatched up the bill, crying with genuine feeling: "Mr. Bofinger, you'll not regret this!" "Thank you, that is my invariable fee--good day," the lawyer said, holding his hat like a statue. Then, snapping back to life again, he returned exultantly to the office. In the short interview he had grown immeasurably in his own eyes. But one thing distressed him, the thought that so much talent must be locked in his own bosom. He drew a long breath and, walking on his toes, said with conviction: "Ah, Bofinger, you were made for bigger things!" CHAPTER XI MARRIAGE AS A BATTLEFIELD Two weeks later Sheila and Max Fargus left church as man and wife and, entering a cab, set out for their new home near Stuyvesant Square. The comedy which Bofinger had devised had thus come to a successful end. The lawyer was not mistaken. Fargus, in despair at the thought of Sheila's leaving, had offered himself that afternoon. She did not accept at once, she asked time for reflection; but promised, in response to his frantic appeals, to remain in New York. Miss Morissey, her aunt, departed for Chicago on the next afternoon. Fargus did not see her. Sheila, after several days, allowed herself to be persuaded. But in consenting to be his wife she promised nothing more. She frankly avowed herself happy to have the opportunity of a home, admitted a certain friendly esteem, which she did not pretend was irrevocable, but made him understand that to win her love lay in his hands alone. On these terms she asked him, with many misgivings, if it was right for a woman to marry. Fargus argued the question furiously and without rest, and succeeded, to his delight, in disposing of one objection after the other, without for a moment suspecting that it was he and not Sheila the arguments were designed to convince. The arrival of the wedding was to him a day of bewildering and complex emotions. So well did the woman keep him in suspense of her final acceptance, that it was only on the morning of the wedding-day itself that he awoke to the fact that the day would dispose of his own existence. His first act was characteristic. He rushed in a tempest to the coffee stall, where he announced his departure and his marriage to Nell, to whom for the final time he brought the agony of a destiny despised. Refreshed by this _coup de grace_ on the woman he had never forgiven, he hurried chastened and cheerful to Sheila. At first he had opposed a religious ceremony. He professed himself an atheist. When one ceases to believe in man, one does not believe in God. Sheila, who was really devout, would hear of nothing else. Fargus ceded, but his appearance in church had put him into a frightful humor. Now in the cab, alone at last with the woman he had so long desired, he discovered all at once that the law, which gave him everything, gave him nothing at all. In his squat hand were the four fingers which she had ceded to him, without resistance and without feeling. He clung to them awkwardly, gingerly, knowing not what to do. Sheila did not even feel his presence. Withdrawn as far as possible, without appearing to shun him, she nerved herself for the battle which, with sure instinct, she felt approaching. Of the two, she had all the self-possession, plus an excited mentality which stimulated all her forces at the approach of the crisis. She was in this mood when the cab stopped at the flight of red brick dwellings, before the stoop above which the tin sailor was whirling his paddles. She had a slight surprise. It was not elegance; but she had dreaded worse. "It's not so discouraging," she thought, as she jumped out full of anticipation. "It is not bad--to begin with." Astonished to find the shades down, she rang impatiently, then turning to Fargus, who was disputing furiously with the driver, she cried: "Is this right? Have I made a mistake?" "In a moment, I have the key," he cried, dismissing the driver and hurrying up. "Ah!" she thought, drawing breath like a gladiator entering the arena. "I'm to have no servant, then!" "There, my dear," cried the voice of her husband, proudly, "there you are!" Forgetting twenty pretty speeches, he threw open the door and stood aside with bashful pride to let her pass. The beam of light entered the vacant dusk like an intruder. Sheila seized all in one swift glance and her lips set dangerously. She remained without motion, while Fargus, mumbling nervously, stole to the parlor window and flung open the shutters. The hall was bare, the parlor had but a table and a cheap lamp in its emptiness. The walls were destitute of ornament, clothed with an invariable dust-green paper. She went quickly to the dining-room. The furniture was of the scantiest. She counted the chairs, there were just two. The sideboard and the table were of oak, thinly veneered and not fresh. The two gazed silently, Sheila with swelling throat and clouded eyes, Fargus, to whom each purchase had been a plunge into the abyss of ruin, trembling again with the memory of the pangs each had cost him. "Well," he asked at last, "it's pretty, don't you think?" "Oh, the house can be made very pretty," she said pensively and, turning to him with a smile, she added gratefully, "and you were real nice to leave me the furnishing of it." "The--the furnishing!" he stammered, opening his eyes. "Wait and see what I can do," she cried with a laugh. "Now I'm going up to see the rest." She left him stupefied and tripped up the stairs. In their bedroom, which alone was furnished, there was nothing but a bed, a chest of drawers, and two chairs. She felt a profound discouragement, a sudden desire to weep, but it was only the weakness that precedes great victories. "Now or never!" she thought, as she heard the soft step of her husband on the stairs. She threw herself into an attitude of inspection, gathering her skirts from the dusty floor, set her head critically on one side, and extended her hand as though to calculate the height of the walls. "What are you doing?" Fargus said, stopping short. "I was trying to decide," she answered meditatively, "whether to paper all the room in rose or to use a border." Fargus leaned against the door for support. Then forcing a horrible laugh, he cried with desperate good humor: "Say, now, you're a good one, and that's a good joke!" "As for the guest room--green and white," she continued, passing to the back; "green and white is fresh and clean." The absurdity of a guest room convinced Fargus. He laughed with a light heart and entered the spirit of the jest. "Green and white is good," he assented, wagging his head. "The question is whether to have a double bed or two single ones," she persisted. "Oh, two!" he said gravely, sticking his tongue in his cheek. "A double bed is cheaper," she said reflectively. "Bah!" "I know just the furniture," she said, embracing the room with a sweep of her hand. "Such a bargain! We ought to pick it up at once,--seven pieces, bird's-eye maple too, just the elegant thing." "Let's go now," he said with exaggerated levity. "Shall we--O Max!" she answered, clapping her hands. Then nodding seriously, she said in approbation: "You have begun well. You don't know what it means to a woman to have the making of her home. Just think what fun it'll be, picking out carpets and rugs and pictures. But we must decide on the papering right off--because I don't intend to be out of my home any longer than I can help it!" He eyed her suspiciously. There was that in her enthusiasm which made him doubt her levity. Nevertheless he could not yet bring himself to comprehend such a monstrosity. He answered facetiously: "How about the stable and horses, my dear?" Seeing that she must bring matters to an issue she returned to their room, nodded and said pensively: "This we ought to decide more carefully. I'm for ebony, though. It's nobby. Now," she added, wheeling about, "let's go to the hotel." "What hotel?" he said dumfounded. "Why, the hotel we're going to stay at, until the house is ready," she said impatiently. Then all at once he comprehended that he was caught. He felt for a chair and stumbled into it. "Then what you said about furnishing was true?" he said in a dying voice. "You meant it!" "Why, what is the matter with you?" she asked, stopping and looking at him in pretended amazement. Suddenly he bounded up and said brutally, pointing to the room: "This is where we stay!" "Here?" she cried scornfully. "This isn't fit for a servant!" She had dreamed of luxury so long that the manner came to her naturally. For a moment Fargus was overawed by her sudden stature, then the thought came to him that after all she belonged to him and that he had a right to do as he wished with her. "Well, that's where you stay!" he cried with that rage which is as closely allied to love as madness to genius. She saw him advance upon her to crush her in his arms. Without giving an inch, she put her hands behind her and looked him frigidly in the eyes. His hands touched her before they fell. She was at once anger and ice; to have continued would have been to embrace a monument. So overcome was he that he remained awkwardly before her, not knowing how to extricate himself. "Go and sit down," she said coldly, "and let's have an understanding at once!" He hesitated, with his eyes on the floor, brooding whether to carry it through by violence. She saw and was frightened. "And let me say at once, Mr. Fargus," she continued hurriedly. "Never attempt again what you tried then! For if you do--I shall know how to protect myself." The mystery of her threat appalled him. The man in love believes all absurdities. He retreated. "What furnishing does it need?" he asked sullenly. "Everything, carpets, curtains, linen, furniture," she said aggressively, now that her moment of danger had passed. "Even to the servant's room nothing is done!" "Servant!" he cried in terror. "Do you want to ruin me!" "What!" she exclaimed in turn. "Do you mean I'm to have no servant!" "What for?" "Then it's true," she cried vehemently. "You were bringing me to this garret to be your servant! This is the kindness you promised me--this is your generosity!" "Sheila!" he cried in fear, as she gathered her cape about her. "This, then, is what your love means!" she continued angrily. "So you expect me to come to this, do you? A kennel! A dining-room without a chair for a friend!" "I have no friends!" "So you thought, did you," she said scornfully, "that I would cook for you, wash for you, clean for you, make your bed for you? You call that getting a wife! You are wrong, you don't want a wife--you want a slave! Go and get one!" "Sheila, one moment,--Sheila!" he cried, seeing her about to depart. She paused, and then, with a toss of her head, returned and sat down. Presently she said sadly, her eyes filling with tears: "And this is all you care for me. If you were poor and I loved you, I'd share anything with you. But you are rich--you told me so twenty times. So, if you bring me to this, it can only mean, Max, that you despise me." "No, no!" he cried, won by the sweetness of the look she gave him. He flung himself at her knees, striving to gain her hand, but Sheila, withdrawing it with firmness, said gently: "What else am I to think? I haven't concealed from you that I don't love you. I liked you for your kindness, I respected you--yes, I trusted you, when you swore you would know how to earn my love. I consented to marry you telling you all this, for I longed for a home. Is this, then," she continued with a catch in her voice, "is this the way you're going to make me love you?" He had caught her hand, he felt himself going, slipping from the old moorings, and with a last resistance he cried desperately: "Sheila, what is it you want?" "To be treated as your wife!" she said quickly, avoiding the pitfall of the specific. "To be treated as though you were proud of me. Either that or"--she paused a moment and ran her fingers through his hair; "or if money means more to you than to love and be loved, poor man, then let us own our mistake and part--now." "No, Sheila, no! Don't leave me!" he cried, and sinking his head in her lap, vanquished, he caught her knees while the very rout of his soul made her indispensable to his infatuation. "Then I am--to stay?" A sob was her answer. "Poor fellow," she said compassionately. "What do you know of life? I will teach you how to live." These terrible words, which filled the flesh of the miser with mortification, aroused in the lover the frenzy of the gambler. He felt that he was throwing his all to the winds and the thought intoxicated him. "Sheila," he cried, lifting his face, "do what you want! I love you--only you!" She bent her head hurriedly. There were in her eyes two things she did not dare let him see, the pride of her triumph and that bewildered pity which comes only to the utter victors. CHAPTER XII BOFINGER IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING Fargus, as all those who are forced to surrender without conditions, retained a reservation,--he counted on the future. His nature was too simple and intense to fathom the complexities of marriage. He had the fierce, half-savage conception that the woman resigned her ascendancy when she gave herself into his power. He conceived of woman as a tyrant before marriage and a suppliant ever after. For him the physical submission carried all with it. So even in his surrender he believed that time would restore the balance in his favor. Sheila, on the contrary, had well understood that the first weeks of marriage must be a battle on which would hinge the fortunes of her whole life. She had this advantage, that Fargus was utterly unprepared and ignorant of the thousand agilities of her sex. She had subdued him by taking him by surprise, but she was not the dupe of her victory. She knew where the danger lay, divining the secret thoughts of her husband. The problem with her was to forever cheat his infatuation. She submitted but she did not give herself to him. The history of these unending skirmishes, open or ambushed, seldom rising to the dignity of a conflict, was an uninterrupted record of successes for the woman. Fargus, who had counted on the future, found himself each day more willingly subjugated. This infatuation that overturned all his ideas of conduct gave to his love the mad aspect of a forbidden passion. Each time that he ceded to Sheila he had a moment of horror, and then that delirious access of folly and passion which comes only to the man who loves and ruins himself. Sheila, then, had her way, but she did not abuse her power. She even began to practise economies,--she sewed the curtains with her own needle and marked the linen. Fargus avowed himself touched by such acts of moderation. Nevertheless, there were moments in the night when he awoke with a cry, starting in a cold perspiration from a nightmare where he had seen himself dragged down into bankruptcy by the follies of his pretty wife. He rose and crept over the house, trying the windows and the locks, listening suspiciously at the door of the servant, an innovation to which he could never accustom himself. Then returning softly to his room he regained his bed. But the night was rare when the creak of a plank did not start him again on his uncanny rounds. He was not happy. He had believed that in marriage all desires were gratified. Instead he found himself, to his mystification, even more miserable than in the days when he returned in despair to his one room in the slums, there to pursue all night, in his dreams, the elusive figure of the radiant woman. He came at length, slowly, to understand what she adroitly and cruelly intended he should, that the possession at last of Sheila, even under the wide domain of marriage, left him still defeated, and that it was her love alone that would satisfy. After that he was ready for all follies. When Sheila saw that the victory was complete, she had, naturally, a moment of intense virtue, in which she said to herself that she could well be content, with a man whom she so easily bent to her every desire. Besides, the joy of making a home was to her such a natural impulse, that during its ecstasy Fargus represented to her no more than the husband. This joy was so intense that she came near relenting and showing him some kindness,--a slip against which she was forced to be constantly on her guard. For she saw clearly that her domination lay in perpetual vigilance, and that with such a man nothing could be shared--she would have to be either a tyrant or a slave. There was on her fair horizon but the ugly shadow of the lawyer. She had almost forgotten him, then she almost doubted his existence, so fantastic seemed the idea of their extraordinary contract. Each month, she had agreed to give him an accounting, delivering him her note for the sum due. But to carry out such a program they must see each other, and she asked herself incredulously how the lawyer could manage. The month passed without a sign of Bofinger, when, one evening as she was in her bedroom, she heard, to her amazement, the familiar shuffle of Fargus on the stoop, accompanied by a thick, resolute fall of feet. The lock clicked and the voice of Bofinger said loudly: "See here, Mr. Fargus, your lady won't like being taken by surprise." She understood that he was sending her a warning. She had indeed need of it. A voice from the dead could not have struck more terror than this sudden apparition of the lawyer. She felt her knees wabble and with an effort seized a bottle of smelling salts. Her repulsion for Bofinger, intensified by fear, was suddenly a hundred times magnified by this uncanny introduction into her home, on the very arm of her husband, at the moment when she fatuously had put him out of her mind. "Ah, I was so happy!" she cried, sinking limply into a chair. Nevertheless she realized that the moment was fraught with peril and that she must regain her control. "Sheila, Sheila!" Fargus called from below. She shut her teeth savagely over her lip and went down to face her husband's glance. "Sheila," he said, as she halted in simulated surprise, "I brought an old friend with me,--Mr. Bofinger." She went hurriedly past her husband, murmuring something, and extended her hand to the lawyer, who, bland and smiling, bowed with stiff legs. Seeing his self-possession, she rallied, brought to calm by the quiet command of his eye. "Take Mr. Bofinger into the parlor, my dear," Fargus said. "Put him into a comfortable chair and make him at home. I'll be down in a minute." "Really, Mrs. Fargus," Bofinger said, halting on the threshold of the parlor, "I compliment you on your home. I heard my friend had to sail pretty close this winter, but I guess that must have been rumor. Really, this is elegant; say, this is luxury!" While pronouncing this glibly he managed to lay his fingers over his lips, sending her a glance of warning. Sheila, at this extraordinary introduction, delivered without a trace of expression to clarify its meaning, stood in stupid bewilderment. When she heard the sound of her husband's step above, she started forward with an impulsive question. With a rapid frown the lawyer again laid his finger along his lips and, drawing her to a corner, said quickly: "Not a word to-night. Complain at the table about the size of the house--remember!" Then aloud, quelling her astonishment with a peremptory gesture, he continued, raising his voice purposely, "Mrs. Fargus, I really ought to apologize. I shouldn't have dropped in on you like this, but your husband would have it; and when an old friend gets you buttonholed--you know!" This assumption of intimacy, avowed alike by the lawyer and her husband, completed her terror. Her wits had deserted her. All her artillery lay in the consciousness of her fascination. As soon as she knew herself loved, she became formidable and arrogant. The unimpressionable glance of the lawyer disarmed her and scattered all her artifices. Obeying an imperious sign from Bofinger, she gathered herself together and said hastily: "Why--I am sure my husband was quite right, and, indeed, it's no trouble." "So I said," Fargus put in, his nocturnal face appearing at the door when she believed him above. "Sheila, it's all right, I had something sent over from the restaurant." "Then I'll see to it," she said, escaping quickly, for she felt as yet unequal to retaining her composure before both of them. The supper, to her relief, passed easily. She dissociated herself from the conversation, resisting all the lawyer's attempts to drag her into it and evading obstinately a dozen openings which he gave her to criticise her home. Keeping a stubborn silence, then, she began anxiously to study his game. Seeing that she had no intention of obeying him, he shifted his tactics. He began a tirade against the extravagance of the modern woman, asserting that she put on her back one fourth of the family income. Sheila smiled, but guarded herself against a retort. Fargus applauded in his taciturn way. Receiving no answer, Bofinger developed his thesis, to the point of declaring that the nation was becoming effeminate, due to the fact that the wife instead of the husband was the dominating influence in the home. He even ascribed to this cause the increase of domestic infelicity. "Is he, by any chance, trying to force me to quarrel with him?" Sheila thought in amused perplexity. "Is that his game, I wonder?" Acting on this assumption, she avoided all expression so skilfully that the lawyer on his leaving immediately after supper shot her a glance full of anger and irritation. "Come again--come soon," Fargus said cordially. "Sheila, ask Mr. Bofinger to run in and see you some afternoon." "Why," she stammered, overcome by this new surprise, "I hope he will." When Fargus returned from ushering out the lawyer, he found Sheila in the parlor, an elbow on the mantelpiece, resting her chin pensively in her palm. "I thought you had no friends," she said immediately. "I? So I haven't--not many." "Mr. Bofinger is a friend then?" "He is--why, yes." "You have known him a long time then?" "Oh, quite a while." "Five years?" "Well--around that." "Why, you've never spoken to me of him." "Didn't I? So I didn't." "Tell me this," she said, her anxiety rising above her prudence, "do you rely upon him? Do you trust him?" "Why, in a way," he answered evasively, adding sharply, "why do you ask that?" She made a gesture of impatience. "You don't like him, eh?" Her shoulders twisted with an indefinable displeasure. "Why not?" "I could never trust--that man!" she said desperately. "It's a woman's instinct, that's all." "Nonsense," he answered with great good humor, "Bofinger's square as they make 'em. He is not a lady's man, I know. But he's got sense--horse sense, and Sheila, my dear, if you ever want advice, go to him." She opened her eyes very wide at this and said nothing more, turning it over and seeking some explanation in the tangle of the evening. "I've been a fool," she thought, glancing at the satisfied face of Fargus. "I've played into Bofinger's hands--whereas I ought to have made Fargus jealous." The truth is, she was too near the dreaded shadow of Bofinger to have regained the clearness of analysis which would have saved her from such a blunder. CHAPTER XIII SHEILA RETREATS The explanation of this extraordinary meeting, which had so mystified Sheila, lay in a last revolt of the miser. Once out of her presence, Max Fargus was constantly terrified at the gradual perversion of his own character. He could refuse his wife nothing, or resisted only long enough to learn anew the completeness of his surrender. From an agony of foreboding he vacillated to an ecstasy of defeat. His own impotence mystified him, for he believed that he resisted with all his being, not realizing that in an infatuation half of the man combats for the woman. Then he could never comprehend the use of money. Money spent was money lost. He would have denied angrily being a miser and would have argued that in allowing his wealth to accumulate he individualized it and turned it into a human agency which returned him the most satisfying of sensations,--power. For the first time in his life he felt the need of a friend to advise and to steady him. But what he had cried out to Sheila was literally true, he had not a friend in the world, not even an acquaintance to whom he could turn. In all his business dealings he had sought to make himself feared. He disdained conciliation, to prevail by sheer autocracy alone intoxicated him. In this perplexed mood he found himself one morning, in what seemed to him the most accidental manner, face to face with his former attorney, Alonzo Bofinger. The familiar face evoked the memory of an unexampled moderation. A quick thought was followed by a bow. He stopped, giving him a smiling, "Good morning, Sir." The lawyer shifted his glance a moment, then with a blank countenance passed on. "But I'm not mistaken, it must be him," Fargus said doubtfully, and he called again, "Mr. Bofinger, hello there!" The lawyer halted, wheeled, and said in a puzzled voice: "Yes? What? Who is it?" "Say now," Fargus protested, "you know me." "Not at all, sir." "Why, I was your client a month ago." "Indeed?" "You remember me now?" "Not in the street, sir," Bofinger said with a smile. "My memory stops at my office." "But if I let you," Fargus said, much impressed. "That is different. How do you do? You may remember I don't know your name." Such scrupulousness completed the favorable impression of the misanthrope. He nodded approvingly and said: "Mr. Bofinger, you please me, I like your ways. And if you'll come around to the restaurant, I'd like to consult you--I want some advice. My name's Fargus, Max Fargus--you know that name, I'll bet." "What, are you _the_ Fargus!" Bofinger exclaimed, taking a step backwards. "The same," Fargus said with a chuckle, flattered by the tribute. "You wonder why I came to you, don't you--on the quiet?" "I am a little puzzled, I admit it, Mr. Fargus," Bofinger replied, putting a new deference into his address. "I've been bitten too often," Fargus said with a grim nod. "There's a lot of your profession, Mr. Bofinger, who ain't no better than crooks!" "Far too many," Bofinger said solemnly. "But I hope a better day will come." They arrived in the private office. For the third time Fargus fidgeted and repeated: "I want some advice." "Well, sir, I hope I can help you," Bofinger said encouragingly. "Mr. Bofinger," Fargus blurted out, "you remember Miss Vaughn?" "Perfectly." "Mr. Bofinger, won't you have something?" Fargus said desperately. The lawyer named his drink. His host, turning from the waiter, faced him with the manner of one about to overwhelm him with his disclosure. "She is now Mrs. Fargus--my wife." "Indeed?" the lawyer said politely, shooting up his cuffs, but nodding without astonishment. "Well, doesn't that surprise you?" Fargus said, opening his eyes. Shrewd and tricky in his little specialty, in the minor experiences of life he was a little dull. "Yes and no," the lawyer answered, examining the ash of his cigar. "From the standpoint of your attorney, yes. From any other standpoint," he added with a smile, "no." "Then you suspected all the time?" "Pardon me," Bofinger said, raising his hand half-way. "It was not my business to suspect, my business was to believe what you said. So Miss Vaughn is your wife?" "Yes." "I hope you're happy." "That's just it," Fargus said, seizing the opening, "that's the point. You put your finger on it without knowing it. I can't say I am happy--altogether happy." "Well, let's hear about it," Bofinger said with bluff directness. "The trouble is this," Fargus said doubtfully. "A woman has no idea of money, except to spend it and--you know yourself--it ain't easy to refuse one anything--particularly--well--when you're fond of her." "Say, now, ain't this about it?" Bofinger said, abandoning his stilted accents for an air of rough and confidential understanding. "This is the trouble. You're in love with a pretty woman, a remarkably pretty and charming woman--a whole lot in love. Now she, like a woman, a pretty woman, thinks more of pleasure than you do, wants to be out and seeing and wants to be out and be seen." "Yes," Fargus assented, and with a sigh he echoed faintly, "yes." "And she probably thinks that you're much better off than you are," Bofinger said with a wise nod. "That's it; there, that is it!" In his eagerness, Fargus extended his hand until it touched the lawyer on the sleeve. "Doesn't understand that just because you run a few fine places, that don't mean money--but expenses." "Ah, Mr. Bofinger!" Fargus said, raising his hands. "Come, now, you're worried over expenses at home, or rather at what you may be getting into, and you find the trouble is here,--dealing with a woman you're in love with ain't like talking business to a man." "Mr. Bofinger," Fargus said solemnly, "You've struck the nail on the head. That's my case--you can't handle a woman like a man." "Of course not. You're not the man to do it either. You'd spend everything on her!" Fargus, with an effort, allowed the statement to pass without betraying his emotion. "I'll tell you the best way," Bofinger said, after drumming a moment with his fingers, while Fargus pricked up his ears. "Here, this is it! Get a friend to talk to her." "How so?" "Why, a friend--the right sort--could do this," Bofinger continued. "He could tell her confidentially--that he thought--that he rather suspected, well, that he'd heard things weren't going as well with you as people thought. In fact, he feared you were going to have a close squeeze. He needn't say anything direct now, that would make her suspicious, but he might advise _her_ to beg _you_ to cut expenses down all you could." "Mr. Bofinger," Fargus cried, slapping his hands together, as Bofinger with a satisfied chuckle turned to him for his approval, "that's an elegant idea! And you're the man to do it!" "Me?" Bofinger exclaimed, in real surprise at such quick success. "But I'm not exactly, do you think, in the position of a friend?" "She'd never know it!" Fargus insisted. "I say, you're the man." "Why, frankly, sir," the lawyer objected, "I can't see I'd do--I really don't--you can't say those things off-hand--I'd have to get acquainted more--" Bofinger resisted so well and protested so earnestly that, an hour later, Fargus carried him away, under his arm, to that meeting which had come so near to Sheila's undoing. The situation was a perilous one for the lawyer. There was, he knew, the insane jealousy of the misanthrope to be reckoned with, the danger that Fargus would fear more from his intimacy than from the prodigality of his wife. Fortunately for Bofinger, Sheila's attitude had completely reconciled Fargus, who wanted her to receive advice, but more that it should come from unwelcome lips. In a fever of trepidation, Sheila awaited the next meeting with the lawyer. The sense of peril had sent her panic-stricken, with almost affection, to the shelter of her husband. The instinct of safeguarding her home and the memory of her pinched and wandering career impelled her towards all the virtues, in an incentive to flight from the menace of the lawyer. Many times she debated the consequences which would follow confession and an appeal to her husband's generosity. Invariably she recoiled, as before an impossibility, convinced that he would never pardon the slightest deception. She had divined under the intoxication of love the implacable, dormant fierceness of the misanthrope, and with this perception she came to recognize by what slender bonds she held his savage nature imprisoned. To surrender a moment her supremacy meant at best servitude. Besides, in her ignorance of the law she saw no escape from the marriage contract which lay in the hands of Bofinger. To her annoyance, it was not until the third afternoon that the lawyer arrived. From her window she discovered him sauntering elegantly toward her, displaying to the street a brilliant tan vest, a pair of lavender trousers, and a smooth gray cutaway. A villain masked has thrice the terror of a villain seen, and to the despairing woman this outward semblance of the negligent dandy magnified immeasurably the lurking venom of the shyster beneath. She went hurriedly down the stairs, rehearsing the dozen and one evasions she had prepared in making up the account he had come to demand. "He cannot prove I am lying," she thought defiantly. "Let him make a scene if he wants to. As for the furniture and the expense of fitting up the house, that belongs to Fargus. On that point I won't yield." Then, as his step sounded, she opened the door and said pleasantly, "Well, you've come at last." "Ah, Mrs. Fargus, I am unlucky! You are going out?" he said, starting back with a frown and speaking punctiliously. "But I may come in, for a moment? Just for a moment, then." "Fargus is not in," she said, sneering at his sleek hypocrisy, "and no one is around." "Excuse me, every one is around!" he said savagely, pushing past her. "Neighbors have eyes as well as ears. Oblige me by not coming to the door until I ring!" "A pleasant introduction." He shrugged his shoulders and made a quick survey. Returning to the parlor he took his seat by the window, to command a view of the street. "Sit there," he said, placing a chair. "Now no one can steal in on us." He stretched out his legs, quizzing her with a smile, in which he took no pains to conceal his vanity. "You were a little surprised to see me the other night, just a leettle, eh?" "How long have you known Fargus?" she said instantly. "You heard what he said." "Then you deceived me." "If what he said is true." She saw that she would learn nothing from him, so, drawing back, she said angrily: "Very well. Is this why you came?" "No," he said sharply, and abandoning his coxcomb attitude he sat erect with a jerk, brought his brows together above his joined fingers, staring at her so fixedly that Sheila nerved herself for the dreaded demand. "Sheila," he said moodily, "why didn't you complain of this box of a house, as I told you?" "Because I did not intend to play blindly." He shifted his glance, gazing moodily out of the window until, with a pucker of his lips, he said condescendingly: "Blindly, Sheila? I thought you more clever than that. You missed a trick. We must quarrel before him. If you had obeyed me I should have pooh-poohed your extravagant ideas. We would have been at once on bad terms. Do what I tell you another time." "Why, what is the use?" "To work into his confidence and get rid of his infernal jealousy, my dear." "But why make him stingy? Certainly that's not our game." "That's but temporary," he said after a long pause. "Now be frank with me," she said anxiously. "What are you trying to do? You've got a new plan, haven't you?" "None whatever," he said with emphasis. "One may come. On my honor, I have nothing in mind now but to work into his confidence and become the friend of the family. The advantage to us is obvious." The reply did not convince her. Despite his glibness she felt that he was deceiving her. She pressed him for some time, but without success. Finally, as she persisted, demanding his confidence, he cut her short by rising and saying: "I mustn't stay too long. It's understood now you are to hate me?" "Very well." "Not difficult, eh?" he said with a laugh. "No." He turned upon her violently, catching her wrists. "Don't try any tricks on me, my dear!" "You hurt," she said in white anger, but without resistance. "You heard?" "I hear." "And remember this," he said without releasing her. "When Fargus asks what we talked about, say that I told you I thought he was hard up and worried over his business." "I hear." "And I told you to make him go slow." "I hear." "There," he said, smiling and releasing his hold. "Don't be a little fool. Act square and you won't regret it. Au revoir." It was not until he had gone that she remembered with a shudder of foreboding that he had not once referred to their contract or demanded his account. The thought left her frightened and dismayed. Without a doubt he had changed his plan of campaign. Yet what could be his new purpose and why should he want to cater to her husband's avarice? Did he plan, when he had gained his complete confidence, to carry off by some master stroke what he would have to wait for painfully, year by year? She asked herself twenty such uneasy questions and resolved that, until she had forced Bofinger's confidence she would do nothing to further his purposes. "Well, have you seen Mr. Bofinger yet?" Fargus asked on his return. "He called." "Indeed," he said with a start. "And what did you talk about?" "Mr. Bofinger preached to me about--economy," she said slowly. "Well, well," he said, at loss for a comment. "And how do you like him now?" "Max, I wish you'd tell me something?" she said earnestly, laying her hand on his shoulder. "Is he your lawyer? Does he have charge of anything for you?" "No, no!" he said, shaking his head. "I look after my own business, thank you! Still, Bofinger is a good fellow; though you're set against him, aren't you?" "I?" she said in surprise, "oh, I was--" "Well?" he said fretfully. "Why, this afternoon I liked him better. Why did you say he wasn't a lady's man? I should say just the opposite." "Nonsense!" he said angrily. "So you like him?" "Yes," she admitted thoughtfully. "Yes, I do. He's quite different when you talk to him, alone." She added pensively, "What funny eyes he has,--very handsome, don't you think?" "What do you mean? What makes you say that?" Fargus said in great disturbance. "Oh, you silly man!" she said, throwing back her head and laughing. "Don't look so fierce. The idea! A man doesn't make love to you the first time he calls!" CHAPTER XIV AS A FLASH IN THE DARK The card Sheila had played in her desperation succeeded so completely that she became alarmed. She had played on impulse, recking not the danger of crossing the lawyer. The effect on Fargus was so extreme that she suddenly found herself in all the dangers which now arose from her double relation. The very thought that any man might make love to his wife had sufficed to awaken all the demons of jealousy in Fargus and had caused the face of Bofinger to appear the most odious in the world. From that night the name of the lawyer never passed his lips. He avoided him studiously in the streets. He left orders at his restaurants to deny him access. It was no longer only Bofinger he held in fear but all younger men, and he resolved bitterly never again to commit the error of introducing into his home that particular danger. For six days Bofinger was unable to catch even a glimpse of his coat-tails or to penetrate to his office. Vaguely alarmed, he studied his time and succeeded in surprising Fargus one afternoon at the moment he was leaving for the rounds of his various establishments. Fargus, unaware of his proximity, was startled by a clasp on his arm and the glib voice of Bofinger crying in his ear: "Here's luck! Where in thunder have you been hiding all the while?" In dismay Fargus let fall the package under his arm. "Evil conscience," said the lawyer, laughing as he restored the bundle. "Well, are things going any better?" "What things?" Fargus stammered. He looked at him darkly, seeing nothing but the eyes that Sheila had found handsome. "Hello, didn't your lady tell you how I lectured her on expenses?" Bofinger said, examining him with uneasiness. "Guess I must have turned her against me with too much advice." "Oh yes," Fargus said finally, forced to say something. "I remember." "It goes better then?" "Better." "Well, well, glad to hear it," Bofinger said, withdrawing his arm and shooting a queer look. "Glad to have been of use. Call on me any time. By, by!" With a nod and a luxuriant wave of his arm he ground on his heel and strode away. Fargus, a little uneasy, plodded along saying to himself that he had shown his ill-humor too abruptly. Next, remembering the little deceit in which they had been fellows, he became genuinely alarmed lest Bofinger, offended, should revenge himself by blabbing to Sheila. At this horrible idea he at once set out for Jefferson Market determined to conciliate the lawyer. The poor man, after a few weeks of marriage, was ready to do anything to escape facing a scene. Entering hastily he found the office in the sole possession of Hyman Groll. He halted, startled by the unusual figure of the hunchback, and asked: "Isn't Mr. Bofinger back?" "Not yet." "When do you expect him?" "When I see him," Groll answered, shrugging his shoulders. "You're his partner?" Fargus said, surveying the hunchback with an interest which Groll returned, each recognizing in the other a common intensity of purpose. "I'm his partner. Can we do anything for you?" "No, no," Fargus said hastily; "just tell him I want to see him very much." "What name?" "Fargus. He will know." "You're a client of his, then?" Groll said with aroused curiosity. "Yes, of course." "I beg pardon--since when?" "Why, a couple of months--" "Indeed--what name?" "Fargus, Max Fargus." "Oh, Max Fargus. Thank you, I'll speak to him," Groll answered with just the slightest twitch to his eyebrows. Excusing himself Fargus hurried directly home, convinced that the lawyer would be beforehand. He arrived at the corner of Second Avenue just in time to perceive the figure of Bofinger passing into his home. "Oh, the villain," he cried, "he is going to betray me!" And clutching his cane in the middle, he began to run, provoking the gibes of a group of street urchins, who cheered him on. He reached the door, blown and trembling, and inserting the key entered. Immediately such an explosion of anger greeted him from above that, mystified, he checked the call on his lips and stole cautiously to the foot of the stairs. The voice of his wife was answering in terror: "I swear I haven't! I've played square!" "Look here, Sheila, my girl," cried the furious voice of Bofinger. "It won't go. It won't do. What I want to know is what you've been telling the old boy to set him against me!" The first words had revealed the truth to the misanthrope, as in the storm a flash suddenly reveals the monstrous iniquities of the night. The exclamation was stifled in his throat; crumbling he fell across the banister, clinging to them with desperate fingers, while above the sounds of the altercation continued their overwhelming revelation. "Are you going to tell me the truth?" cried the lawyer. "Sheila, either you've made a blunder or you're playing double with me." "I am not." "You've made him suspicious of me." "I haven't--I swear it--on my honor." "Honor!" he cried with a roar of laughter. "Cut that out between us! Now once for all you can't fool me. I know when you're lying, and you're lying now! Ah, my girl, I've placed you long ago. You think you'll play me close and get all for yourself." "Bofinger, you are mad!" "See here, cut this short. I'll give you just one chance." "What's that?" she said, but so faintly that Fargus did not hear it. "You get me to supper here within four days--or I'll put the screws on!" "But how can I?" "That's a good one," he cried, repeating contemptuously her words. "You do it. That's all. We're partners and don't you forget it. Share alike! That was the terms when I could have ruined you with a word--and those, my girl, are the terms now!" Fargus, crimped to the banisters, listening with parted mouth and terrible eyes, could hear no more. He was suffocated. He reeled to the door and with a last effort opened it without noise. Once in the street he slunk rapidly away, glancing backward fearfully over his shoulder, scarce restraining a mad impulse to break into a run. He scurried under the Elevated and on without stopping, until at last the river barred his way. There he collapsed on a pile of lumber and remained holding his numbed head in his hands, swaying, until a policeman startled him by touching him on the shoulder and questioning him. Then, stumbling to his feet, he fled again towards the south, but haphazard as the rush of a brute wounded to the death. For mile after mile he scurried thus, striking east and striking west, his mind vacant and stunned, incapable of other thought than to flee as far as he could from the abomination he had left in his home. A dozen times he came near being run over, without knowing his danger or hearing the screams of warning that followed his crazy progress. In the blank shifting of faces he saw nothing but the leer and the scorn of the mocking world. The blow had been too instant and too astounding. His numbed mind could only feel the acuteness of the anguish, without as yet being able to analyze or recognize the causes. He did not think of Sheila or Bofinger. It was the world which had crushed him, the perfidious, mocking world which in the end had thus taken its contemptuous revenge. [Illustration: FOR MILE AFTER MILE HE SCURRIED THUS.] He saw everywhere smiles of derision, heard triumphant laughter. Every one was gazing at him, enjoying the discomfiture of the ancient enemy. He saw nothing clearly, he began to stumble in his walk and to waver, clearing his way through the crowds with his cane, thrusting women and children violently out of his path. In one narrow street in the Jewish quarter a crowd of boys at play set up a cry of "Madman!" He turned furiously and shook his fist, cursing them. Then fleeing anew his course became embroiled, crossing and recrossing, until to his dismay, a second time, he encountered the group of urchins, who accompanied him a block, with derisive shouts. Fargus, clasping his temples in his hands, broke away in terror and, by some instinct avoiding his former direction, turned north, winding and twisting helplessly in the labyrinth of the ill-smelling slums. Still everything was confused, his hatred and his agony. It was always the world which pursued him with its jeers. This obsession possessed him so completely that even the noises of the city, the rumble of truck and carriage, the roar of the Elevated, the screams of the street hawkers, the hum and swish of the crowd, struck his ears as so many delirious taunts. Through this fog and rumble, all at once, he heard a wild shriek of acclaim: "Madman! Madman!" Looking up wildly he found himself, to his horror, a third time in the street of his persecutors. This time the hilarity descended on him like a storm, for humanity is pitiless once its sense of ridicule is touched. From the windows women saluted him with gibes and laughter, people crowded to the front of the shops showing him to one another, while the loungers cheered on the ragamuffins who, forming in a company behind him, chanted in unison: "Mad dog! Mad dog!" Some one from a window pelted him with an apple. At this moment he was in danger of losing his reason. He began frantically to run, his tormentors with shrieks of delight pursuing him. After two blocks of fruitless flight he turned suddenly on the pack about his heels and clubbed the foremost with such fury that the rest fled. Then forgetting everything but the new fear of the something within his mind which was beginning to snap, he rushed over to the west side, crossing Broadway by a miracle. All at once he heard his name pronounced. A familiar voice was saying conciliatingly: "Oh, Mr. Fargus, do come in! What has happened to you?" He came to a halt, stock still, and glared about him. Some strange instinct had led him back to the scenes of his boyhood. He was before the sunken rooms of Nell's Coffee House, and Mrs. Biggs herself was watching him with fear and wonder. "What, you too!" he cried, and whipped into fury by the sight of his first love he brandished his cane and rushed on her. The woman, with a cry, flung into the restaurant and barricaded the door. Then a chill began to shake him, his arm fell inertly, his rage, from utter exhaustion, passed like a fever from him. He turned away and instinctively took up the familiar journey to his old home in the tenements. "Ah, let me think," he said wearily, striking his damp forehead. The perfidy of Bofinger he had guessed from the first words of his wife. He gradually comprehended what had happened, that the lawyer had gone straight to Sheila and with her had formed a compact which had made her his wife. If the details were obscure the truth was blinding. When he had thought this carefully out he said again: "What am I going to do?" He returned to the street of his birth and hurried up the well-known stairs. The key of the room was still in his pocket--he had never surrendered the old quarters. It was a superstition and a sentiment unique in his life. He entered the room and looked about solicitously. Nothing had been disturbed. Mechanically, still confused, he went to the trunk and was taking out the bedding when in dismay he recollected himself and shoved it hurriedly back. Then seating himself on the bed, his head imprisoned in his hands, he repeated: "What am I going to do?" This time the question had the vigor of an explosion. He no longer could abandon himself to the torrents of his rage. That emotion had left him in weakness and fear. But gradually, in the cold succeeding calm, a germ of a new passion formed and gathered violence,--the germ of vengeance. At the end of an hour of anguish he leaped to his feet with a shout of victory and, refreshed and alert, again rushed down the stairs and set out resolutely for the upper city. CHAPTER XV THE IRONICAL MOMENT Three hours later Fargus dragged himself home, still limp with the violence of that first uncontrolled burst of vengeance, which, like all the passions, had been too intense in its inception not to necessitate an exhausted reaction. But during these three hours he had already put into motion that conception of a punishment which had come to him like a flash at the end of his maddened flight through the city. What was hardest was to return home. When he reached the street it was already dark and the light in the second story was showing cheerily, while from the hall the veiled glow spread a feeling of delicious warmth. At the sight of the home he had grown so passionately to love such a lust for murder welled up in him that, not daring to look upon Sheila's treacherous face, he fled again. It was almost half an hour later that he came again to his own door and forced his reluctant feet up the steps. With the key in his hand he remained a long moment, feeling all at once very old and exhausted. Then with a shudder he opened the door. "Is that you?" the voice of his wife cried instantly. In the greeting, strangely enough, there was a note of gladness. "What kept you? I have been waiting for ever so long." "Business," he mumbled. His delay had frightened her. In moments of danger and deception the slightest deviation from the routine fires the imagination with vague terrors. Reassured, she began to move about quickly, humming to herself. Below Fargus listened, one hand raised, his lips moving involuntarily to her singing, aghast at her composure. "I'm coming--coming right away," she called down. "Go in and order supper." Before he had moved, she had run down the stairs. "Heavens!" she cried, stopping short. "How tired you look!" "Do I?" he said, looking on the floor. "Yes, a headache or something." "You must take more rest," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder and looking a moment anxiously in his face, before she took her seat at the table. He had wondered if he could keep his hands from her fair throat,--she came and he could hardly restrain himself from falling at her feet. When he looked at her at last his heart rebelled. He had believed that her perfidy had ended his infatuation. He found in her loveliness the power yet to wound--he suffered, he loved. It was not only the woman he could not give up, but the half, the happier half, of his own self. Seeing him so weary Sheila felt a sudden movement of pity, a maternal tenderness she had not believed possible. Across the shining little table, which she contemplated from time to time with an affectionate eye, she saw always the intruding shadow of the lawyer, malignant and inexorable, bringing with it the damp and the chill of the outer night. It was a memory and a threat, the shadow of the cold, starved world of poverty which clung to her. Before this real menace her vanities and her whims vanished, and suddenly, on again looking at the man who had placed her amid this coziness and warmth, the tears dimmed her eyes. All at once she realized how desperately she clung to this home of hers, this one satisfying reality in a stretch of past darkness and future menace. Threatened in this joy of possession her heart was softened towards her husband, whose suffering she now comprehended with her own. She raised her head and said compassionately: "How tired you are, dear! You aren't ill, are you?" At this, her first caress, he twitched violently as from a shock of pain, and drawing his hand hastily across his forehead he stammered inaudibly: "No, no." He fastened his gaze desperately on his plate; to look at her would have meant surrender. He had an immense impulse to seize her in his arms, to overwhelm the fair, treacherous face with kisses, to forego and to forget and to sink into a shameless, passionate subjection. To himself he repeated again and again: "Yes, yes, I love her--I want to love her!" Sheila also was stirred by the responsive emotion one endearing word had brought. "If he loves me like that," she thought, trembling on the verge of a confession, "he might forgive me anything." And shaken with the daring of the thought she sought the courage to throw herself on her knees and cry his mercy. The pause lasted but a moment. Neither suspected what was in the soul of the other or that three destinies hung on a word. A glance of affection would have brought Fargus shamelessly to her knees, a flash of courage and she would have confessed and been forgiven. The ironical moment passed. She did not quite dare. But to distract him she said gently: "I'm going to tell Mr. Bofinger to give you as good advice as he gave me. And by the way, what has become of him all this time?" That speech decided two fates. In Fargus every human emotion froze. From the rage of subjection he passed violently to the rage of murder. Where a moment before he had been on the point of stretching forth his hands in supplication he was now shaken with a blinding passion to possess himself with something murderous, with which to rush on her and blot out forever both her treachery and his infatuation. "Fargus!" she cried in horror. "What is it? Why do you look so?" "Me?" he mumbled, thrusting away from him the knife by his plate with a gesture she could not understand. "What--what was it?" "I asked if Mr. Bofinger was away," she said, following him in alarm. "And why you haven't seen him." "Ah, Bofinger!" he cried, and his fist cracked on the table like the sound of a curse. "What jealousy!" she thought to herself, and reassured she began to laugh openly. "Why do you laugh?" he demanded fiercely. "Monster of jealousy!" she said, smiling. "What a lot of trouble that naughty remark of mine has made!" "Go on," he said, drawing his eyebrows together. Then to himself he added furiously: "Actress--vile actress, lie now to me if you can." "I'm penitent, my dear; I own up," she said with mock humility. "Your friend talked economy and poverty to me until I expected he was going to send you back to your old ways. So to be rid of him I made up my mind to make you jealous. You remember?" And looking at him with challenging eyes she burst out laughing. "Since then, you can't bear to hear his name. Isn't that true?" "No," he said gruffly, cursing her cleverness. "No, I am not jealous." "Fib!" she said, wagging a finger. "And it's all my fault." "No." "You're not made for telling lies," she said with a shake of her head. "Leave that for those who know. Shall we ask Mr. Bofinger to supper then--to-morrow night?" He did not answer, raging at the skill with which she enmeshed him. "And you're not jealous!" she cried, clapping her hands triumphantly. Then rising and coming to his side with the fawning movement of a cat she laid her hand on his arm, saying with a sudden shift to seriousness: "Forgive me my foolish teasing. I'll feel awfully hurt if you let that come between you and an old friend. As for Mr. Bofinger, you silly man, he oils his hair and his eyes have a squint!" "Then you want him?" he said, without raising his eyes from her jeweled, supple fingers. "Please--for to-morrow," she answered with the air of making an atonement. "And--I'll not be so wicked again." Strangely enough, in the presence of such perfected acting Fargus found new strength and a fierce delight in matching wits. "Well, well!" he said, forcing a fierce smile. "That was all, was it? And you are sure you want Mr. Bofinger?" "Please." "That decides it then!" he said grimly; and to him the words were as the casting of a die. The emotion of vengeance is supreme among human passions. Beyond love itself, of which it is often the ultimate phase, it is so exacting and absorbing that only the most intense natures can guard it long in their hearts without being thereby consumed. The generality of men prefer to excuse and forget. The man who can pursue a vengeance relentlessly, and at the sacrifice of his own desires, has in him either a little of the woman or of the savage, in whom the egotism of civilization is unknown; or a touch of that madness which distinguishes fanatics and misanthropes, those who are ready to sacrifice themselves for humanity or those who despise it. In measure as this supreme passion dominated Fargus it educated him and, from a first tempestuous upsetting, it calmed him and gave to him the strength of deception, the joy of matching his wits against the woman and a confidence in the ultimate day. His demeanor during the supper at which Bofinger was present surprised him. Forewarned he viewed their adroit maneuvering to develop a quarrel with scorn and amusement. He found in himself another man, the creature of his new purpose, who suffered no longer. But at times the other returned with the intensity of pain. Two days after the supper with Bofinger, Fargus returned one night with a vigor and a zest that impressed Sheila at once. "Ah, you're different to-night," she said, looking at him with interest. "Yes, Sheila, I am," he cried, taking her hand and squeezing it joyfully. "Luck, great luck!" Wondering much she followed him up-stairs, where without preliminaries he brought out a bundle of papers and said with a smile: "Sheila, we're going to have a business talk. Something unexpected has happened. First--there!" Picking out of the bundle a book he offered it to her with an expectant smile. She took it with a feeling of apprehension, watching him in almost dismay. It was a bank book inscribed with her name. "For me?" she cried, "but--what--why?" "You have said you don't have enough money," he answered drily. "You are now to run the house--all expenses except rent. Every three months four hundred dollars will be paid in to your account." She looked and saw that amount entered to her credit. This development in her husband so overwhelmed her that she could not for a time muster words to thank him. When she started he cut her short. "Now listen, Sheila, you've been wondering, haven't you, what has worried me these last days." He stopped with a questioning look, reveling in his new power of deception. "Three days ago I was afraid that the chance to make millions was going to escape me. To-day I have it in my hand. Yes, Sheila, millions--millions!" Across her mind there passed the terrible thought that Bofinger had found an opening, and she said anxiously: "Is it a secret?" "Absolutely," he answered. "A secret for every one!" "It's a plan, then, of Mr. Bofinger's!" she said with conviction. "Bofinger, heavens no!" he cried in real alarm. "He has no idea of it; and, Sheila, no one must know, no one!" "Never fear," she cried, relieved. "Not a word shall pass my lips, I promise you! But, Max, you say millions," she added incredulously; "in your enthusiasm don't you--what do you really mean?" "No, millions!" he cried, smiting his palms. Then leaning forward and grasping a knee in either squat hand he began nervously: "To-morrow I'm leaving for Mexico. When I come back, if all goes well, there is nothing you can wish for you can't have." At this extraordinary promise, all of a sudden, like a mist, there rolled up before the woman a glittering vision of luxury and splendor; carriages beautifully fashioned, rolling behind swift horses, boxes at the opera dimmed by apparitions of bewildering satins and silks, which in turn disappeared before the fascination of glistening jewelry. She shut her eyes and with a sigh relaxed in the gentle happiness. Fargus lost not a sign of her emotion. He smiled as a master smiles. He held her. He proceeded rapidly, finding in the thought of her deception a joy which she imagined came from his words. "Four years ago I staked out a miner who came to me with tales of the Mexican silver mines. I supplied him on condition to have two thirds of his findings. He is not the first I've done that for. He wrote me a week ago that he was returning successful. To-day I saw him and, Sheila, not only has he discovered a mine that promises everything, but he brings me the chance to buy up one which they think is worked out, but which really is filled with millions. There is in this business," he said, nodding wisely, "something queer, a bit of treachery; but let the owners look to themselves. The more fools they to be deceived! I shall go to-morrow and investigate both with an expert, on the quiet. Now, in order that I can close as soon as I am sure, I have brought these papers to you to sign." She received the papers without a glance, saying breathlessly: "And you really believe there is a chance?" "A chance? A certainty!" She leaned over and took his hands, saying with tears in her eyes: "O Max, if it is only true!" "There, there, read over the papers," he said nervously, withdrawing his hands. "If everything goes well I shall sell some of my restaurants and cinch the bargain. The papers are a formality--your consent to the sales in case they are made. Of course," he added with a shrug, "if nothing turns up I shan't sell." "Oh, don't speak of such a thing!" she said with a superstitious shiver. "Where shall I sign?" "There and there," he said, imposing his finger and hiding his eyes. "To-morrow we'll go before a notary and you can acknowledge your signature." "And why that?" she said, signing carelessly. "To show, my dear, that your signature is given willingly and not by compulsion." She lifted her head and met his glance. The two burst into laughter. The next morning the deeds were duly executed at the Union Bank, where Sheila was identified. After lunch she insisted on packing everything herself. She arranged his tie, smoothed his coat, studying him with an affection as sincere and deep as her hunger for the vision of wealth he had so marvelously held out to her. "Now remember," he said sternly, "if anyone asks, say I'm off on business." "I will." "But you don't know where." "Never fear." "You might say, if necessary, that it was to look up some oyster beds." "I will." "Good-by, then," he blurted out, reaching out his hand. "Not like that!" she cried in protest, and flinging herself into his arms she kissed him. Then holding herself from him, seizing his shoulders, she cried fervently: "Oh, Max, bring me only what you promised, and I'll give you all without reserve. All!" CHAPTER XVI CASTLES IN THE AIR It was fully a month before Sheila received word of Max Fargus. The weeks passed in skirmishes with Bofinger, who, dissatisfied with her explanations, continually harassed her. To his insistent demands she answered always that Fargus had left without further explanation than that he was going to investigate the oyster fields. "And that's all you know?" the lawyer demanded with one of his inquisitorial looks. "Absolutely." "He writes to you?" "Me? I haven't heard a word," she answered truthfully. "Well, it looks peculiar," he said suspiciously. "He has never done this before that I can find out." "Perhaps he has a plan to extend his business," she said, committing the mistake of trying to explain. He looked at her with an antagonistic eye. "Sheila, I bet something's gone wrong between you two." She protested in surprise. "You haven't been cutting up, have you?" he continued angrily. "Doing anything to make him jealous?" "Me? What could I do?" she answered. "I might as well live in a convent." "How long is he going to be away?" "I don't know." "And he hasn't written?" "No." "And that doesn't worry you?" "Me?" she said, slipping over the dangerous answer. "Why should it?" Twenty times Bofinger returned to the catechism without discovering in her manner a single flaw. She held the lawyer always in terror, but according to the nature of her sex, which is disconcerted only by the unknown, the daily contact educated her and brought a new confidence. Besides she was defending the millions Fargus had promised her with the instinct of a mother for her children. They had grown very real to her, these children of her hopes. She believed in them because she had always wanted to believe. So now without restraint she began to abandon herself to all the delights of the imagination. She began the morning by ransacking the society columns for details of the last night's functions, promising herself, with a delicious rage, that the time would soon come when she would read her own name there. She ran the shops, purchasing in her imagination enough to fill their little house three times over. She hung over the shining counters of the jewelers, setting aside for the future day bracelets and brooches unending, and decided, so natural did her new destiny seem to her, that she would wear nothing but rubies and pearls. She remained late abed, having her breakfast served in her room and tired out the morning with preparations for her afternoon parade on the Avenue. At times her happiness became so intense that she had a superstitious dread lest at the last moment Providence might thwart her. She went thrice a week to church, where she promised to be a faithful and exemplary wife if only Fargus might be permitted to return successful, hoping by this bargain to conciliate God and range him on her side, for she was a bit uneasy over her past. Also it must be admitted that her conception of Paradise had a flavor of upper Fifth Avenue. The culmination of these weeks of delirium arrived in a visit to the opera. It was an intoxication such as she had never known. Ensconced in the glittering orchestra, the display on the stage, the surge and the sweep of the immense music, awakened all her senses. Radiant and palpitating she leaned back languidly, her glance traveling among the boxes, back and forth over the bewildering horseshoe, dreaming of the day when she too would take her place among these princesses of fashion,--and it took her quite a while to decide which box she would occupy. During the second entre-acte she joined the parade in the foyer. Feeling that the excitement gave her a moment of unusual brilliancy, she placed herself in prominence, wondering anxiously if she would be noticed among all the gorgeous toilettes. To her delight she drew many glances and on leaving had the delicious satisfaction of hearing a voice say in a whisper half impertinent and half admiration: "Who is she?" "Oh, when I can dress as they do!" she thought with a sigh of delight, "they will know who I am!" The incense of this flattery caused her to imagine the conquests she should then number--little infidelities to Fargus, a number of which, despite all her vows, she committed in that moment of ecstasy. On leaving the opera she took a carriage for the mere vanity of being obsequiously handed through the door. Then, arrived home, she paid the driver double his fare in the embarrassment she felt that he should set her down in such an unfashionable quarter. The next morning, remembering with alarm the infidelities she had imagined to her poor husband, she hastened to church where she renounced them in trembling, hoping perhaps that the divine Providence had not noticed such a minuscule frailty. At the end of the month Bofinger, on repairing to Sheila's, stumbled on a messenger who was bringing a telegram to the door. Convinced for a long time that the absence of Fargus held some mystery of which the woman knew the secret he avidly seized on the occasion offered. Slipping a quarter into the palm of the surprised messenger he bade him return five minutes later. Then he went in hurriedly and going at once to the attack said: "Well, Sheila, what news?" "About Fargus? Nothing." "What! Not even a letter?" "No, indeed." "But he's telegraphed?" he persisted. "He'd never think of that," she said with conviction. "So," he said smiling. "And you're still satisfied there's nothing to fear?" "Why, I am a little worried," she said, deciding to answer thus. "But then I suppose it's only one of his funny ways." At this moment the bell rang and Sheila, answering the door, received the telegram. "Hello, what's that?" the lawyer cried from the parlor. "Only someone at the wrong number," she said, shutting the door. Bofinger rose and with two steps reached her side at the moment she was trying to conceal the telegram in her dress. "Indeed!" he said ironically, twisting the dispatch from her hand. "So this doesn't count?" Sheila, paralyzed with fear, felt the floor swim beneath her. Bofinger, tearing off the cover, found to his great disappointment only this: Begin journey tomorrow. "MAX FARGUS." Without attempting to conceal his vexation, he was tendering the dispatch to Sheila when all at once snatching it back he scanned it for the source. "Mexico!" he exclaimed, and, looking at her with the gleam of the lawyer who has entrapped his witness, he raised his voice to a shout, "MEXICO!" Sheila, who had feared that the contents might reveal the story of the mine, comprehended rapidly that she might yet extricate herself. "Mexico?" she cried with well acted incredulity, and seizing the telegram she read it. "But--but I don't understand! Why Mexico?" "You do it well," he said scornfully. "So Fargus has gone to Mexico. Why?" "My dear fellow," she said, sitting down and studying the telegram, "I am as astonished as you." "Sheila, you're lying to me." "You tell me that a dozen times a day," she said with a shrug. "It gets tiresome. Still, I would like to know why he is in Mexico and what he means by beginning his journey. Does he mean his return or what?" Deceived by her air of candid bewilderment Bofinger tried a new method. "Sheila," he said, looking at her earnestly, "I believe you. But, my dear girl, if you are deceiving me, you are running big risks. Fargus is too clever for you alone. You need me, whether you find it out now or later." "Perhaps," she said, glancing at the telegram to escape his scrutiny, "perhaps he has some idea of bringing up a Mexican establishment?" "You think he's coming back now?" "Oh, of course." "You are doubtless right," he added, smiling too graciously not to raise her doubts, "and we'll soon know." A week later, the mail brought her the following brief letter, with a Southern postmark. Dear Sheila: Fargus has been away a leettle too long. You may be satisfied, I am not. I'm off for Mexico. ALONZO BOFINGER. "Oh, if he finds him, then everything is lost!" she cried in consternation. "If only I knew how to warn Fargus!" At the end of three weeks she received a telegram from Bofinger which completed her despair, for he sent but the one word: "Progress." Six weeks of torture succeeded, during which she was torn between the fear that the lawyer should learn of the mines and the agony which gradually possessed her as she became convinced that some dreadful accident had happened to Fargus, forever sweeping away her brief vision of fortune. This was the secret of the overwhelming grief which had so mystified Bofinger on the night when he had returned to reveal to the distracted woman the fall of all her hopes and the extraordinary sentence which for seven years she must undergo by the provisions of the common law. CHAPTER XVII THE SEVEN YEARS The human imagination, which responds easily to the narration of an immediate sorrow, is unable to comprehend that suffering which has no end, for the imagination of man is powerless before the stretch of time, which always surprises and mystifies it. Hence the difficulty of making comprehensible the agony of the seven years' waiting in which Sheila suddenly found herself; as though she had suddenly awakened in the embrace of a dungeon, forgotten and without hope. For man can conceive of the future only in the terms of the past, and if time, when reviewed, has the ironical property of amazing contraction, it has, when anticipated, according to the intensity of the desire, the illimitable power of extension with something of the mysterious cruelty of death, incessantly multiplied and incessantly possible. What is seven years in the human life? In the past it is a breath, in the future it is eternal. In the memory it ceases to exist or stands only as a vague gap which one seeks bewildered and with a sense of loss. In the future, for the convict who awaits his liberty, for the genius who runs the streets unrecognized, for the lover and the heir, seven years stretches beyond the human vision and has something of the quality of eternal punishment. Seven years to eat out her soul in patience, seven years to mortify unquenchable desires, seven years to contemplate the autumn of her youth arriving, to have all just beyond reach, to gain all just too late, and to suffer each day the pangs of a queen in exile--this was the aspect to the distracted woman of these inexorable seven years on the morning after the revelation of the lawyer. She had not realized it at once. She began to comprehend it in the morning after a night of agony. When Bofinger returned the next afternoon he found her shattered and inert. She had passed from the horror of waiting to a recoil from the suffering she must begin, as a damned soul might shrink at the brink of the unending atonement. She did the natural thing. She refused to believe that Fargus could be dead. Then, as though to surrender the thought of the millions was as painful as to wait for the half of one, she found a wretched consolation in the hope that Fargus had found the mines and had pretended death, until by careful espionage he could satisfy himself that she was worthy. Bofinger had his reasons for keeping her in ignorance of her legal rights. He did not inform her that she could apply to the courts for an allowance, for he wished to keep everything in his hands, fearing specially the danger of her falling into honest guidance. Two things he wished to avoid, her learning the value of her inheritance and, in his selfishness, her spending what would undoubtedly be a liberal allowance. To make more secure his hold he loaned her the sum requisite for her needs, twelve hundred a year, taking notes of acknowledgment at twelve months for double the amount, which by constant exchange he calculated to swell to usorious figures. Also it suited his precautions that she should be forced to live frugally and separated from the world, for he knew the dangers of her nature which, were the opportunity presented, would sacrifice everything for instant luxury. Without his suspecting it, one thing abetted his end. Sheila's account at the bank terminated with her first credit. Seeing that she refused, for some unaccountable reason, to surrender the hope of Fargus's return, he encouraged her in that persuasion, pretending also to fear some ruse of his eccentric nature. For two years Sheila clung to this obstinate hope, and at times thereafter she returned to it desperately, but at the beginning of the fourth year she abandoned her dream utterly and resigned herself to despair, with the revolt of one who can accuse but fate and sees herself the sport of some divine cruelty. In brief, as the history of such daily grief can no more be told than comprehended, six years passed and, amazed, she beheld the beginning of the last period. She was entering then her forty-first year. With the six preceding years she had bidden a sullen farewell to the last of her youth and in this cruel martyrdom had watched day by day the imperceptible fading of her bloom, the dulling of her eyes until, doomed to impotently witness the fragrance and the warmth evaporate, she had come rebelling into middle age, having been beautiful, coquette, and pleasure-loving for nothing. What gave a mysterious horror to this period was the utter impossibility, when she sought back, to perceive even the traces of the journey. At the beginning of the seventh year she awoke and shaking off all restraint began desperately to anticipate the arrival of her fortune. Bofinger, after a first resistance, seeing her resolved, advanced her the sums she required, surprising her by his generosity and good humor. At thirty-four she had looked upon forty as irrevocable. Now she said to herself that she had yet two years into which to crowd all the defeated longings of her youth. She flung madly into the vanities of luxury. She dismissed her maid of all work and installed a cook and waitress. She made a bundle, so to speak, of all her furnishings; replacing the carpets with oriental rugs, introducing into the dining-room a magnificent sideboard spread with silver. As for the parlor and bedroom, within six months they retained not an object of those treasures which had once seemed to her so luxurious and whose purchase had cost Fargus such pangs. Each afternoon in a landau, which she rented by the month, prepared by her coiffeur, perceptibly rouged, a little puffy but always noticeable, she rolled away languidly to mingle in the parade of the avenue. In the evenings she lived from theater to theater. Paradise, to this woman, was to be admired, envied, and coveted. She loved but two ideas, herself and the world. Her feminine nature had never sought the tribute of the individual--the woman who does that returns her love--but the admiration of the mass; an emotion entirely selfish and egoistical. In her appetite for admiration she made no discriminations, the meanest glances had the power of rendering her supremely happy. So each day, as she whirled along up Fifth Avenue and through the Park, she watched anxiously from the corners of her eye, counting the looks that followed her; thoughtful and pained when an old beau, who recognized her artifices, showed her to a friend with a knowing laugh, delighted when a young man, attracted by the mystery of woman's maturity, ogled her with supreme daring. One consideration alone kept her in her modest neighborhood, a consideration human and quite feminine. Next to the joy of rubbing elbows with the fashionable world, she procured her greatest delight in the triumph over her neighbors, which she each day achieved as, perfumed and hidden in laces, she was handed into her carriage. In this unsatisfied, false joy she ran through the last twelve months, eating up the savings of the lawyer, who continued meanwhile all suavity and good nature, calling on her three times a week, serving her in little ways, always agreeable and amusing, acting as her companion whenever it pleased her. Still she was not the dupe of his mildness, understanding very well its end. Only as a disagreeable situation to be met in the future she found it easier to banish the problem from her mind. Thus arrived the end of January, and the day which brought to an end the seven years. At eight promptly Bofinger arrived bearing a bouquet. Time had not entirely overlooked him. He had turned slightly bald, the wrinkles had invaded every cranny, and his vest had generously rounded out. But despite such telltale evidence, he had not yielded a jot of the dress of a young dandy. He wore a fancy shirt, thin red lines on a lavender background, upright collar of the same decoration. A flowing crimson tie passed through the loop of a large ruby ring, this last the memento of a gentleman who procured such trifles at considerably below their market value. A blue silk vest with a firmament of yellow stars was designed to give the touch of gaiety needed to a suit of ruddy brown cheviot. Pending Sheila's arrival he waited in the parlor, heels clicked together, stiff legs, bouquet to his bosom, a speech on his tongue. Then, as this attitude began to cramp him, he relaxed, placed the bouquet on the table and stalked about the room, contemplating with his chin in his palm the display of Sheila's extravagance. Many thoughts doubtless passed through his mind, which he summed up by clicking to himself and saying with conviction: "Damn, she'll take a lot of driving!" Then instinctively the fingers of his left hand tightened as one who already grips the reins. Immersed in this reflection he did not notice Sheila's soft entrance. By a caprice, instead of making a toilette for the anniversary she had put on a plain dress of black, either to render herself less desirable or to appeal to his compassion. She stood a moment silently, her glance bent gravely upon him. Then, advancing with a smile, she said lightly: "Heavens, Alonzo, you _have_ something on your mind!" Bofinger, startled, turned about in haste, losing all his effect. "Do you know what night this is?" she asked, stealing his thunder. "I have come to congratulate you on your widowhood," he said hurriedly. "Is that why you have gone into mourning?" "And are those flowers for me?" she asked with a gesture. "Eh," he cried, and, turning clumsily, hastily presented them. To restore his equanimity he began to smoke, while Sheila, after touching the flowers of the bouquet one by one, finally laid them down on her lap and said: "Do you know that, until a few months ago, I expected him to turn up at any moment." "Well, at times I had the same idea," he said with a nod. "A sort of superstition. However, if the waiting was long it's over now. Sheila, own up, I haven't been a half bad fellow, have I? Have you any complaint coming?" "No," she replied with a smile. "You have been easy on me; but I never thought that it was against your interests." He frowned, and bringing out a package of notes said acridly: "Do you know just how much I've loaned you? For seven years I've made you an allowance of $1,200 yearly, total $8,400. It may be interesting to note that it has been at a slight personal embarrassment. Beside which, in the last twelve months I have advanced you $4,800; to do which I have been forced to borrow heavily. Total, $13,200." "Finish up the calculation, Alonzo," she said with a shrug, "and tell me just what you expect to make on your generous transactions. However, I don't object, virtue should be rewarded." "About $32,000," he said promptly, "which is nothing considering the risks. Yet," he continued, placing the notes on the table before him with a significant movement, "I'll have something more to say about this later, then perhaps you will give me more credit." An awkward moment succeeded, what each felt was the end of the skirmishing. It was the woman who finally resolutely went to the attack. "Alonzo," she said, sinking back in her chair, "we might as well come to the point. I know very well what that is,--you intend to marry me. Well, let us talk it over and as friends. For our feelings have changed and, as I have become a middle-aged woman, I look at things differently. You have had your interests but you have been a good friend to me. So let's talk the situation over, as friends." "Agreed," he said gravely; "but as we are going to be frank, Sheila, why, I may as well say now, we will be married day after to-morrow." "Then let us discuss it on that basis," she said with a smile, into which she put all the indifference and weariness of middle-age. "What is the situation? You wish your half of Fargus's fortune; I don't flatter myself there is any other reason for our marriage. Well, you shall have it--freely. I won't hide from you that I did at first rebel. Now you have fairly earned it. But on the other hand I want my liberty. So take your share and leave me free. On your side, at forty-three, you are young. You will want to enjoy life, you won't want to do it with an old woman at your side. You love life, my dear Alonzo, and a wife twenty-five years old is what you need. For me," she said with a tired smile, "I have come to what I never felt possible; I adore pleasure as much as ever, but I have no longer the strength. Yes, I must get used to being old. This last year has tired me dreadfully. It's over, money will no longer mean what it could have meant." "And what will you do with it?" he asked solemnly. "Me? I may make a splurge for another six months, for it is hard to give up. After which," she added with profound deliberation, "I think I'll devote myself to charity. Therefore, my dear Alonzo, don't tie up with a middle-aged woman when it isn't necessary." "My dear Sheila," Bofinger said, adopting the same attitude. "What I am going to say will surprise you; I too have changed. No, I have not the same desires, the same enthusiasms I had seven years ago. I am not young at forty-three and to play it would make me ridiculous. A time for all things. Now I have other ambitions. But first of all I have gotten to the point in life when a man gets lonely--wants to anchor somewhere." "Heavens, Alonzo," she cried in vexation, "you're not going to make love to me now!" "That would not be difficult, my dear Sheila," he said with an admiring glance, "though for some reason you have taken pains to-night to appear at your worst." And tilting his nose in the air, he enjoyed a smile at the expense of the woman, he had not studied in vain. "What's the use, Sheila? You know it's settled. And when we get as far along as this scenes ain't agreeable. When we're married," he added, sweeping up the bundle of notes, "Sheila, my dear, you may make a bonfire of these without it's costing you more than the price of a match." "But," she said suspiciously, "if that's been your intention why did you make me sign such agreements?" "And supposing you had died," he said with a shrug. "What would have been coming to me? Nothing but the papers I held. Now tell me I haven't been generous! And what's more, when we're married, you can choose. I'll take what's coming to me and leave you absolutely free--or--" "Or what," she asked, at some wonder to hear him speak so soft. "Or we can pull together. The property has improved, if we wanted higher stakes we could do much together. I'd go into politics; that's the way to invest your money to-day. Yes, Sheila, tastes change and new ambitions come. After forty only power satisfies a man. That is what I want. So, frankly, I should like a home. I feel I'd make a good husband and, Sheila, I shouldn't find it difficult to be proud of you!" In listening to these soft words and seeing him so settled and phlegmatic, knowing the charity that comes with fortune, she had perhaps a moment during which she was willing to believe that he had really experienced a change of heart. So easily are we persuaded of the best intentions, when we fear the worst. "But why," she asked after a thoughtful interval, "why is marriage necessary? There is no question of your half, that I promise you." "My dear," he said with deprecatory candor, "I am too old to change my skin. I know I can trust you, now. Yet, to save my life, I couldn't help doubting it. It's second nature, you know. Seeing is believing, and holding is better. I'm made to risk nothing, to act as though I suspected everything. It ain't personal, Sheila--I can't help it." She bit her lip and, driven to desperation, said angrily: "But I don't want to marry you!" "Why not?" "Because I'm not in love with you." "Were you with Fargus?" he said quietly. "It was a question of interest, wasn't it? Well, marry me and it'll be to your interest too. Such a man as I am, knowing the secret ways and who ain't squeamish, only needs capital. Knowledge without capital is what makes the shyster." "However, you leave me free to choose?" she said. "Perfectly." "Then," she said decisively, seeking to provoke from him his true feelings, "since you won't trust me to pay, we'll be married and, as soon as you get your half, you'll arrange for a divorce." "I regret," he said politely but with a ring of vexation, "that is not possible. In coming into possession of Fargus's estate you must give bonds for the principal until another seven years have elapsed. There also you will need my assistance." "Then in heaven's name what do I get!" she cried, rising. "Humph, you get the income," he said with a shrug, "which is tolerable--quite enough." "Well, what?" "Well," he drawled, looking askance at her, "somewhere around $50,000." "A year?" she said faintly. "Yes. The property must have bettered considerable--ought to fetch close on to a million now." "And that, all that is mine!" she said, palpitating. "All ours," he corrected, and his voice trembled a little, despite himself. "And half of that won't satisfy you!" she cried. "Two such halves are better than one," he said, then added hastily, "However, that lies with you. If you say it, it will be a marriage in form only." "Let me think it over," she said, still under the shock of her surprise. "Certainly," he answered, rising to depart. "You are perfectly free." "Thank you." "But," he added at the door, "be ready for the ceremony, day after to-morrow, at eleven in the morning. Good night. Think over the rest carefully." Then she comprehended, what at the bottom she had known from the beginning, that, despite all her resources, at the crucial moment he would always be her master, and in the matter of her fortune she would do exactly as he designed. CHAPTER XVIII FARGUS IS DEAD It is rare in the secret life of the city that they who live by preying on society are not themselves preyed upon. Alonzo Bofinger for a long while had been in the clutches of Sammamon, the money-lender. Without his aid he could never have maintained Sheila through her period of waiting. But, to obtain the necessary loans, he had been forced to take him into his entire confidence, paying, of course, the penalty in the usorious rates Sammamon greedily imposed. Bofinger, indeed, had never lived on his income, but had used it to capitalize his debts, gambling always on a lucky future turn of the wheel of fortune. He frequented what are called "sporting circles," where in the company of jockeys and pugilists he was entirely at home. He had the run of the second-class theaters and enjoyed specially the atmosphere of the wings and the little suppers after midnight where the gaiety was not conventional and the jests were unadulterated. He liked to splurge and, as a consequence, he was constantly floundering beyond his depth. Without losing either his heart or his head he had entered into an attachment with one of the actresses of these sham stages, a connection which flattered his vanity and gave him, he thought, the standing of a man of the world. When, therefore, after the death of Fargus, he saw the future open before him with all the gratification of his desires, he threw all moderation to the winds, and having in a short while exhausted all his property, he had recourse to Sammamon, with whom he had had one or two previous understandings. His yearly income, about this time, was nearly cut in two by the withdrawal of Hyman Groll from the firm. Bofinger, already in debt, was astounded to learn that his quiet partner had already accumulated a capital of $50,000 with which he purposed to emerge into larger opportunities. But his chagrin was tempered by the delicious thought that, in a few years, he would be able to turn the laugh. To his annoyance, the dissolving of the partnership showed him, what he had scoffed at before, that with all the glamour and the applause he was only the voice where Hyman Groll had been the power. In a month he saw his prestige impaired, his alliances shaken, and found himself on the same footing with the half dozen lawyers who scrambled for the pickings of the court. All of which had sent him frequently and deep into the lair of Sammamon. On the morning after his visit to Sheila, he started for the office of the money-lender to negotiate another loan, which he promised himself should be the last. A frightful run of luck at roulette had depleted him. Besides, he wished to make a handsome present to Sheila before their marriage, desiring above all things to keep her in good humor until the crucial morrow was over. Also he had to appease the actress, and having no doubt as to the scene which would follow his announcement of the marriage, he knew that no small offering would suffice. Not far from Hester Street, in the heart of the Ghetto, on the first floor of a tumble-down frame building, stooping with age, a dank office bore the sign, LEOPOLD SAMMAMON _Loans._ Bofinger, whose sensitive nose was offended by the smells of the quarter, lit a cigar, and entered. The office, on the apex of a triangle formed by the junction of two streets, had an entrance on either side, so that those within seemed to be constantly buffeted by the two streams of humanity. Sammamon came hurriedly forward, a frail man not yet forty whose shoulders stooped as though still bearing the weight of the pack with which he had landed here twenty years before. The body, without vitality, seemed held together by the one impulse of gain that burned in the eyes, which had the strange contradictory quality peculiar to his trade, all fierceness and intensity when examining a client, but wavering uneasily the moment they were subjected to the same scrutiny. The two entered a cell which served as a cabinet and began to talk, with their foreheads together, both to overcome the noise of the street and to protect themselves against the sharp ears of the three clerks. "Sammamon, I want two thousand dollars," Bofinger said directly, "two thousand dollars more and that's all, so help me God!" "Where I get two thousand dollars?" the money-lender protested. "I am bankrupt now with your loans! Ain't the time up to-day--eh? Why you want more money?" "I am going to marry the woman to-morrow," the lawyer said conciliatingly. "And I've got to hush another one up and do it handsome!" "Where I get two thousand dollars?" Sammamon repeated with a shrug. "See here," Bofinger said, tapping him on the knee. "Come to terms now and quit your mumbling. Darn you, you know very well you're making a good thing out of this. Give me the money and I'll sign for three thousand dollars at sixty days and I'll pay the rest then. It takes time to get the thing through the courts." "I couldn't do it,--so help me! I couldn't do it, I couldn't get the credit, I couldn't get one other cent!" "Three thousand dollars, Sammamon, at sixty days." "Think of the risk! If anythings happen, I'm ruined!" "Well, curse you, what will you do it for? Out with it!" "I can't do it, Mr. Bofinker, I can't do it!" "Three thousand five hundred dollars then." "Imbossible!" "Well, make your own terms--I'll sign anything." Sammamon took his chin in his hands, and, after much shrugging of his shoulders and pursing of his lips, finally said, with a gesture that seemed to apologize to his ancestors for his moderation: "Five thousand dollars at sixty days--not one cent less. And then I don't know where I gets the money." "Make out the papers," Bofinger said curtly--and did not curse him until the money was safe in hand. The next day having meanwhile procured the authorization of the courts, he was married to Sheila and went with her to live in her home; for Sheila, seeing there was no escape, and deciding to make the best of the situation, had feigned a willingness to accept his proposal. Three days later, on a stormy morning, in the company of his wife Bofinger appeared in court to begin the formalities necessary to place Sheila in possession of Fargus's property. Sammamon, who trusted only his own eyes, occupied a distant corner where he listened attentively, seeking unsuccessfully to conceal the agitation which the prospect of his future gains caused in him. The judge, who, despite the monotony of his profession, kept an interest in the romances of the law, instead of proceeding with the routine of the case, assumed an ex-officio air and said: "Ah, this is that extraordinary case of disappearance--a very extraordinary one, Mr.--Mr. Bofinger. In my whole experience I don't think I remember another case like this." "Your Honor," Bofinger said, "I represent my wife, the party in pleading." "You're a lawyer, then, Mr. Bofinger?" the judge said in some surprise. "I do not remember your name before." "In fact, I have never had the pleasure of appearing before your Honor." "And what was the last heard of this Mr. Fargus?" "Seven years ago, the twenty-sixth of this month," Bofinger said, "according to the depositions I have here." "Upon which date the lady was free to marry. You are not, therefore, an old married couple." "Naturally, your Honor." "I congratulate you," the judge said pleasantly, giving him a shrewd glance. "It has been a long attachment." "Quite so," the judge answered with a bow, "and now that your marriage is accomplished you are taking steps to gain possession of the property?" "Your Honor states the case exactly," Bofinger said drily. "We are come to take the first steps to acquire possession of the property, subject, of course, to the bond which the law requires for another seven years; although it is sufficiently established that Max Fargus is dead." "Who says that I am dead?" At this extraordinary interruption every one in the court-room turned in astonishment. In the back of the court-room a dark undersized figure had entered unperceived and supporting himself heavily on his cane, had advanced to the middle of the room, where a second time he cried: "Who says that Max Fargus is dead?" Then with an effort he removed his hat, revealing a face on which, despite a pallor of death, was the mocking sneer which one imagines on the face of Satan claiming the forfeit of a soul. For a moment there was a tense silence. Then through the court-room the shriek of Sheila reechoed in terror: "Fargus, Max Fargus!" The sound of a thud followed as she slipped to the bench and pitched loudly on the floor. "Your Honor," Fargus said, turning to the judge. "All I wanted to do was to establish my identity. That is done." Bofinger had a moment of vertigo during which he committed two vital mistakes. The first was to remain sillily muttering over and over, "Max Fargus! Max Fargus!"; the second was in allowing his enemy to escape. When a moment later he recovered himself and rushed forth there was not a trace of the misanthrope to be seen, neither in the halls nor on the sidewalk, nor in the white, storm-swept street. A policeman told him that a cab had been waiting into which Fargus had tottered and driven off with a companion who had remained inside, concealing his features. CHAPTER XIX ROUT AT EVERY POINT Great dangers, which in the physical world turn the coward at bay into the most dangerous of antagonists, often in the realm of the mind excite a similar phenomenon. Bofinger, before the shock of the revelation, remained but a moment confused and staring. The situation flashed over him,--he divined the conspiracy. Calling hurriedly to the policeman to have his wife sent home, he cleared the sidewalk with a bound and started on the trail of a car, hat in hand, his coat-tails lashing the frosty air. But half-way, meeting a hansom meandering towards him through the storm, he turned with a cry of joy and bounded into it, almost jolting the sleepy driver from his seat. "Fargus's Broadway Oyster House!" he shouted. "Ten dollars an hour--drive like the devil!" The hansom shaved the corner, hung a moment on one wheel and rocked up the street. In Bofinger there were two movements, a physical collapse, as he sank back inertly into the corner, and an acute nervous excitation of the mental faculties which, soaring above the surrender of the body, absorbed in a few minutes, with the compressed energy of so many hours, every detail of his perilous situation. His reflections, jumbled and rapid as a kaleidoscope, ran thus: "Two thirds gone at a blow, two thirds of a million lost forever by his turning up! How in the devil did he manage it? The third, the third, the dower right! What will become of that? Can it be saved? What is the law? Does the second marriage forfeit the dower of the first, if the husband turns up? If so we are ruined. There's not a doubt in the world that there was a plot. Fargus planned it all out. What am I going to do? I must get hold of him--yes--or he'll disappear again. If he goes anywhere he'll go to one of his Oyster Houses to be recognized again. He must have discovered everything seven years ago, but how--not from me. From Sheila? She talked perhaps in her sleep, or he found her accounts and guessed the rest. If he got a clew he could have put a detective on it and everything would have come out. But what gave him his clew? Not me. Sheila? But she had no reason to ruin herself." At this point he took his head in his hands and said desperately: "I'm wasting time. What does it matter how it happened. That's not the point. Two thirds gone and only the dower right left--if it is left; why should it be left? The law is probably the other way. What am I going to do?" All at once he sat up. "I have it. Bring an action of conspiracy against Fargus with intent to defraud his wife of her dower rights. Hell, am I losing my wits! Of course. Desertion and conspiracy to defraud. Plain as day! But the devil of it is I must get hold of him. Oh, what a fool I was to let him slip away again! Anyhow I can get an injunction on the property this afternoon, at once. But first for Fargus!" At the restaurant he found everything in bewilderment. An hour before, Fargus had entered, and after having been recognized by his old employees had departed. "Oh, the scoundrel!" he cried, rushing out, "he has established his identity and has gotten off." As he fled from the restaurant his shoulder was suddenly clutched and turning in alarm he beheld the greedy features of Sammamon, who, running out of the court-house at his heels, had caught the address flung to the cabman. The money-lender, panting and distracted, cried to him all out of breath: "Where you going, Mr. Bofinker? What you going to do? What about my money?" "Sammamon, you idiot," Bofinger cried with an oath, "don't stop me! I've got to have every moment. You fool, I'm not running away! If you don't believe it, get in there and go with me." And half lifting him he pounced into the hansom, crying: "To Fargus's Chop House, Broadway near Fortieth." "You pay?" Sammamon cried menacingly as the hansom swung into its reckless course. The rapacious fingers instinctively closed over Bofinger's sleeve as he added aggressively: "How you pay now?" "Sammamon, I've a mind to run you out of business!" Bofinger cried furiously. "Take your hand off me and let me alone! Can't you see I've got enough to think over." "You pay?" the money-lender persisted doggedly. "Damn you, of course I'll pay you!" Bofinger cried. "See here, we lose two thirds by that devil's turning up, but there's always the dower right which belongs to my wife,--a third, if you know enough law to know that. A third is a third of a million, and that's safe in real estate, where he can't convert it. You've got nothing to worry over." "What you doing now?" Sammamon said, but half convinced. "Trying to get hold of Fargus, of course," Bofinger said irritably, "before he can get away, to delay matters." The hansom jerked to a stop, Bofinger rushed into the restaurant while Sammamon mounted guard at the door, heedless of the rush of snow. The lawyer quickly returned, having received another setback. Fargus had appeared and departed. With a last hope Bofinger drove to the Westside establishment, relapsing moodily into silence. The grim, persistent figure of the money-lender began to affect him with a foreboding of disaster. At the Oyster Parlors, the same story. Then Bofinger, abandoning any hope of surprising Fargus, returned to the hansom and cried savagely: "To the Union Bank! Sammamon, where can I put you down?" "No, no," Sammamon replied with a wily shake of his head. "I go too." "Sammamon, I'll pitch you out!" the lawyer cried, exasperated. "You pay? Where you get the money?" the money-lender said defiantly. "Look here, will you get out!" "I go too," Sammamon repeated. Bofinger in a rage, stopped the cab, took the money-lender by the collar and deposited him roughly in the street, a move which later he was to regret. Then changing his mind he drove to the court where he had a warrant issued for Fargus's arrest as well as an injunction on the Union Bank on any sums standing in the name of Max Fargus. Returning to his office he hurriedly put himself in communication with his particular allies in the detective force, imploring them to ransack the city for a trace of Fargus. Armed with his injunction he went next to the Union Bank, where he had himself announced to Gilday, the president, whom he knew. Lawrence Gilday was a small, dapper, smiling man, fastidious in his dress, with a general air of bon viveur, which deceived at first. The gamblers and politicians esteemed him greatly for his probity and confided in him without reserve. Thanks to this peculiar personality the Union Bank had built itself up a number of blind accounts, personal and political. To a few who were initiated, Gilday was recognized as the safe intermediary between the upper world of finance and fashion and the leaders of the under regions in the numerous secret occasions where these extremes desire to meet with mutual profit. Gilday, who never surrendered his position of quiet superiority, received Bofinger with quick circumstantial affability and said without rising: "Well, Bofinger, what can I do for you to-day?" "Mr. Gilday," Bofinger said, sitting down awkwardly and secretly admiring, despite all his agitation, the neat red tie which he could not have worn without its crying out to the street, "I've got an injunction here that I've got to serve on you immediately." "Is it a personal matter?" Gilday said, frowning. "No, no," Bofinger said hastily, "it's simply an injunction on the account of one of your depositors, pending the result of an action at law." Gilday, divining that there was more in reserve, extended his hand, wondering under what scheme of blackmail the lawyer was now engaged. "Well, what account is it?" "The account of Max Fargus," Bofinger replied, "and you'll oblige me if you will notify your cashier at once." "Have we such an account?" Gilday asked with a doubtful look, which Bofinger thought the perfection of acting. "Max Fargus? The Max Fargus I knew has been dead some time." "Mr. Gilday," Bofinger said smiling, "I know everything. Besides there is no longer any need of concealment, as Max Fargus has chosen to show himself to-day." "Max Fargus--the restaurant proprietor?" cried Gilday. "The man who was murdered in Mexico?" Bofinger, with a shrug of his shoulders, said: "I wouldn't ask you to break professional secrecy, Mr. Gilday, but I tell you everything has come out and concealment is no longer possible." Gilday, who had rung, handed a slip of paper to the clerk, saying: "Is there any such account? Mr. Bofinger," he continued, "I can assure you there is some mistake. Mr. Fargus I knew very well. We have heard nothing from him for many years." "One question," said Bofinger: "Don't Fargus's restaurants bank with you?" "There is no reason why I should not answer that," the banker replied carefully. "Certainly they do." At this moment the messenger returned, saying: "The account of Max Fargus, sir, expired seven years and two months ago." "And will you give me your word of honor," Bofinger said with a smile, "that Max Fargus has no account here under any other name? But that, of course, Mr. Gilday, I realize I have no right to ask. However--" "One moment," Gilday interrupted, "it's true that I should not ordinarily answer such a question; but in the present case, I assure you that we have no dealings directly or indirectly with Mr. Max Fargus." Bofinger shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly, as a man who does not hold a falsehood against another, and replied: "And may I ask how you reconciled that with your statement that the restaurant account is still with you?" "But what has that to do with Max Fargus?" Gilday asked with a trace of impatience. "The Max Fargus Restaurant Company is an independent firm." "Since when?" Bofinger said, smiling at what seemed to him the successive blunders of the banker. "Since seven years ago. I remember the transaction perfectly," Gilday replied. "A month before his departure Mr. Fargus sold outright his various restaurants, stipulating only that the name should be retained for eight years. Mr. MacGruder, a client of mine, bought the property, being only too glad to retain the name which has always been a guarantee with the public. For that reason the deal was a secret one." "Mr. Gilday," Bofinger said sharply, thinking that the banker had abused his good nature long enough. "Do you forget the simple fact that no man can transfer his property without his wife's consent? To clear matters up, let me tell you now that I represent the widow of Max Fargus, and that she is my wife." "Thank you, I am aware of such elemental law. I now repeat to you that Max Fargus sold out seven years ago--with the consent of his wife." "Mr. Gilday, that is impossible!" Bofinger said, losing patience. "Mr. Bofinger, I assure you, you are laboring under a misunderstanding. Mrs. Fargus, in my presence, gave her written consent willingly and, I may add, eagerly." Bofinger looked at him, saw he spoke the truth and collapsed. Gilday sprang forward to ring, then, changing his mind, went quickly to the table and seizing a glass of water dashed it in his face. Bofinger, who had had a spell of vertigo, staggered to his feet with such an ashen face that Gilday even was moved to cry: "In God's name, what is the matter?" "I'm wiped out!" Bofinger exclaimed, and raising his fists he cried, "Oh, that devil!" Then controlling himself with an effort he asked, "Mr. Gilday, in the name of pity, tell me if you know to what bank Fargus transferred his money." "Mr. MacGruder paid him with a check," Gilday said after a moment's reflection. "And on the following day Mr. Fargus drew out his entire account." "Was he paid with a check?" "In cash." Bofinger, who thus lost his last hope of tracing the movements of Fargus, started to leave the room without quite realizing what he did or said, when Gilday retained him. "But how is it possible," he said with a glance replete with curiosity, "that you knew nothing about this? Surely you are a partner of Hyman Groll?" Bofinger shook his head. "No--no, not for a long while." "Ah," Gilday ejaculated, at once mystified and enlightened. Then he added, "Do you lose much?" "Everything!" Bofinger answered, and disappeared. Everything for him meant no longer the dreamed-of millions, nor the half, nor the dower right; but, so swiftly had the perspective narrowed, every cent he had in the world. He had entered the bank, thanks to his plan of suing for conspiracy, certain of retaining at least $300,000, sum substantial and not to be despised. He staggered out with everything swept away into certain bankruptcy, thinking only of one thing, to reach his bank and withdraw the two thousand and odd dollars he had deposited the day before. Still another shock was reserved for him. At the wicket the paying teller refused to honor his draft, saying: "Sorry, Mr. Bofinger, but I've been served with an order restraining me from paying anything over to you." "In whose name?" he cried aghast, and at a loss to divine the direction of the blow. "Leopold Sammamon." He withdrew the check saying nothing, accepting the reverse dully, too bewildered not to imagine the finger of retribution, and yielding all at once to that superstitious dread which attacks the scoffer amid the blasts of disaster. At this moment he feared and believed in God. CHAPTER XX BOFINGER IN DESPAIR Towards seven o'clock that evening Bofinger presented himself at the door of a large double-fronted mansion, in one of the side streets of Murray Hill. Since the morning he had eaten nothing. Hunger and fatigue had given him the appearances of an extreme dissipation. His feet burned with cold and from time to time, to resuscitate them, he plunged his hands in his breast. A fine bead of snow had risen on his clothes, fastened to his hair, and caked over the collar, which had rolled up on one side. The butler, who came to his ring, viewing with disfavor this desperate figure, exclaimed: "Be off now, we can't do anything for you." Too miserable to resent the insolence, he took an attitude of supplication. "This is Mr. Hyman Groll's, ain't it?" he said meekly. "And if it is?" "Tell him it's Mr. Bofinger, Alonzo Bofinger." "Mr. Groll is out," replied the butler aggressively, "and he won't be back to-night." At this moment, when Bofinger was in despair, a carriage drawn by a team rolled swiftly up and stopped before the house. The butler, leaving Bofinger, ran down to the step and helped out the short, overhung figure of Hyman Groll, to whom he gave his arm to assist up the steps. In the disordered figure on the stoop the hunchback failed to recognize the person of his former dapper partner. He stopped and, with a questioning glance, said: "Who is it? What do you want?" "It's me. It's Bofinger," the lawyer said humbly, removing his hat. "I'm in trouble, partner, I've got to see you." Groll twitched violently, and drawing back with a start shoved the butler forward until his body interposed. Then after a moment of evident hesitation he said: "Go in, I'll see you. Humphreys, take him into the library." Bofinger, ushered by the astonished butler, was shown into a large room at the back where he remained deferentially, surveying the evidences of his associate's sudden rise in the world, at a loss to account for the cause. In a moment Groll entered, stopped near the door, watched him, and in an almost defensive attitude said: "Well, my boy, in trouble, eh? What is it?" "Hyman, I'm done for!" said Bofinger, who at this moment reeled and fell into the chair. "What's the matter with you, man?" Groll said, hobbling forward. "I guess I'm weak," Bofinger said, passing his hands over his face. "I haven't had time to eat anything all day. Oh, what a day!" Seeing that the case was urgent Groll rang, ordered some sandwiches and whisky, and presently, as though reassured, came and sat near Bofinger, eyeing him doubtfully. "Here, now, eat something and drink this," he said, pouring him out a glass. "Talk afterward." "Hyman, I'm up against it," Bofinger said, shaking his head. "You are, eh? You look it. What's the matter?" "I'm cleaned out." "Bankrupt?" "Ten times over." "Well, let's hear it." "Hyman, I got over my depth," Bofinger said gravely. "And I don't know where I stand now. That's why I want your advice." He paused, drew a breath and continued with a jerk: "Ever hear of Max Fargus?" "The restaurant man? Didn't he disappear somehow in Mexico?" "Disappear--hell, yes!" Bofinger cried with an incongruous laugh. "Look here, I've got to make a clean breast to you. You won't hold a little thing in the past against me, will you? You've done too well." "Go ahead," Groll said with a nod. He settled in his chair and turned his glance on him; the same cold, emotionless scrutiny which Bofinger knew of old. "When we were partners down by the old Jefferson Market," he began, withering somewhat under the look, "I struck the trail of Max Fargus by accident. He came to me to look up some girl he was in love with. I went over and struck a bargain with her and turned in a report that made the old boy marry her. Now, I'm making a clean breast," he added, faltering a little and dropping his glance. "I'm knocked out. You're at the top, you won't hold it against me, will you?" "Go on--go ahead." "I kept it from you--expecting to make a tidy bit out of it. I was to get half of whatever came to her." "How much?" "Half." "You did well," Groll said with just a tinge of irony. "Well!" Bofinger repeated with an oath. "I've acted like a fool throughout! And I thought myself so clever. Then I managed to work into the old fellow's confidence and everything went smoothly and I thought I saw a chance of doing something big. He must have been worth close to a million then." "Go on--" said Groll as he stopped. "I'll ask you some questions later. Only what was the woman's name and who was she?" "Sheila Vaughn or Morissey, a sort of third-rate actress," he answered. The quick professional attitude of Groll recalled to Bofinger the traditions of their office. He forgot the personal note and lapsed into a technical voice, as he related the details of Fargus's departure, his suspicions, his discovery from Sheila of her husband's whereabouts, his tracing the miser to the scene of the hold-up, the fruitless efforts to discover the body and his return to Sheila with the news. "You'll admit," he concluded doggedly, "That the situation was elegant. I had only to marry the widow to scoop in a fat fortune." Groll raised a hand in objection. "I mean, of course," Bofinger added hurriedly, "at the end of the seven years, which the law fixes. I can't get things straight to-night." "Alonzo," Groll interposed with marked interest, "did you apply for a trust for the widow?" "No, of course I didn't! That's just what I didn't want to do--then. I wanted to keep her in my hands to make sure of her, until I could marry her! Instead," he added, "I put up for her myself and got into the hands of that robber, Sammamon, doing it!" Groll made a move as though to enter a question, and then relapsed, motioning him to proceed. "As soon as the seven years were over and I could get the papers through I married the widow. To-day we went into court to begin proceedings for the possession of the estate--and Fargus turned up from the grave!" "The devil you say!" "But that's not all, he got away again," he said shamefacedly, "after we had both lost our heads and recognized him! And I haven't had a sign of him since then, though I've put the whole force on his track." Groll emitted a whistle, which to him was an enormous concession. "It was a conspiracy of course," Bofinger said sullenly. "Damn him! He planned it out--must have got on to our game somehow. That meant two thirds swept away." "Why only two thirds?" interrupted Groll. "There was her dower right, wasn't there?" Bofinger replied, doubtfully. "Surely the law would give her that?" "I'm not sure of that," Groll objected. "There might be a question there." "Well, anyhow, if it didn't, I had a plan to save it all right." "Indeed," Groll said with interest. "How so?" "I had a warrant sworn for him on a charge of desertion, complicated by conspiracy to deprive his wife of her dower rights. That is clear enough." "Possibly--possibly yes," Groll said after a moment's drumming on his chair. "Ah, but the worst is to come!" Bofinger said bitterly. "When I went to attach the property, I found Fargus had sold out everything seven years before!" "But--" "With the consent of the woman, of course! Gilday of the Union Bank told me he saw her give her consent himself!" "The woman played crooked then--or they fooled her," Groll said softly, looking at Bofinger, who bent his head and bit his lips with repressed fury. "Then here's the situation," he began. "You can't get hold of Fargus, no property to attach, and you're in the clutches of Sammamon? How much do you owe him?" "Over twelve thousand and he has attached all I had in the bank. That's the worst of all!" "He was quick about it." "He was slinking around the court, damn him, when Fargus turned up." "Have you any other property?" Bofinger took out a few bills and small change, saying: "That's what I'm worth to-day. Not a cent more; I had banked all on that." "So you're cleaned out?" "Gutted!" "Alonzo," Groll said, "you're in a bad way. Now I want to put some questions to you." Bofinger nodded. "I wanted to get things clear in my head. The woman, of course, has been the weak point. What were your relations?" "Dog eat dog." "You tried keeping her under by scaring her, then?" "Yes." Groll shook his head. "A mistake, Alonzo. You ought to have made love to her. You can only bully a woman that way. Fear won't hold them! So she was sullen all the time?" "Yes." "Then she didn't want to go into the arrangement." "You bet she didn't." "It was a hold-up, then?" "Yes." "But how could you hold her after she married Fargus?" Bofinger, in his misery, related without a gleam of pride what had once seemed to him a master stroke. "I made her sign a common-law marriage with me, had it witnessed, and told her if she squealed I'd produce it and claim her." "Alonzo," Groll said with a nod of approval, "you've had hard luck." "Luck! I've been up against a fiend; that's what!" "That idea of a common-law marriage was clever," Groll said musing. Then he added carelessly, "You squeezed that paper tight!" "It ain't been out of my safe a moment." "Now tell me why you didn't investigate the property?" "I did--every bit of it, Hyman, right after the marriage." Bofinger said with a curse. "How was I to know that she'd given her name!" "You ought to have looked it up again," Groll said, shaking his head. "What was the use? I thought it was safe." "You were wrong, Bo." "Oh, of course! I know it." "So you never suspected that she'd signed a paper?" "Never!" There was a pause until Groll took up evenly: "Well, Alonzo, you want facts. Here they are. To begin, there's no doubt that this fellow Fargus got on to your game. He's planned the whole thing to revenge himself on you two, that's plain. He took his precautions in selling out, but fooled you by concealing the sale." "Yes, that's plain." "As to your case for conspiracy and desertion," Groll said reflectively, "all right, if you catch him. But by this time he's off and to run him down means money--a lot of it. When you find him he may be somewhere where you can't touch him. Of course he hasn't left a cent, here, for you to get at." "No, damn him!" "Now the point with you is where do you stand?" Bofinger looked at him, waiting, as a man who knows there can be no favorable answer. "Well, Alonzo, here's the truth. He's broken you! You owe twelve thousand to Sammamon, who'll get everything you have in the bank. What do you hold in notes on the woman?" "About thirteen thousand," replied Bofinger, who was too ashamed to mention the higher figure. "So much waste paper! Has she any debts?" "I don't know--a thousand or two, perhaps." "An interesting point might come up there," Groll said musing. "Whether you are liable for her debts. A husband is liable for the debts of the woman he marries. Though it don't make any difference; you'll go into bankruptcy." "Oh, I'm knocked out!" Bofinger said, biting his lips to keep back the weak tears. "Yes, Alonzo, you are," Groll said. "Haven't you got anything you can save?" "Not a thing." "Hasn't the woman any jewels? Get them if you can, but make sure first that they are free of debt, if you don't want to get in worse trouble." "You're right," Bofinger said, starting up. "I'll get hold of them before Sammamon can put his claws on them." "If I were you," Groll said softly as they went to the door, "I think I'd have an understanding with the woman. She's the one who's done you." "I'll attend to her!" "Nothing rash, Alonzo," Groll said with more curiosity than feeling. "You won't do anything rash?" "Rash!" Bofinger cried with a wild laugh. "Oh, no! Nothing rash!" And leaving Groll in profound meditation on the stoop he plunged down the steps, no longer caring for the cold or the storm. CHAPTER XXI SAMMAMON ACTS At nine o'clock that night Sheila, who had waited all the afternoon in agonized ignorance, beheld Bofinger burst in with the fury of the storm that was raging without. One glance at his wild figure and blood-ridden face told her all. She fell on her knees shrieking, "Alonzo, don't hurt me!" "Get up!" he said hoarsely. "Get up quick and sit over there! And answer everything I say or I swear I'll do for you!" She obeyed instantly, saying hurriedly: "Alonzo, I'll tell you the truth--every word of it!" "When did you sign those papers?" he asked, each word interrupted by a gasp. "What papers?" she cried, for in her ignorance of their import she had totally forgotten the transaction. "What papers, Alonzo--tell me!" "The papers--those papers--the papers Fargus got you to sign--your permission for the sale of the restaurants." "Yes, yes, I remember," she said eagerly, "the day he left for Mexico." "You signed--willingly!" "Yes." "Why, in God's name!" She hesitated. "Why!" "I'll tell, I'll tell you," she cried, throwing up her arm, and brokenly she told him of the mine. "Oh, that fiend! That devil!" he cried, forgetting her for a moment in his consternation at the malignant ingenuity with which he had been ruined. The next moment, turning to her furiously, he shouted: "And you thought by concealing it from me you could cheat me out of my share! Didn't you--didn't you!" "Yes." "You fool!" he cried in a paroxysm, "and what has it cost you? Fargus sold out the next day and you lost every cent of your dower. Ruined, that's what we are! Ruined, without a cent in the world to-day!" In her fear for her life she thought to moderate his fury by pretending to fall in a swoon. He ran to her angrily, shaking her without drawing from her a sound. Then, leaving her sprawling, he began to pace up and down the floor. Presently, in terror of what he might do, she half opened her eyes. Imperceptible as was the movement he perceived it and seizing her by the shoulder swept her up into a chair. "Get your wits back. Hurry up, I haven't any time to lose," he said. In his present manner was something venomous and cold that terrified her more than all the transports of his rage. From that moment she thought only how she might manage to reach the front door and escape from the house. She opened her eyes with a sigh and sat up weakly. "Do you owe any bills?" he began. "A few." "Where?" She enumerated half a dozen stores. "Do you owe anything on your jewelry?" "Not a cent." He breathed a little more freely. "Take off your rings," he commanded. She slipped off, hurriedly, seven glittering rings. "Put them on that table." She obeyed. "Take off them bracelets." She flung them on the table. "And the pins." In her haste, she pulled off the brooches, pricking her finger and, without waiting his command added the gold chain she wore about her neck. "Now go up-stairs." She ran up, trembling to feel him behind her. "Gather up your jewels, gather up every one of them," he commanded, following her into her room. She made a pile, putting into it everything, even to the silver on her bureau. "Take them down-stairs." Again they descended. "Put them with the rest." When all were on the table, he raised his eyes and said: "So you knew all the time about his going to Mexico?" "Yes," she said faintly. "And you played me false all the time?" She noticed that his hand began to tremble and edged away until with a spring she placed the table between them. "Come back," he said, glowering at her. She did not move. "Come back, I tell you!" "Don't kill me, Alonzo," she said faintly. "I'm not going to kill you. Come back you--!" he cried with a vile expression. Suddenly the door-bell rang, long and violently. Both halted in throbbing surprise, so incongruous did an intrusion seem at such a crisis. A second time the bell rang angrily, accompanied by a shower of knocks. Sheila started to the door. "Stay there!" Bofinger cried, and advancing with a guilty fear he went to the door and opened it. In the midst of a cloud of snow Sammamon rushed in, a warrant in his hand. "Hell!" Bofinger cried, appalled by the apparition, and rushing to the table he tried to screen the heap of jewelry from the money-lender, shouting desperately, "Sammamon, get out of here! Sammamon, do you hear me, get out! I'll do you harm!" The money-lender, whom losses had made frantic and courageous, did not flinch a minute. Rushing past him, he spied the jewels and divined the lawyer's purpose. "You run away with them, eh! You swindler!" he cried violently. "You touch one thing, you go in jail! Everythings here is mine!" "Keep your hands off," Bofinger cried. "Those belong to my wife, you can't touch them!" [Illustration: "KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF."] "Touch, eh?" he screamed, "don't she owes me five thousand dollars!" "Sheila, you owe him--that hound?" he cried, reeling back. "Is that true?" "He came himself! He offered it to me!" she cried, and turning in terror to the money-lender she pleaded, "Mr. Sammamon, don't leave me, he's going to kill me!" Sammamon gave no heed,--he was busy inscribing on his cuff the inventory of the jewelry. "Kill you? That's too good for the likes of you," Bofinger cried, starting forward, "I'll fix you. Out on the street you go where you belong! Get out of here, get out of this house at once!" "On the streets? To-night?" she cried in terror. "Without a cent?" "Go out and earn it, the way you're fit for!" he said brutally. Then with an oath he extended his hand and commanded: "Get out of those clothes." "Bofinger," she cried in terror, "have mercy!" "Take it off!" he said with an ugly look. "Not a rag belongs to you. Every stitch you have ought to go towards paying what you swindled me out of!" She dropped on her knees, stretching out her hands. "Not like that, Alonzo, not like that!" "Take it off!" he cried in a fury, and as she made no move he seized the collar in his hands and tore it open. Sheila fell forward. On the bare neck flashed a necklace of small diamonds, which she had bought with the money from Sammamon. "That was it, was it!" Bofinger cried, beside himself with rage at this new deception. He seized the necklace and tore it from her, flinging it on the floor. On the neck a spot of blood sprang up. She staggered to her feet and fled to the door. When she had got it open such a blast upset her, driving in the snow, that she shrank back piteously, begging, "Alonzo, dear, don't turn me out. Let me stay for pity's sake!" "Ah, you won't go, won't you!" he cried, and the sight of the blood on her bare neck unloosed the brute in him. He ran in a rage to the fireplace and snatched up the shovel. Sheila shrieked and disappeared into the storm and the night. EPILOGUE Two years later, of a sunny morning in April, the carriage of Hyman Groll transported him to the familiar street where the Jefferson Market Court casts the shadow of its crushing tyranny over the little meannesses of the opposite row of lawyers' offices. The carriage according to orders drew up near the entrance from which presently the court at the close of the morning session would issue, while Groll, with a glance at his watch, leaned from the window, as though expecting again to see the glass window with its gilt display: HYMAN GROLL AND ALONZO BOFINGER _Attorneys at Law._ On the threshold of putting into operation his vast scheme for controlling the tribute on vice throughout the city, he had arrived at last to that knowledge of human destinies which even in men of the most practical sense must awaken a power of imagination, if only it begins with self-contemplation. The sordid street filled him with horror. In the grubbing days he had never flinched in the confidence of his destiny. To-day he shuddered at the memory of his former faith, trembling for a quick moment at the possibilities which had never daunted his stubborn beginnings,--an emotion the more poignant now that he looked back over the yawning chasm. He frowned, stiffened and withdrew into the back of the carriage so as to be concealed from the sidewalk. At this moment the doors opened and the steps were covered with the outflow of the court. With pursed lips he followed the crowd. Some he knew of person--all by intuition;--the crooks, the flashy women, the sleek swindlers come to study the ways of the new magistrate and the pleas that avail. The shabby and the tawdry misery dwindled away. Several policemen hurried away to luncheon; a late clerk scurried off. Then after an interval Alonzo Bofinger, guffawing with two reporters, slouched down the steps and hung himself over the railing, giving and taking banter with that false laughter which is fanned only from the lungs. Of the once flashing dandy nought remained, not even the bloom of the amazing vests. He had grown quite puffy in the throat and the legs and under the bulbous waistcoat, quite lumpy and neglectful of his dress. The creases were no longer defined in the trousers, while over the shoulders the wrinkles ran with impunity. The reporters rolled away arm in arm. The laughter faded from Alonzo Bofinger's face and it seemed suddenly to age. He drew a cigar and eyed it in indecision before fumbling in the shabby pockets. Finding no match, he started to pocket the cigar, changed his mind, placed it languidly in his mouth, shoved back his hat and stared on the sidewalk in heavy lassitude. Hyman Groll, opening the door of the carriage, called energetically: "Alonzo--eh, Alonzo!" At the sight of his old partner Bofinger started up with a flush of embarrassment which disappeared in the precipitate obsequiousness with which he hastened to the carriage. "You were waiting for some one?" Groll said with a slight, amicable nod. "Never mind, jump in." Bofinger complied quickly, concealing the cheap cigar in his pocket with a sly movement Groll did not fail to perceive. The carriage rolled away. Without preliminaries Groll said: "Bo, Sheila's dead." Bofinger dropped the hand he was raising to his collar, shifted in his seat and said faintly: "When?" "Last night." "Where?" "Bellevue." "Here!" "Yes." "Were there--" "You're all right, there were no debts." "I wouldn't have paid them," he said, in his agitation drawing out the cigar from his pocket. "You lost track of her after the night you turned her out?" Groll said, offering him a light. Bofinger frowned, shrugged his shoulders and leaned towards the window. "And didn't care to--I understand. Well, she was picked up the next morning half frozen," Groll said, glancing at him, "out of her head,--two months at the Charities. After that she got a place in a traveling circus. She hung on as long as she could. She died of quick consumption." His companion, who had gradually turned towards him, frowned in perplexity and asked: "How do you know?" "I was interested in the case," Groll answered carefully. "And Fargus, do you know what became of him?" Bofinger took a sudden deep breath and turned again to the window with the involuntary distaste of one who wishes to avoid the resurrection of a disagreeable memory. The movement told all to his companion, the bitterness, the humiliation, and the never-ending sting. "What! Haven't you any curiosity," he persisted. "No," Bofinger said without looking at him, "I don't care to hear either. All that is over. I botched the job--I got what I deserved." "You did not understand him," Groll answered. "He was crazy--mad," Bofinger said bitterly. "We call mad what we can't understand," Groll objected slowly. "So you don't care what became of him?" "I do not." "He died three weeks after his appearance in the court." "Who told you that?" "I was interested in the case," Groll repeated softly. This time Bofinger remained blankly staring at him, struck by a dawning comprehension. All at once, forgetting the distance between them, he seized his partner by the collar crying: "What do you mean? What had you to do with all that?" "Everything," Groll said calmly. "Take your hand off and quiet down. I am going to tell you all." "You--great God, it was you!" "Right, me, your partner whom you deceived." An oath shrieked out and Bofinger, dropping his hold, sank back in the limpness of despair. "My time is valuable, let me get at this," Groll said coldly, abandoning the familiar tone. Then quickly he recounted the circumstances of Fargus's discovery of Bofinger's conspiracy. "Yes, it was to me he came for his vengeance," he said, gazing at his companion who remained as in a stupor. "The idea was like him--to strike you by the hand of your partner--whom you thought you were deceiving. Not a bad idea that." "You planned out that business in Mexico!" Bofinger cried hoarsely. "An ordinary vengeance," Groll said, nodding, "would have meant nothing to him. I had to find him something that would not only bankrupt you both but crush out of you all youth, ambition, and hope. More--Fargus wished not only all that made life blotted out, but that life itself should be the most unendurable thing to you both. He succeeded. He knew it--strange man! He died happy." "And he--where was he all that time," Bofinger said dully. "He--he lay hidden in the safest place in the world," Groll said, looking out at the city with a smile full of malice. "Max Fargus, from the time you began to hunt him high and low--during the whole seven years remained quietly and safely in the house opposite to Sheila." "Impossible!" Bofinger cried in horror. "The most possible thing in the world," Groll answered. "Do you know the face of one of your neighbors? I don't." "Ah, you were well paid for all that!" Bofinger murmured, clenching his fists. "Of course--of course, naturally. His whole fortune has passed to me." Bofinger, beside himself with rage, flung himself on the hunchback, crying: "And if I strangle you, you scoundrel!" "My dear Bo," Groll said calmly, "open murder fortunately is a transgression we lawyers avoid by instinct. Besides, it is not me you want to throttle but your own fate. What have I done that you wouldn't do if you had the opportunity? There, return to your side and don't make me call for help." Bofinger gradually released his hold, sunk back and covered his eyes with his hand. At the end of a moment he said pleadingly: "You're right. I have no kick comin'. You'll do something for me, Hyman?" Groll puffed away on the cigar he had not ceased to smoke before answering decisively: "No." "Why not?" "I promised him." "Well, what?" Bofinger said coaxingly. "You ain't going to talk to me of promises and honor--come now!" "Just that," Groll answered with a nod. "You won't understand. It's a superstition--so be it. But I owe what I am and what I'm going to be to Max Fargus. I shall do what I promised him." "He's dead." "It's not him I'm thinking of--it's myself--it's a superstition. I'd be afraid to do otherwise, I have that in me. Besides, I liked him." "You won't do anything, then?" "No." "Honest?" "Yes." "What was the use of telling me, then?" "I promised him to do so, as soon as Sheila was gone." "Why not before?" "There might have been complications." "And do you think me such a fool that I don't know what to do now?" Bofinger cried suddenly. "A third of the estate belongs to Sheila as her dower right." "And you would bring suit to recover that?" Groll said. The carriage had come to a stop before an office building on Union Square. "I get out here. One moment, are you quite sure that Sheila ever was the wife of Max Fargus?" "What do you mean," Bofinger cried, halting with one foot on the sidewalk,--aghast at the thought. "I think, my dear Bofinger," Groll said maliciously, "that a contract of marriage exists between you and Sheila--" "Trickery!" "But very difficult to explain away. You have the contract?" "It is destroyed." "You are sure?" "Yes." "My dear fellow," Groll said suavely, "that contract was in my possession three hours after you had told me of it." "You stole it, then,--you!" "I do not object to the word," Groll said. "You see I was careful to protect myself at every point before telling you these things. Moreover, I have the death-bed statement of Sheila herself. She at least believed it a marriage. A little reflection, I think, will show you the danger of your position." Bofinger looked at the ground as a child does in the sudden lust of murder. "Will you go back in the carriage," Groll said politely. "No!" "You are foolish to take it so hard," Groll said with a shrug. "I have stirred up a mess of nasty memories and you imagine you are the Bofinger of ten years ago. You are not. You will suffer an hour or so and then you will forget. Do you know what is the best thing to do? Get into my carriage and drive back. Make an impression on your clients. Call out, when you get back, 'Mr. Hyman Groll wants you at his office.' Then you'll get a reputation as a man of influence. Get into the carriage and for twenty minutes imagine yourself its master. Here, smoke these--they're good ones." He drew a couple of cigars and held them out gravely to Bofinger, who at the end of a moment took them, looking on the ground, and entered the carriage. "Hyman, you'll do something for me?" he said gently. "I won't give you a cent," Groll said, "but I may have need of you some day." He shut the door and called to the coachman, "Jefferson Market Court!" When the carriage turned, Bofinger was holding his head in his hands. "Ugh!" Groll said to himself, gazing after him with a somber glance, "and I might have been like that!" He remained still, shuddering at the thought which Bofinger's abjection had called up; as in another's death what we weep for is often the imminence of our own. Two or three persons found the situation unusual enough to turn and glance back. ADVERTISEMENTS KATRINA BY ROY ROLFE GILSON Author of "In the Morning Glow" With Illustrations in color by Alice Barber Stephens. Crown, 8vo. $1.50 The subtlety and charm of Mr. Gilson's stories reach their highest point in this book. Larry, the newspaper man, humorous, kindly, homely, lives over again the romance of his younger days in the little daughter of the woman he lost. Upon this slightly suggested theme Mr. Gilson builds one of his most charming stories, full of the humor and the tenderness which mark all of his work. The illustrations by Mrs. Stephens deserve an especial word, for the extraordinary sympathy with which they depict the charm of Mr. Gilson's characters. THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO. 33-37 East 17th Street, New York POWER LOT BY SARAH P. McLEAN GREENE _Author of "Cape Cod Folks," "Vesty of the Basins," "Deacon Lysander."_ 12mo Illustrated $1.50 In this volume Mrs. Greene returns to the quaint, strong characters of the sea coast, but this time it is in Nova Scotia that she has laid her story. The tale is of a dissolute city lad set down penniless in the sombre life of Power Lot--"Power Lot God Help Us" it is called in that section--a little fishing village set on the rough, wild coast, where the characters have the breadth of the magnificent view which surrounds them, and a quaint idea of life, which is altogether fascinating. The story of the development of this lad in the hard work and struggle for his very living, and of the pathetic and humorous incidents which befell him, is done in Mrs. Greene's best style, and is perhaps the strongest and most entertaining book she has written. THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO. 33-37 East 17th St., New York HAZEL OF HEATHERLAND By Mabel Barnes-Grundy $1.50 Truly a tale of most exceptional humour and charm--a most captivating and refreshing story. HOW ENGLAND RECEIVED HAZEL: PUNCH.--"The Baron has great pleasure in recommending Hazel to all and sundry. There is in this story an originality of idea and a freshness of treatment that will rivet the attention of the most jaded novel-reader." PALL MALL GAZETTE.--"In _Hazel of Heatherland_, Miss Mabel Barnes-Grundy presents the story of a very charming country girl. In the quiet humours of home life, in the antithesis of severe and buoyant character of familiar types, and in that ingenuous raillery for which an alert and good-tempered disposition can find so much opportunity, the novel is entirely agreeable. A very pretty love story, tinctured with humour, runs through the book, and any reader who fails to enjoy it may be dismissed as a hopeless frump." THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO., Publishers 33-37 East 17th St., Union Sq. North, New York FOLLY By EDITH RICKERT _Author of "The Reaper"_ Illustrated in Color by SIGISMOND DE IVANOWSKI $1.50 "Folly" is a two-edged title--at the same time both the nickname of the charming, high-spirited heroine and the keynote of her life's actions. The story of Folly's temptation and its disaster, of the man she married and the "other man" whom she loved, are told with a delicacy and subtle force which fulfill the extravagant prophecies made upon publication of "The Reaper." To competent observers of tides in modern popular fiction "Folly" embodies, in its artistic and thoroughly interesting handling of a great theme, the essence of present-day literary tendencies. It is a strong story, yet its problem is handled with great delicacy, so that it is, in fact, spiritual where many writers would have made it gross. THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO., Publishers 33-37 East 17th St., Union Sq. North, New York